Chapter 135: The Sovereign's Scorn

The roar of the crowd, celebrating Captain Valerius’s hard-won victory, slowly subsided, leaving a heavy, anticipatory silence in its wake. The score was even, but the momentum and the hope now rested firmly with the Jade Sea Pavilion. On the eastern side, the triumphant smirk had been wiped from Elder Feng’s face, replaced by a tense, nervous scowl. He shot a venomous glare at the crumpled form of Elder Mara being carried away on a stretcher.

The announcer, his voice resonating with renewed energy, floated back to the center of the arena. “A magnificent victory for Captain Valerius! The score is even! Let the third match begin! Lady Xylia of the White Paw Company versus… Disciple Garrick Vorlag of the Riptide Legion!”

A hulking figure leaped into the arena from the eastern gate. Garrick Vorlag was a mountain of a man, the very image of his father, Commander Vorlag, but younger, more arrogant, and radiating a wild, untamed power at the peak of the Foundation Establishment realm. He wielded a massive, double-bladed axe, and his face was a mask of cruel confidence. He was a famed prodigy, known for crushing his opponents with brute force.

He stomped to the center of the arena, slamming the butt of his axe into the sand. “Enough of these games!” he bellowed, his voice echoing with contempt. “They send out their old men and their captains. Now I will show you the true power of the Legion’s next generation!”

From the western gate, Xylia walked out onto the sand. She moved with a silent, fluid grace that was a chilling contrast to her opponent’s brutish display. Her clawed gauntlets of dark, menacing metal hung loosely at her sides. She didn’t look at Garrick. Her cold, sapphire eyes were locked onto his father, Commander Vorlag, in the stands, a look of cold, murderous promise that made the powerful Core Formation expert’s jaw tighten.

Garrick’s face contorted in a furious snarl at being so utterly ignored. “Look at me when I’m about to kill you, you bitch!”

Xylia finally turned her gaze to him, an expression of profound, weary disdain on her rough, beautiful face. “You are a pup, barking at a she-bear,” she said, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. “I will not waste my time on you.”

The gong sounded, and Garrick, enraged by her dismissal, exploded.

“BLOOD IN THE WATER!”

he roared. A massive, spectral Great White Shark, its phantom teeth the size of daggers, materialized behind him. The spirit let out a silent, furious scream and dove into his great-axe, which began to glow with a blood-red light. He charged forward, his axe swinging in a devastating arc aimed to cleave Xylia in two.

“SHARK’S TOOTH CLEAVE!”

The crowd gasped. The attack was overwhelmingly powerful, a direct, brute-force assault that no one at his level could hope to block.

Xylia did not block. She did not dodge. She met his charge head-on.

As the blood-red axe descended, she moved with a blur of explosive, primal violence. Her right hand, now a cage of razor-sharp talons, shot up. She didn’t meet the axe-head. She met the thick, enchanted haft of the weapon, her talons clamping down with impossible strength.

There was a horrifying sound of splintering wood and groaning metal. The enchanted axe, a high-grade spiritual weapon, was stopped dead in its tracks. The Great White Shark spirit howled in agony as Xylia’s raw, sovereign-grade power simply crushed the spiritual energy empowering the weapon. Garrick stared in absolute, mind-shattering disbelief, his ultimate attack caught and held by one hand.

Before he could even think to pull back, Xylia’s other hand shot forward. She didn't punch him. She didn't slash him. She simply grabbed his face. Her massive, clawed gauntlet enveloped his entire head, the talons digging slightly into his skull, and with a single, contemptuous flex of her arm, she lifted the entire, hulking man off the ground.

He dangled there, kicking and struggling, his powerful martial spirit flickering and dying as its master was so utterly humiliated.

“Pups who bark too loudly,” Xylia growled, her voice a low promise of violence, “need to be taught a lesson.”

She slammed him, head-first, into the arena floor.

The impact was not a wet thud, but a sickening, brutal

CRUNCH

that echoed in the shocked silence. A crater formed in the packed sand, and Garrick Vorlag’s body went limp, a broken doll discarded by a cruel child. He was not dead, but his spirit was shattered, his arrogance and his consciousness obliterated in a single, terrifying display of absolute dominance.

A wave of pure, primal fear washed over the crowd, and a dead silence fell over the Riptide Legion’s stands. Commander Vorlag shot to his feet, his face a mask of purple rage and horror, his father’s roar of anguish caught in his throat.

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Xylia stood over her crumpled opponent, her chest heaving slightly, not from exertion, but from a controlled, predatory rage. She slowly raised her head, her sapphire eyes locking with Commander Vorlag’s across the arena. She pointed one bloody, taloned finger directly at him.

“You,” she snarled, her voice carrying across the entire arena. “You’re next.”

The score was now 2-1 in their favor, but the victory felt less like a point scored and more like a death sentence delivered.

“The fourth match!” the announcer’s voice was strained, the usual excitement replaced by a nervous tremor. “Commander Vorlag of the Riptide Legion versus… Grand Elder Khaos of the Golden Shell Guild!”

A heavy, oppressive silence fell as the two champions walked into the arena. Commander Vorlag, his face a thunderous mask of grief and fury, drew a massive, black-steel greatsword. His 4th-level Core Formation aura erupted, a maelstrom of violent, chaotic energy.

Across from him, Khaos walked with a slow, deliberate grace, his divine face a picture of utter boredom. His twin abyssal scythes floated behind him, silent and menacing. He did not release his aura. He did not need to.

Vorlag, though consumed by rage, was still a seasoned expert. He could feel the terrifying, unfathomable depth of the being before him, and a cold seed of fear began to sprout in his heart. He tried to hide it, to burn it away with anger.

“So, you are the old ghost hiding behind these upstarts,” Vorlag spat, his voice a venomous growl. “You have a pretty face for a dead man. I will enjoy carving it from your skull and taking it as a trophy after I kill your beast-woman for what she did to my son!”

Khaos finally deigned to look at him. A faint, pitying smile touched his lips. It was a smile one might give to a particularly stupid insect. “You prattle on like a frightened child, hoping your noise will scare away the night. It will not.”

The gong sounded.

Vorlag roared, a father’s cry of pure vengeance, and charged.

“LEGION’S WRATH! TIDAL DRAGON STRIKE!”

His martial spirit, a ferocious, horned Sea Dragon, erupted behind him, wrapping around his greatsword as he swung it in a devastating, power-infused blow.

And then, Khaos was gone.

He didn't move. He didn't dodge. He simply ceased to be there.

Vorlag’s ultimate attack met only empty air, the force of it carving a massive trench in the arena floor. He stumbled, his eyes wide, trying to comprehend the sudden vanishing.

He never got the chance. Khaos reappeared directly behind him, the movement so seamless and silent it was as if he had been there the entire time. In his perfectly formed hands, he now held his twin abyssal scythes.

He did not swing them with great force. There was no fanfare, no brilliant flash of light. He simply… sliced.

One scythe passed through Vorlag’s left side. The other passed through his right. The movements were graceful, elegant, and impossibly fast.

For a single, horrifying moment, Commander Vorlag stood frozen, a look of utter, uncomprehending shock on his face. Then, with a soft, wet sound, he fell apart. His body separated into three, perfectly cut sections which collapsed onto the sand in a bloody heap.

The arena was plunged into a silence so deep it was deafening. Every single person, from the commoners in the cheap seats to the powerful cultivators in the stands, stared at the gruesome scene, their minds unable to process the reality of what they had just witnessed. A 4th-level Core Formation expert, a regional commander, a famed powerhouse… had been dismembered in less than a second, with the casual, effortless grace of a master chef slicing a vegetable.

Khaos looked down at the mess on the floor, a flicker of distaste on his perfect face. He made a soft ‘tsk’ sound, and his twin scythes floated back out behind him once more. He turned and began walking back towards the gate, the duel already forgotten.

The score was 3-1. The Jade Sea Pavilion had won.

But it was not over.

In the Riptide Legion’s stands, Elder Feng’s face was as white as a sheet. This was not a loss; this was an extermination. The duel was a pretext, and they had just provoked a monster. He looked at the other two Legion elders who had come with them as backup.

“We… we must retreat,” Feng stammered.

“Retreat?” one of the elders, a brutish man with a scarred face, snarled. “He killed the Commander! He killed his son! We cannot run!

FOR THE LEGION!

”

Driven by a mad fusion of grief, rage, and foolish pride, the 3rd-level Core Formation expert refused to accept defeat. He roared and leaped from the stands, his aura flaring as he shot through the air like a cannonball, aiming a desperate, suicidal attack at Khaos’s back.

Khaos didn't even turn around. As the elder descended, one of the floating scythes behind Khaos simply moved. It rose, spun in a lazy, horizontal arc, and passed through the attacking elder’s midsection.

The elder’s roar was cut short, replaced by a gurgle of disbelief. His charge stopped dead in mid-air. A thin, black line appeared across his waist, and his upper body slid cleanly off his lower half, crashing to the sand in a second, gory display.

Khaos finally stopped walking. He slowly turned his head, his nebular eyes, now filled with a cold, terrifying light. His gaze swept over the remaining, frozen Riptide Legion members, and the Azure Shell delegation who were trembling in their seats.

His divine, resonant voice, now laced with a chilling, quiet fury, echoed through the silent arena.

“So,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. “The little ants have decided to attack the mountain.” He took a slow, deliberate step towards them. “An interesting choice. I was merely irritated before. Now… you have my attention.”