Most of the people joined a sect for identity, support, and shelter. For them, wearing a sect robe meant safety, recognition, and a badge that opened doors otherwise forever closed. For others, it meant resources—techniques, pills, weapons—that could never be obtained alone.

But Mo Han was different.

He didn't need identity—his name alone, when revealed, was enough to cause tremors. He didn't need support—his cursed sword, his mastery of the Sun Piercing forms, and the knowledge of Prince Leo Reynolds were enough to crush most sect prodigies. What he lacked were the rare resources… the kind locked away behind sect walls, guarded by old monsters and only given to their chosen disciples.

That was the reason he had left Burning Sun Pavilion. That was the reason he had crossed so many storms to stand here at the Eternal Night Mansion. He had no interest in their games of pride and lust—he wanted what only a sect could give.

While Fatty Lambu, Jia Kai, and Chi Kai sat cross-legged in their borrowed courtyard, diligently practicing the cultivation techniques Mo Han had personally adjusted for their aptitudes, Mo Han himself moved alone. His companions were earnest; Fatty's snore-like breathing occasionally echoed as he circulated qi, while the two sisters held their jade manuals with solemn focus. They trusted him, depended on him, but Mo Han had other things in mind.

He entered the training hall of the Eternal Night Mansion quietly. The air was filled with the sharp clash of qi, the crackle of elemental power, and the guttural cries of disciples pushing themselves to their limits. Sparks flew, the floor shuddered with each strike, and the intoxicating aura of competition burned like wildfire.

Mo Han did not join.

He stood at the edge of the ground, silent, his hands behind his back, his face expressionless beneath his mask. His sharp eyes traced every movement, every mistake, every small hesitation.

Soon, whispers rippled.

"Who is that man just standing there?"

"He's the new one Elder Mei brought in… the one with the big house in her garden."

"Why isn't he fighting? Afraid?"

"No… look at his eyes. He's studying."

A few women approached him, swaying their hips, their gazes bold.

"You look bored. Why not come with me for a dual cultivation session? I promise you'll enjoy it more than this."

Another leaned close, her perfume sharp. "Your body will only waste away if you keep staring like a statue. I'll make you stronger overnight."

Mo Han did not even blink. His eyes remained fixed on the battlefield. Their whispers and giggles fell like rain on stone.

Finally, one of the instructors sneered and barked:

"If you're here to gape like a fool, go to the Academy Hall! For a single spirit stone, you can watch real battles—fights of the elder rank cultivators. Don't waste space here."

To everyone's surprise, Mo Han actually cupped his hands politely. "Thank you. That is useful advice."

His calmness silenced the giggles. The next moment, he left the training hall and walked straight to the Academy Hall.

Inside, an elder sat behind a polished desk of black jade, counting stones with a bored face.

"I want to see battles of elder rank cultivators," Mo Han said simply.

The elder's eyes lifted, narrowed in surprise at the boldness of a newcomer, then he shrugged. "One spirit stone per battle crystal. How many do you want?"

Mo Han placed Hundred stones without hesitation. "Only Elder rank competition fights."

The elder's brows rose. "Hundred???"

Mo Han only stared without any reaction.

The elder shook his head and pulled out a stack of circular crystals—thin, flat, and translucent, like music discs of modern earth. He passed them across.

"These are battle records. Infuse your aura, and they'll replay. Elder rank cultivators only. You'll learn… if you can keep up."

Mo Han held the crystals with both hands. "That's more than enough."

He turned, found an empty room, sat cross-legged, and placed the first crystal before him.

The moment his aura touched it, light flared. A scene unfolded—a vast arena shaped like a circular bowl, its stone ground inscribed with ancient formations. The crowd's roar echoed faintly, and two figures stood facing each other, qi swirling like storm clouds.

Mo Han's breath caught, his eyes sharpening.

The first fighter was clad in crimson robes, flames licking off his shoulders. His aura burned with ferocity, like a volcano about to erupt. The second was in pale blue, his aura fluid, serene like a calm lake, but underneath surged hidden power.

The two clashed. Fire and water collided. Explosions of steam, glowing arcs of blades, and crushing waves shook the arena. The crowd roared.

Mo Han leaned forward. His eyes gleamed with calculation, his mind dissecting every move.

"The flame user… his left step lags by a hair. His body doesn't follow the momentum of his blade. He's losing power with every swing…" Mo Han muttered.

The flame cultivator roared, unleashing a tidal wave of fire. The water cultivator countered, creating a massive wall of waves. The clash shook the vision inside the crystal, almost blinding.

But Mo Han's focus was unbroken. "There… that pause. He shifted his wrist wrong. His sword's arc is a finger-width off. The water cultivator saw it. He's waiting."

And just as Mo Han predicted, the water cultivator's blade darted like lightning, slicing through the weakened flame arc, stabbing into his shoulder. The fire collapsed, the man screamed, and moments later, the duel was over.

Mo Han exhaled, his heart pounding.

He whispered to himself: "So that's the difference between life and death. Not strength… but precision. A single mistake of a finger-width."

He placed the crystal aside and picked another. Another scene flickered to life. Two more fighters—one wielding a spear like a dragon's fang, the other a hammer that shook the ground with each blow.

The fight was brutal, earth-shattering.

Mo Han's lips curved into the faintest smile as he watched. His fingers twitched unconsciously, mimicking their strikes, correcting their mistakes.

"The spear user is wasting force. His strikes are wide, not tight. By the tenth exchange, he'll be exhausted. The hammer user should step right, not left. He doesn't realize he's falling into the spear's rhythm."

As he spoke, events played exactly as he said. The spear user collapsed, breathless, his strikes weakened. The hammer descended mercilessly, crushing him down.

Mo Han's chest heaved, but not with fear—with exhilaration.

"So this is elder rank combat… ruthless, exacting, without mercy. Every move is a gamble. Every breath can be your last. But…" He touched his cursed sword at his waist. "…my blade won't miss."

Hours passed as he devoured battle after battle, every detail feeding into his mind like firewood into a furnace. His cursed sword hummed faintly at his side, as if sensing his sharpening resolve.

By the end, sweat dotted his brow, but his eyes gleamed like twin blades.

He whispered to himself, voice filled with steel:

"When I step into that arena three months from now, I must not hesitate. No mistake, no mercy. The rising tournament… is a life and death gamble."

Mo Han only closed his eyes, replaying every strike in his mind, as the future of blood and fire loomed before him.

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Tq:-)