Chapter 41

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Chapter 41: Schemes

Ye Yun had a real intention to kill.

He initially noticed Wang Yajie was only at Refining Organs stage four. Worried she wouldn’t dodge if he struck first, he decided to let her attack, planning to counter her momentum and knock her off the platform through sheer force. If their power difference became obvious, she could surrender without elder punishment.

But what happened next shocked him.

Wang Yajie hadn’t just wanted to defeat him—she’d aimed to kill. If not for his body being tempered by the black and white lights, which had drained some of her spiritual power, and his recent breakthrough to the Internal Breathing stage, he’d be dead.

Now, his punch had left her severely injured but alive. A black robe disciple shielded her, blocking further attacks. Ye Yun’s murderous intent faded as chest pain flared, replaced by bitter sorrow.

Was climbing into the top eight worth trampling lives?

Were these so-called great cultivators—forged through such cruelty—the “immortals” he’d once admired?

“Why linger? Get down and prepare for your next trial!”

A harsh shout snapped Ye Yun’s focus. Wang Yajie, still breathing, was carried off by one black robe disciple while another glared coldly at him.

Ye Yun sucked in a sharp breath.

Faint black and white light flickered in his eyes. For an instant, he nearly lashed out at the disciple. But cold air filled his lungs. Head lowered, he leaped off the platform without a word.

“Brother Ye, are you hurt?” Yu Minghong hurried over, eyeing the wound.

Ye Yun glanced down. His pupils tightened.

The bleeding had already stopped, the injury nearly closed. He sensed two forces healing him: one from the spiritual liquid’s lingering energy, making his flesh itch as it regrew; the other from his heart, where the black and white lights seeped spiritual power into his blood. Each pulse felt like a cool tide washing over the wound.

“How did you heal so fast?” Yu Minghong blurted, staring.

“Elder Seven’s spiritual liquid works well,” Ye Yun replied flatly, though the thought flashed through his mind. “Just some spirit herbs.”

“Such rapid healing… far beyond normal disciples. He must’ve consumed rare herbs.” Nearby, Elder Lan murmured to Elder Sun.

“Likely,” Elder Sun agreed. “His Hall of Refining the Heart performance shows promise.”

Elder Lan frowned. “Could it be Blood Orchid Grass?”

“Meaningless speculation unless he passes the next trial,” another elder cut in coldly.

Elder Lan and Elder Sun exchanged glances, falling silent.

“You! To the platform!” A black robe disciple barked at Yu Minghong.

“Brother Ye, I’ll go.” Yu Minghong hesitated, then vaulted toward the designated arena.

……

“Looks like I struck a good deal this time.”

A hundred zhang away, Nan Cheng observed Ye Yun with a contemplative gaze, muttering under his breath, “With his talent, surviving this trial and getting a little help should push him straight into the Qi refining stage.”

“No wonder Elder Seven favors him. That spirit herb probably came from the Elder too.”

Several black robe disciples nearby stared at Ye Yun, their eyes tinged with wariness. Their respect stemmed not from his cultivation level, but their understanding of Tian Zhu Peak’s rules: survival required cunning, powerful backing, and ruthlessness. To them, Ye Yun now checked all three boxes.

For disciples like them, aligning with someone like Ye Yun—a calculated, ruthless player—meant future advantages.

Yet Ye Yun himself stayed low-key, his head slightly bowed as he focused on Yu Minghong’s arena.

After observing for a few moments, Ye Yun relaxed.

Both Yu Minghong and his opponent were at the late stage of Refining Organs stage four, using basic combat skills typical of servant disciples. But Yu Minghong’s strikes carried unshakable composure, while his opponent grew increasingly frantic, wasting spiritual power with wild, poorly timed attacks. To Ye Yun, the outcome was clear: the impatient one would exhaust himself first.

“That kid’s steadiness is unusual for a new disciple. Most take years to develop such poise,” remarked a black robe disciple nearby.

“Steady, yes—but where’s the fire? He’s too cautious,” another countered, shaking his head. “And his talent’s mediocre at best.”

A flicker of interest crossed Ye Yun’s eyes.

On the arena, Yu Minghong—who’d been purely defensive—suddenly lunged forward with a sharp cry, fists blazing. Pale light shimmered around his knuckles as he unleashed a dual strike. His opponent blocked desperately, but his spiritual power faltered. A dull crash echoed as the man staggered back, face flushed, before tumbling off the platform.

“Brother Ye!”

Yu Minghong gaped at his own victory, then blurted Ye Yun’s name in disbelief.

Ye Yun gave a faint nod, pleased yet unsurprised.

“Hm?”

Nan Cheng’s brow furrowed in the distance. Years on Tian Zhu Peak had honed his instincts, and something about Yu Minghong’s triumph felt… borrowed.

“Celebrate now—next round, you’ll face us.” Duan Chenfeng’s sneer sliced through Yu Minghong’s joy.

The victor paled, nearly stumbling off the arena’s edge.

Ye Yun’s jaw tightened. That voice—arrogant, grating—could only belong to Duan Chenfeng.

“Thirty-one remain,” Elder Sun mused, eyeing Duan Chenfeng before turning to Elder Lan. “This year’s new disciples outshine past cohorts—though whether that’s luck or curse, I can’t say.”

“They’re rash,” Elder Lan replied, shaking his head. “Hesitant, soft-handed. But what can we expect? Other sects’ new bloods are likely no better.”

With a sweep of his sleeve, thirty streaks of light and shadow—jade tablets—scattered across the grounds.

Ye Yun’s expression tightened. His hands remained empty; no tablet flew his way.