Fight to the Death

Luke lowered his head to look at the small opponent who had emerged from the passage.

A ghost mask concealed his face, making his features impossible to see, but that build—those proportions unique to a child—were something no mask could hide.

He sized him up. Five or six years old, seven at most. No older.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not in anger, but because he found it absurd.

"Hey, brat."

His voice carried the irritation of someone who felt he had been made a fool of.

"This isn't a place for you to play house. Get down there yourself before I make a move, unless you want your parents collecting your corpse."

Li Hanche did not respond. He merely raised his right hand.

An icy-blue radiance burst from his palm, and the Dark Nether Ice Soul Spear condensed within the light.

The seven-foot-two-inch spear was held in the hands of a six-year-old child, its shaft towering far above his entire body.

He did not reveal his soul rings; they had been deliberately suppressed within him.

The clamor in the stands quieted somewhat. That spear truly looked extraordinary, as though forged from dark ice, icy-blue patterns spreading from its butt to its tip.

Even beneath the lights of the spirit-fighting arena, the spear's shaft still glimmered with a frigid sheen.

Those who recognized its worth fell silent. Those who did not were also cowed by the spear's imposing aura.

The announcer retreated to the edge of the platform, raised an arm high, then slashed it down.

"Begin!"

Luke did not move.

With his arms folded across his chest, he looked down at the opponent who did not even reach his waist, impatience written all over his face.

He was waiting—waiting for the little brat to retreat in the face of difficulty.

Beating up a six-year-old would bring him no glory, and if he truly hurt the kid, he would earn himself the reputation of bullying children.

Li Hanche moved.

With a stamp of his foot, his entire body became like a fallen leaf swept up by a gale, skimming across the ground as he shot straight toward Luke.

It was not fast—it was drifting. A weightless form of movement that made it impossible to judge where he would land.

Several spectators at the Soul Master level straightened in their seats at the same time.

Luke's pupils contracted.

His combat experience told him that there was something wrong with that style of movement.

But he had no time to think about what was wrong, because that icy-blue spear had already thrust before him.

The spearpoint rapidly enlarged before his eyes, the wind from the thrust blowing the hair at his forehead flat against his head.

He instinctively leaned back, while his iron-gray right fist smashed sideways into the spear shaft, trying to knock the thrust off course.

His fist struck the shaft with a dull metallic clang.

The spear shaft did not budge in the slightest.

Luke's expression changed. The sensation of that punch was not like striking a spear, but like striking an iron pillar.

How could a six-year-old child possess such strength?

Li Hanche flicked his wrist, and the spear shaft rotated half a turn along the force of Luke's fist. The butt of the spear swept toward the back of his knee from another direction.

The techniques of the Cold Gleam Spear Art unfolded smoothly in his hands.

Spearpoint and spear butt attacked in alternation; thrusts and sweeps flowed together without the slightest seam. Before one move had ended, the next had already risen, forcing Luke to retreat again and again.

The noise from the stands vanished completely.

Everyone stared at the one large and one small figure on the spirit-fighting platform. The larger one was retreating; the smaller one was advancing.

Sweat seeped from Luke's forehead.

He realized a fact that made his scalp go numb.

This child's spearwork held no flashy empty forms. Every strike went straight for a vital point, and the timing of every strike landed precisely in the gap when Luke's old strength had run out and his new strength had yet to rise.

What made him even more miserable was the speed. That tiny figure was absurdly fast, as though he had the wind beneath his feet. Every time Luke thought he had grasped his opponent's movement pattern, the spearpoint was already stabbing from another wholly unexpected angle.

He had been forced to the edge of the spirit-fighting platform. One more step back, and he would fall off. He knew he could not retreat any farther.

Luke roared and slammed his fists together before his chest. His first soul ring lit up, the yellow glow of a century-old soul ring rising beneath his feet.

A burst of air exploded between the colliding iron fists and surged in every direction. It was his first soul skill, Mountain-Shaking Wave.

With this move, he had forced back countless close-range opponents in spirit fights of this level.

The blast of air collided with the spearpoint.

The icy-blue spearpoint pierced into the heart of the blast, and the spear shaft remained utterly unmoving.

The blast split apart from the spearpoint, sliding past either side of Li Hanche's body and whipping his robes into a fierce flutter, yet the hands gripping the shaft were as steady as if cast into iron.

The core of Mountain-Shaking Wave had been shattered by a single point of the spear.

Luke's eyes went wide.

His soul skill was shattered by a single thrust, unable to hinder his opponent's steps in the slightest.

Then the ice-blue spear tore through the lingering shockwave, its tip stopping three inches from his throat.

The wind from the spear made his Adam's apple turn faintly cold.

Silence fell over the spirit battle stage. Silence fell over the stands as well.

Luke's back was against the edge of the spirit battle stage. His iron-gray fists remained locked in their clashing posture, while bead-sized drops of sweat rolled down his cheeks.

He lowered his head to look at the ice-blue spear tip poised before his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing once.

The spear tip did not pierce in.

The announcer's trembling voice broke the silence.

"The winner... Kid Brother Needs More Training!"

The spectators in the stands had yet to react.

A six-year-old child had displayed no soul ring, used no soul skill, and suppressed a Soul Master in his twenties throughout the entire fight. In the end, he had forced him to the edge of the stage, shattered his soul skill with one thrust, and placed a spear tip at his throat.

A few spectators applauded instinctively. After clapping twice and realizing no one around them was joining in, they lowered their hands again.

Li Hanche withdrew his spear, turned, and headed for the entrance passage.

Back in the lounge, he removed his mask. The web between the thumb and forefinger of his spear hand was somewhat numb.

Luke truly possessed considerable strength. A Soul Master in his twenties, with an Iron Fist martial soul—his force in a head-on clash was beyond what Qingluo and Baiwei could compare to.

He flexed his fingers. The numbness in his tiger's mouth was fading, and the restorative power of the Nine-Turn Tyrant Body Art had already begun to work.

One match. Only one match a day.

The spirit battle arena's rules were set in stone. Each Soul Master could register for only one solo spirit battle per day.

One match was not enough. That Luke was too weak.

After a Soul Master in his twenties had his soul skill shattered by one thrust, he had no ability to fight back at all.

This was not the real combat he wanted. He needed stronger opponents, more genuine pressure, clashes closer to life and death.

He stood, pushed open the door, and returned to the main hall.

The person in charge was standing behind the counter, explaining something to the woman. The moment he saw Li Hanche emerge, his body visibly stiffened.

"I want to register for a death match."

The person in charge's hand froze in midair.

"A death match?"

His voice tightened.

"Young master, a death match isn't an ordinary spirit battle. On the death match stage, there is no victory or defeat—only life and death. Of the people who register for death matches, out of every ten, those who can walk down alive..."

"I know."

Li Hanche cut him off.

"Register me. Tonight. As soon as possible."

The person in charge looked at him. He wanted to say no, wanted to ask how he was supposed to explain this to His Highness the Crown Prince, wanted to ask why a six-year-old child was entering a death match.

But when he met those eyes, the words reached his lips and were swallowed back down.

The death match arena had a different layout from an ordinary spirit battle stage.

The stands were closer to the field—close enough that spectators in the front rows could smell the blood on the stage.