The Tournament Begins! Overwhelming in His Normal State!

Early morning, the training ground in Spirit City's inner district.

This training ground was enormous and circular, nearly half the size of a plaza.

The ground was paved with large slabs of bluish-gray stone, while a waist-high stone railing ran around the edge, separating the combat area from the spectator stands.

The stands rose in tiered rows and could accommodate two or three thousand spectators. They were already seventy or eighty percent full, and the noisy chatter intertwined into a constant hum.

A raised platform stood to the north of the training ground, with several cushioned chairs placed atop it.

Those seats were reserved for Spirit Hall's higher-ups watching the matches.

Qian Shengyuan arrived earlier than expected.

As he took his seat under the guidance of an attendant, a stir swept through the stands.

It was uncommon for the Pope to personally attend the first round of the tournament. People rose to greet him, and hushed discussions quickly spread.

Qian Shengyuan raised a hand to press them down, signaling that there was no need for formalities. His gaze had already passed over the crowd and settled on the center of the training ground.

The day's match schedule had long been posted.

There were sixty-four participants in the one-ring division. The first round consisted of thirty-two elimination matches, to be completed in the morning, with those who advanced competing in the second round that afternoon.

Li Long's name was listed in the third match of the first round.

Qian Shengyuan opened the roster before him, his gaze stopping on Li Long's entry.

Martial Soul: Iron Rod. Soul power: level twenty. First soul ring: five hundred years.

His opponent's entry bore another name. Martial Soul: short blade. Soul power: level fifteen. First soul ring: just over three hundred years.

Level fifteen against level twenty, a three-hundred-year soul ring against a five-hundred-year one—the gap was obvious.

"Third match: Li Long of the Notting City branch versus Zhao Yan of the Star Luo Border branch. Both sides, enter the arena."

The presiding deacon's voice came from the center of the training ground, amplified by a soul tool to reach the entire venue.

Li Long emerged from the contestant tunnel at an unhurried pace.

Today, he wore the standard fitted uniform of an ordinary deacon, with an iron, silver-plated deacon's badge hanging at his waist and swaying lightly with his steps.

His Iron Rod had taken the form of a short staff and was tucked behind his waist. He had not summoned it in advance.

The opponent approaching from the other side was half a head taller than him and looked to be twelve or thirteen. His martial soul, a short blade slightly over a foot long, was already in his hand, gleaming coldly. He stomped heavily as he walked, as though deliberately trying to build momentum.

The two stopped at the center of the training ground, ten paces apart.

The presiding deacon raised his right hand. After briefly confirming both sides' information, he swung it down.

"Begin."

The instant his words fell, Zhao Yan moved.

He was clearly an agility attack-type soul master. He exploded forward with remarkable speed, closing in on Li Long within three steps. His short blade slashed upward at an angle, aimed straight for Li Long's right ribs.

He was fast—quite good for a level-fifteen one-ring soul master.

Li Long did not retreat.

He shifted his left foot half a step back and turned his body aside, allowing the short blade to skim past him with perfect timing. Its tip brushed against his clothes without even cutting the fabric.

At the same time, his right hand pulled the Iron Rod from behind his waist. The short staff expanded to a length of one and a half meters the instant soul power flowed into it, and the black rod swept out with a dull whistle.

Bang.

Zhao Yan had no time to halt his momentum. The staff struck his waist, sending him flying sideways. He rolled twice after hitting the ground before stopping, his short blade slipping from his hand and clattering sharply across the stone floor.

The entire venue fell silent for a moment.

Then scattered murmurs rose.

It had been too fast. From start to finish, there had only been one dodge and one strike—less than three breaths.

Zhao Yan clutched his waist and got to his feet, his face alternating between pale and flushed. His lips moved, but in the end, he said nothing. He picked up his short blade and left the arena.

Li Long stood in the middle of the field, his Iron Rod returning behind his waist. His expression remained calm, as though he had just done something insignificant.

He nodded to the presiding deacon, then turned and walked back toward the contestant tunnel.

On the raised platform, Qian Shengyuan narrowed his eyes slightly.

"His force is very clean," he said quietly.

The attendant responsible for recording immediately picked up his brush.

The following matches proceeded one after another, and Li Long ended every battle quickly.

His second opponent was level seventeen, with a long whip martial soul, a control-type.

Li Long changed the direction of his charge three times in succession, forcing the opponent's whip to coil around empty air. Then he jabbed the middle of the whip with his rod, sending both the opponent and the whip out of bounds.

His third opponent was level fifteen, with a shield martial soul, a defense-type.

Li Long struck the same spot three times in a row. Cracks appeared across the face of the shield, and his opponent surrendered voluntarily.

After three matches, he had not used a single soul skill.

The murmurs in the stands had gone from scattered whispers to widespread discussion. People had begun noticing this youth from the Notting City branch.

The overall level of the one-ring division was not particularly high, and the gaps between contestants were small. Their matches often turned into prolonged struggles.

Li Long alone was different. Every match ended cleanly and decisively. At most, it took him three to five breaths to settle things.

On the raised platform, Qian Shengyuan watched without showing any reaction, his fingers resting on the armrest without tapping.

His fundamentals are extremely solid. His judgment gradually took shape. Force generation, positioning, rhythm judgment—he isn't relying on soul power to overpower his opponents. Every movement has a clear purpose. This is experience earned through actual fights, not something training alone can produce.

In the fourth match, Li Long faced an opponent who had also remained undefeated: level seventeen, with a war hammer martial soul, a strength-type.

Once the two stood ready in the arena, the other party immediately activated his first soul skill. His hammer expanded until it was larger than his head, wrapped in a faint yellow glow. As it came smashing down, it carried a heavy gust of wind.

For the first time, Li Long did not choose to dodge or respond tactically.

He planted his feet firmly, held his Iron Rod horizontally, and met the blow head-on.

Bang.

The deafening crash of metal against metal exploded across the training ground.

The hammer struck the middle of the Iron Rod, sending sparks flying.

Li Long's arms sank slightly, but his knees did not bend in the slightest. He stood rooted to the spot like a nail driven into the ground.

His opponent was forced back two steps by the rebound, his palm going numb as the hammer nearly slipped from his grip.

Li Long gave him no chance to catch his breath.

He stepped forward, swinging the Iron Rod upward from below and striking the hammer itself with precision. Borrowing the force of the impact, he knocked both hammer and wielder to the side.

After losing his balance, the opponent staggered two steps. Li Long followed up with another sweep at his lower leg, knocking him flat onto the ground.

"You've lost." Li Long lowered his rod without pursuing.

The opponent lay on the stone floor, gasping twice before nodding and conceding defeat.

Someone in the stands could not help crying out, "Good!"

The shout came abruptly, but others soon followed with a few claps.

The expressions of several young contestants watching from the edge of the training ground began to grow solemn. That solemnity came from an unsettling realization.

That kid from Notting City was fighting on an entirely different level from everyone else in his group.

In the fifth match, Li Long faced a level-eighteen opponent with twin hook martial souls.

His opponent had clearly prepared a strategy. The moment the match began, he opened the distance and circled around, intending to wear Li Long down.

Li Long chased three steps, and his opponent retreated three steps.

Then Li Long stopped.

He did not continue chasing. Standing in place with his Iron Rod angled toward the ground, he watched his opponent run in circles and said evenly, "Whether you run or not, it'll end the same way."

His opponent choked on those words, gritted his teeth, and charged in with both hooks crossed.

Li Long knocked the twin hooks aside with one strike, then used the momentum to lash his rod across his opponent's back, clean and decisive.

When his opponent landed, he lay facedown on the ground with both hooks thrown from his hands. It took him a full two breaths to realize that he had already lost.

Five matches, five victories.

Not once had he revealed his soul rings.

Not once had he used his first soul skill.

The atmosphere in the stands had changed completely.

At first, there had been surprise. Then discussion. Now, it had become curiosity.

Everyone could see that the opponents in the one-ring division simply could not force this youth to go all out.

Those who had fought him understood most deeply that the true gap was not one of strength, but an utter helplessness at not knowing where to begin.

You could not hurt him no matter how you attacked, while one hit from him ended everything.

On the raised platform, Qian Shengyuan still showed little expression, but the fingers resting on the armrest finally tapped once.

The old attendant beside him noticed the movement. Having followed the Pope for so many years, he knew what that tiny change meant.

"The one-ring division..." Qian Shengyuan said quietly. "There really is no one worthy of him."

After the fifth match, there was a brief intermission.

Li Long returned to the contestant rest area, accepted a bowl of water from an attendant, took a sip, then leaned against the wall with his eyes closed to rest.

An empty circle stretched around him for thirty feet, with no one willing to approach.

The other contestants who had advanced looked at him with complicated expressions. There was wariness, and a measure of unwillingness, but no one took the initiative to speak to him.

A two-ring contestant wearing a silver badge passed by. He sized Li Long up, his mouth twitching as though he wanted to say something, but he ultimately only snorted and walked away.

Li Long did not open his eyes. He could feel those gazes, but he did not care.

The one-ring division is finished. Next, it should be someone else's turn. He thought silently, I hope the two-ring fighters can make me take things a little more seriously.

The presiding deacon's voice rang out across the training ground again. "The one-ring division elimination matches have all concluded. The sixteen advancing contestants may take a short rest before the next round this afternoon. The two-ring division matches will begin shortly."

Li Long opened his eyes and glanced toward the training ground.

On the raised platform, the figure in luxurious robes was still seated there. Across the entire span of the spectator stands, Li Long could not make out his expression.

But he knew the man was watching.

That was enough.

He set down the bowl of water and closed his eyes again.

He still had more matches to fight. He would keep fighting until an opponent worthy of his full strength appeared.

As for these people.

The one-ring division truly was not worthy.