Staring at the chasm that had just opened inches from his boots, his face drained of all blood, completely paralyzed by the display of raw strength.
Ji’an stood perfectly still, twirling her spatula, having effortlessly generated the kinetic equivalent of two Sovereign Elders combined with a single tap of her heel.
"I chop vegetables," Ji’an agreed softly, looking out over the fallen, terrified disciples. "And right now, you are all on the chopping block. My. Chopping. Block! Fantastic! Isn’t it?!"
She raised her spatula, pointing it directly at the assembled, wide-eyed protagonist squad.
"The rules of the final phase are simple," Ji’an announced, her voice echoing over the groaning jade. "You have exactly three hours before the dimension collapses. If you can land a single, solid strike on my apron, you pass. If you can force me to step backward, you pass. If you can survive until the timer expires without me shattering your token... you pass."
She cracked her neck, a manic, brilliant, terrifying light igniting in her silver-flecked eyes.
"But if you falter... if your technique is bland... I will eighty-six you from this tournament so fast you will wake up in the medical pavilion with a complimentary side-salad!"
The ultimate climax of the Official Sect Martial Ranking had officially begun.
It was no longer a battle royale.
It was a raid boss encounter.
Ninety-six exhausted, terrified, highly motivated orthodox prodigies versus one heavily caffeinated, brutally overpowered chef in red.
"Draw your weapons!" Gu Zhiwei roared, recovering from his shock, his holy light blazing as he hefted his broadsword, the protagonist’s resolve finally igniting. He realized this wasn’t a betrayal; it was a test. "The Martial Uncle demands our absolute best! We must fight as one!"
The surviving disciples scrambled to their feet.
The foreign sects abandoned their rivalries.
The merchants, the beasts, and the assassins united under a single, terrifying banner of survival. Ninety-six weapons were drawn in unison, a blinding wave of combined spiritual energy washing over the arena.
Ji’an didn’t flinch.
She simply grinned, lowering her stance, the heavy cast-iron spatula resting lightly in her palm.
"That’s the spirit," Ji’an whispered, the heat of the kitchen finally taking hold of her blood.
And on the sidelines, Xie Wangchen sat casually down on a pristine block of ice he had conjured for himself, resting his chin on his hand, preparing to enjoy the greatest, most violent, and romantic fulfilling dinner-theatre show of his entire life.
***
The arena was no longer a stage for martial competition; it had become a high-velocity pressure cooker of combat.
Lin Ji’an was the eye of the storm.
She was a streak of violent, Szechuan Red silk, moving with a rhythmic, percussive intensity that defied the standard katas of the orthodox sects. She didn’t fight like a cultivator; she fought like a chef who had reached the absolute, final-boss stage of a hellish dinner rush.
She caught a thrusting rapier between the two sides of her spatula, twisted her wrist with a sickening screech of grinding metal, and sent the assailant spinning into a group of struggling disciples.
She didn’t stop to gloat or explain as she moved to the next target, leaving a trail of eliminated disciples in her wake. The more the participants panicked and fought among themselves, the fewer threats she had to personally address. It was efficient, brutal, and much to her amusement, remarkably low-effort.
On the sidelines, near a floating pillar of solid black ice, the spectator dynamic had become bizarre.
Xie Wangchen remained in his stance.
He was motionless, his ruby-red eyes tracking every single movement Ji’an made with the focus of a predator watching a masterpiece being painted in real time.
Beside him, Shen Zechuan was perched on a floating chunk of obsidian, happily munching on a bag of honey-glazed spirit nuts he had retrieved from Ji’an’s emergency supply food.
"He is magnificent, isn’t he?" Zechuan asked, tossing a nut into the air and catching it with his mouth.
Wangchen didn’t look at him. He didn’t blink. He just nodded, his expression one of agreement.
"He is the sun," Wangchen murmured, his voice thick with a dark, heavy adoration. "The heat he generates... it is the only thing that makes the void tolerable."
"Indeed," Zechuan agreed, kicking his legs back and forth like a schoolboy. "Do you want a nut? They are salted to perfection."
The two most powerful, mysterious, and dangerous entities in the sect sat there, cheering for Ji’an as if she were a gladiator in a blood sport they had paid front-row tickets to witness. They were effectively acting as her fanboys, entirely ignoring the fact that they were supposed to be rivals.
"GO, BROTHER JI’AN! STRIKE THE SHOULDER! THE REAR GUARD IS EXPOSED!" Wangchen shouted, his voice losing its icy detachment, becoming entirely, uncharacteristically loud.
"YES! USE THE SPATULA! TENDERIZE THE BRUTE!" Zechuan chimed in, munching loudly.
It was a display of chaotic companionship that was beginning to unnerve the remaining disciples who were trying to fight their way toward them.
Then, disaster struck in the form of a hysterical Azure Lotus disciple.
As Ji’an pivoted to deflect a flurry of water-silk lashes, a girl from the Azure Lotus Pavilion, known as Fairy Ling, bolted forward, bypassing the combat entirely. She didn’t attack Ji’an; she threw herself onto the ground, sobbing, and latched onto Ji’an’s red combat boots.
"MARITAL UNCLE! PLEASE!" Ling wailed, dragging herself along the jade floor while clinging to Ji’an’s legs. "My sect-mates have all been expelled! If I go back now, my Master will banish me to the mountain of eternal washing! I cannot leave! You are the only one left who can help me!"
Ji’an nearly tripped, her pants tugged downward by the desperate weight of the clinging maiden.
"Let go of my leggings, you absolute lunatic!" Ji’an shrieked, trying to hop on one foot to maintain her balance. "This is an arena! There is no room for begging! You’re going to get me pantsed in front of the entire continent!"