Chapter Eight: The Weakest Contest

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Monk Zhiyuan still maintained his composure, but those beside him were beginning to falter.

“Zong Zhengze, all your master’s years of teaching wasted, yet you’ve joined the Demon Sect. How can you face your master’s guidance? And on top of that, you became the sect leader of the Demon Sect,” a middle-aged man said emotionally, staring at Zong Zhengze.

“Liu Xiaoyuan, why are you so worked up? Are you upset because I joined the Demon Sect? Or because I became the leader of the Heavenly Demon Sect?” Zong Zhengze replied calmly.

Without waiting for Liu Xiaoyuan’s answer, he continued, “If I hadn’t joined the Demon Sect, you wouldn’t be sect leader. You should be thanking me, yet here you are complaining. Aren’t you ashamed? Or are you just jealous that I’m doing better than you wherever I go?” Zong Zhengze hit the mark on Liu Xiaoyuan’s true feelings precisely.

“Nonsense! That’s not who I am. I just feel sorry for our master, having taught a demon sect leader,” Liu Xiaoyuan snapped, hopping mad.

Zhiyuan shook his head in disbelief. After hundreds of years of cultivation and leading a sect, Liu Xiaoyuan still turned into a riled-up cat whenever Zong Zhengze appeared, always dragged around by his nose, never improving over all these years.

Zhiyuan didn’t intervene; he let them argue. If they didn’t, those below would start, and once fighting broke out among the disciples, things could get serious.

“Did I rob your ancestors’ graves? Or kill your entire family? Why are you so worked up? Oh wait, you’re the little wolf pup I picked up in the snow. Where would you have ancestors or a family?” Zong Zhengze had no qualms about stepping on sore spots. After all these years of hearing Liu Xiaoyuan’s nagging, he was growing tired of it.

Liu Xiaoyuan was utterly silenced. No matter what, it was true that Zong Zhengze had saved him back then — everyone knew that.

Zhiyuan had been willing to let the two brothers quarrel a bit, but Liu Xiaoyuan couldn’t keep up; he lost after just one exchange.

Helpless, Zhiyuan had to step in himself, but of course, with much more finesse. “Zhengze, hasn’t it been over a hundred years since we last sparred together?”

Before joining the Demon Sect, Zong Zhengze and Zhiyuan were close friends—much closer than the superficial brotherhood he had with Liu Xiaoyuan. But fate had its twists.

“What, you want to spar? Settle who wins and who loses? Whoever wins leads the way?” Zong Zhengze pointed toward the dazzling multicolored glow ahead.

By old custom, whenever issues involved both the righteous and the demon factions, a contest was held to decide numbers and order. If a full-scale battle broke out, neither side could afford the losses, so this competition had become a customary way to settle matters.

“At our level, sparring would take days. Besides, this place isn’t suitable for our kind of activity.”

Here, only Zong Zhengze and Zhiyuan were at the Nascent Soul stage. Even Liu Xiaoyuan, who had just jumped the highest, was only at the Golden Core stage, still some way from completion.

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“What then?” Zong Zhengze was genuinely indifferent.

“Since sparring might cause injuries, let the junior disciples compete instead.” Facing Zong Zhengze himself was out of the question; at least the juniors’ match would be manageable.

“A contest is fine, but let’s do it differently. After all these years, even we have stepped down before. What grand technique is there that we haven’t seen? It’s all child’s play to us,” Zong Zhengze proposed.

“How do we compete then?”

“This time, it will be between the two of us — a test of eyesight. I’ll pick people from your faction; you pick from ours. They must be of the same realm, regardless of whether they are crippled or injured. As long as they are of equal level, they must compete. The result will determine the outcome. This time, it’s a test of our discernment,” Zong Zhengze explained the rules.

“Sounds good! Let’s do that,” Zhiyuan agreed, seeing no reason to oppose.

As the rules were announced, a stir rose below. Both sides wore expressions of disbelief.

“What kind of contest is this? A ‘weakest’ competition?”

“Seems like it! But it really tests eyesight. If your eyes are sharp enough, you’ll find the weakest link. If not, you risk having your weakest face the opponent’s strongest.”

The crowd below became analysts.

“Clever tactic!”

“Very shrewd! The righteous side’s weakest members probably have fewer tricks, so they’d be at a disadvantage against the demon sect cultivators.”

“Not necessarily. As long as Master Zhiyuan can pick out our weakest, it balances out. The demon sect’s weakest will also have fewer techniques, so it’s fair.”

“True! Basically, it really is a test of eyesight. If someone is injured, the match is over before it begins.”

...

The demon sect was equally baffled by these conditions. Unlike the righteous side, the demon sect cultivators were mysteriously confident. No matter whom Zhiyuan chose, they believed victory would be easy.

“Looks like Sect Leader Zong favors us demons. The righteous side has many weaklings, but our sect has none.”

“Indeed, Sect Leader Zong is quite cunning.”

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“Sect Leader Zong’s plan is excellent.”

The proposal drew a chorus of praise from the demon sect.

Zong Zhengze had indeed played a clever trick. Zhiyuan’s cultivation was strong, but his grasp of human nature was weaker. Letting him pick demon sect disciples would be difficult because they were all confident, making it hard to read who was stronger or weaker from their expressions.

The righteous side was easier to choose from; a mere glance would reveal who flinched or avoided eye contact, making the selection straightforward.

Indeed, reality bore this out. But Zong Zhengze overlooked one thing: Zhiyuan’s mastery of the art of aura-reading. Zhiyuan could see whose karmic burden was lightest—not that these people were necessarily kind, but that their abilities were insufficient. This method was unreliable for judging righteous cultivators but spot-on for the demon sect.

Both seasoned schemers felt they’d gained an advantage and eagerly began selecting their fighters.

Centuries of experience were not wasted. When their chosen fighters stepped forward, both sides saw each other’s faces fall. Neither had gained the upper hand.

Once selected, the fighters had to compete. Regardless of strength, they had to step forward; failure to do so meant forfeiting.

The first to compete were two seventh-stage Qi Refinement cultivators. The demon sect’s candidate was a disciple from the Ghost Spirit Gate: slender, small, cloaked in a wide black robe. His true power was unknown, but his aura was eerie and sinister.

The righteous side sent forth a female disciple from the Shadow Moon Sect, wielding a slender sword. It was unclear if she specialized in sword cultivation.

Before stepping onto the field, the female disciple, upon learning her opponent was from Ghost Spirit Gate, showed a hint of fear, much to her master’s chagrin.

“I told you, ghost cultivators at this stage are the easiest to handle. Judging by his appearance, his ghosts aren’t even formidable spirits. What are you afraid of? Even if you stand still and let him bite you, you won’t be in mortal danger.”

The young female disciple, on the verge of tears, replied, “I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of ghosts.”