Chapter Thirteen: Reborn as the Eldest Daughter of an Immortal Sect

The first two rounds had already concluded, and the next two would be the true tests of skill. If the arts of alchemy and formations appeared gentle, then the mystical techniques and sword intent could only be described as fierce and unrelenting.

The third round was sword intent: three contestants sparred, and the last one left on stage would be declared the winner. Though Baili Ce’s taste in people left much to be desired, his swordsmanship was unmatched within the Immortal Sect—none dared challenge him. Even the true Bai Ruo could only manage a draw against him. In light of this, it was little wonder why Shen Miao trailed behind Baili Ce, calling him “Brother Baili” at every turn.

On the stage, Baili Ce faced off against a disciple from Yunmeng. Blades flashed and swords clashed as the two pushed footwork and sword techniques to their limits. In the end, Baili Ce unleashed the startling Ling Sword Technique; the Yunmeng disciple, unable to withstand it, admitted defeat.

As the victor, Baili Ce stepped aside to observe the duel between Yunmeng and the Spirit Sword Sect. Masters exchanged blows, always holding back just enough. Compared to sword intent, Yunmeng leaned more toward insights in mystical techniques. When Yunmeng finished, the next duel was Baili Ce versus the Spirit Sword Sect.

The disciples of both sides refused to yield. “Bijing!” he called. The sword that had accompanied Baili Ce for decades, Bijing, was alive with spirit; the two had long since forged a bond of perfect understanding. Baili Ce’s roar sent Bijing slashing straight at the Spirit Sword Sect disciple’s crown.

The opponent reacted swiftly, sweeping sideways and ducking to evade the blow. With a call of “Sword, come!” he countered, turning the tide.

Sword collided with sword, producing a resonant hum. Under the pressure of sword energy, others retreated. The immense sword aura gathered the spiritual energy of the space into a swirling vortex; Baili Ce struck with a cry, cleaving the vortex apart.

Seeing the dispersing wave of spiritual energy rush forward, Bai Ruo calmly summoned a mystical technique—a white barrier rose before all disciples, shielding them from harm.

The contest on stage grew ever more intense. Attack and retreat, advance and withdraw—neither could gain the upper hand. At last, the judge called a halt: a draw.

They began with a salute, ended with a bow.

“Brother Baili, since this match ended in a tie, someday we must duel for three days and nights!”
“We fought so swiftly just now, I never learned your name, sword friend.”
“Ouyang Ke!”
“Ouyang Ke! Master, Ouyang Ke!”
“Him? What’s the matter?”
“If the real Bai Ruo were still here, they’d share a bond of destiny—an ordained union, decreed by the heavens. But with you as the master, that destined bond has already been severed!”
“Because… of me?”
“Uh… Master, the system seems to be glitching. Let me go fix it!”

Little Mischief suddenly realized he’d revealed too much, so he immediately feigned death, curling up in a corner of the space drawing circles. Bai Ruo had no intention of listening. She cared nothing for such matters. What truly occupied her mind was the next contest.

Though she inhabited another’s body, she practiced diligently every day. In her previous life, her grasp of mystical techniques had always surpassed that of ordinary people. It was as if certain things had been engraved into her bones—she needed only a glance to comprehend what others spent ages deciphering.

The final contest was also a one-on-one duel; the winner would observe while the other two battled. This time, Bai Ruo drew the lucky lot—Spirit Sword Sect and Yunmeng would fight first, and Bai Ruo would compete in the next round.

Sometimes, luck is itself a form of ability.

Perhaps the Yunmeng disciple was simply too formidable; as soon as the man in green unleashed his first technique, the Spirit Sword Sect disciple’s lips were stained with blood.

The match hadn’t even begun, and the opponent had already been forced to retire—Yunmeng advanced smoothly.

Without pause, the next round began: Bai Ruo of the Immortal Sect versus the green-robed Yunmeng disciple.

“Green Robe—an excellent name, suits you well.”
“Bai Ruo, your name is equally fine—a white robe, unmatched elegance.”
“You flatter me.”
“Friendship first, contest second. Shall we be friends?”
“Of course.”

The Spirit Sword Sect disciple who had been carried away protested—why had they started fighting so abruptly? Gender discrimination?

The two bantered and lingered, chatting idly, until at last they assumed their stances.

“Brother Green Robe, have you ever heard of the Reverse Water Technique?”
“Hm?”

She recited the incantation, forming seals with her hands—azure water descended from the heavens, forming a prison that tightly confined Green Robe.

He smiled faintly:
“Sister Bai Ruo, you are formidable indeed; this Reverse Water Technique is quite powerful. But I wonder—are your waters stronger, or is my wind more fierce?”
“I suppose we shall see.”

With her mystical technique, a gentle yet forceful wind arose, carrying leaves and petals—beautiful, yet perilous. The wind blew to Bai Ruo’s left and right, never harming her, more like… teasing?

“Master, stop playing games with him—just finish him off!”

The water wall vanished in an instant, but the droplets that remained upon the stage marked the evidence of its presence. A wall of fire appeared before Green Robe, while behind him rose a wall of ice.

“Ice and fire together—interesting, at last a worthy opponent!”
Bai Ruo did not reply.

“All right, let’s call this your victory. Such a competitive spirit for a young lady.”

With a thought, Bai Ruo dismissed the ice and fire. In truth, so-called ice, fire, water, and wind were but condensed spiritual energy shaped by nature—tangible yet intangible, inheriting some qualities, such as cold or heat.

Green Robe summoned enough water to fill a whole ocean.

The Immortal Sect, unsurprisingly, took first place again. Yunmeng claimed second, and Spirit Sword Sect, the perennial last place, brought up the rear.

The Three Sects Grand Tournament ended with little fanfare; after all, the two sect leaders had come not merely to watch their students spar.

…

The three sect masters were about to head to the main hall to discuss matters of importance.

“Wait!”

Shen Miao, dressed in plain robes, was badly injured and unable to wield spiritual power; she must have walked all the way, each step reopening the scabs on her wounds, leaving her pale and pitiful.

Baili Ce, unable to bear it, stepped forward to help her.

Shen Miao shoved him aside, drew a dagger hidden in her sleeve, and lunged at Bai Ruo.

The dagger gleamed green—it must have been coated in deadly poison.

Bai Ruo had not expected Shen Miao to act so brazenly in front of so many people, and she stood frozen, unprepared.

When the dagger was scarcely a fist’s length away, a pair of hands reached from behind Bai Ruo, clasped her waist tightly, and pulled her back.

Before she could react, her face pressed against the other’s chest.

“Chong Li?”

She hadn’t even looked, but instinct told her it was Chong Li.

The dagger fell to the ground with a clear, ringing sound.

“Every time I’m here, your cleverness deserts you?”

“Huh? Every time?”

“…Yes, every time…”

Yes—every time…