Swoosh!

  The unsettling silence of the woods was shattered by startling birds, their black wings flapping violently in the pale light.

  Pierce’s silhouette was like a wisp of cold smoke, darting with extreme velocity through the dense barbarian formation. The longsword in his hand was no longer a mere extension of steel; bolstered by a faint layer of cyan Wind-elemental particles, the air sliced by the blade emitted a sharp, tearing hiss.

  Rip! Rip! Rip!

  With several jarring slicing sounds, three barbarian heads smeared with war paint soared into the air. Blood sprayed like geysers onto the verdant thickets, and the thick, metallic scent of iron immediately filled the surroundings.

  Under the full rhythm of the 4th layer of the Azure Gale Breathing Technique, Pierce appeared to be enveloped in a mantle of agile, flowing light. Furthermore, fine blue-white electric arcs crackled along the spine of his blade—the result of him forcibly condensing lightning-elemental particles onto the physical medium.

  Any barbarian brushed by this faint light would instantly fall into half a second of neural paralysis. For Pierce, this half-second window was more than enough to complete an elegant decapitation.

  The hundred-odd Delo barbarians who had initially besieged him had evolved from their initial roaring charges to their current state of utter terror. In their understanding, even a Rank 1 Wizard should have been overwhelmed by their suicidal charges in close combat. Yet, this black-robed youth had not chanted a single complete offensive incantation from beginning to end, using only a lethal blade too fast to track to drive their hundred-man phalanx to the brink of collapse.

  "Damn it... he is not an initiate. He is a demon wearing human skin!"

  The barbarian Centurion leading the group was drenched in cold sweat. He watched helplessly as his companions fell in rows beneath that near-artistic movement. The once impenetrable siege circle was now down to fewer than 20 shivering survivors.

  These barbarians, who worshipped martial prowess, finally broke. Faced with an absolute and unknown power, they let out a terrified shriek and attempted to flee deeper into the forest.

  However, once the names are on the reaper’s list, no changes are permitted.

  Caw!

  The black statue on Pierce’s shoulder disintegrated instantly. Dozens of threads of viscous black mist sliced through the jungle shadows like soul-binding hooks, precisely striking the back of each fugitive’s head. The mist-formed talons ignored the thick back armor of the barbarians, directly severing their spines.

  In a single heartbeat, the woods returned to silence, save for the rhythmic drip-drip of blood sliding off the tips of low-hanging leaves into the mud.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Mistfeather circled gracefully back to Pierce’s shoulder, affectionately nuzzling his cheek. Feeling the cold texture of the feathers, Pierce gave a slight nod of approval.

  This was the third day and night since entering the trial island.

  During these 72 hours, Pierce had pushed his survival mode to the near limit. By day, he was a reaper walking the thickets; by night, a seeker immersed in meditation and the derivation of truth. To prepare for any sudden outbreaks of danger, he allowed himself only 2 to 3 hours of deep slumber daily.

  The only slight regret was the progress of his analysis slots. To ensure his spiritual power remained above 90\% for combat readiness, he could not accelerate the derivation of the Pillar of Truth meditation as recklessly as he did in his apartment.

  After all, this island was far more dangerous than it appeared.

  "And... resources for Spirit restoration are too scarce," Pierce mused. In the ten-thousand-year history of the Arcane civilization, Spirit restoration potions did exist, but most carried the cost of twisting one's will or permanently damaging one's spiritual essence, and had long been discarded by mainstream academia. This gap in resources severely limited his "analysis efficiency."

  He extended his left hand. The crystal bracelet sensed the massive dissipation of soul energy nearby and instantly emitted dozens of indigo threads.

  Point Update Notification: Barbarian century-squad eliminated. Current points increased by 352.

  Pierce activated the real-time leaderboard in the void, and a heart-shaking set of data manifested:

  Rank 1: Gwendolyn, Points: 2180

  Rank 2: Silas, Points: 1895

  Rank 3: Ingram, Points: 1812

  Rank 4: Rowan, Points: 1105

  ...

  Rank 23: Pierce, Points: 647

  Looking at the staggering scores of the top three, even Pierce’s calm eyes flashed with a hint of surprise.

  "Do these people not sleep?"

  Possessing nearly two thousand Mist-Crows as a wide-range reconnaissance web, his hunting efficiency should have been several times that of his peers. Yet, even so, he was left outside the top twenty.

  The only explanation was that Gwendolyn and the other so-called family heirs were likely utilizing expensive mana-constructs or large-scale alchemical explosives provided by their houses, conducting day-and-night sweeps of the island's core zone.

  This level of competition could no longer be described as mere hard work; it was a pathological form of "involution."

  "However, I am in no hurry." Pierce deactivated the leaderboard. The Myriad Flower Fey was the true watershed of this trial; that 5000-point weight was enough for him to deliver a total wipeout in the final moments.

  Just as he prepared to clear his tracks and delve deeper, Mistfeather on his shoulder gave a low, sharp warning.

  From behind a cluster of gnarled Dragonblood trees on the right, three exhausted initiates emerged. Two males and one female, each bearing various degrees of injury. Seeing Pierce standing amidst a pile of barbarian remains, his robes soaked in fresh blood, the trio froze in place.

  "Pierce!" The leading male initiate’s expression turned remarkably vivid.

  They had clearly heard of Pierce’s previous exploit in killing the demonized. In this blood-soaked trial ground, a blood-drenched, cold-eyed elite Rank 2 Initiate carried a deterrent power exceeding even a barbarian Centurion.

  Pierce cast a detached glance over them, lacking the interest for conversation or the desire to plunder their meager points. He turned and vanished into the deeper shadows.

  The three initiates didn't collapse in relief until Pierce’s aura had completely vanished.

  "That Rank 2 Initiate... the way he kills is as cold as a student dissecting a frog in a lab," the female initiate whispered, her heart still pounding.

  Pierce ignored the discussion behind him. He traveled for another 15 minutes before a sharp stinging sensation in his fingertips made him stop.

  Mistfeather transmitted an image through their link: in the canyon fissure ahead, violent energy fluctuations were tearing through the jungle mist. And one of the combatants—identifiable by the signature cyan leather armor and sharp movements—was the vice-president of the Astra Society, Xavier.