The Ancient Immortal Heaven Sect—one of the supreme factions in the vast Mortal Domain—was bustling with energy today. Why? Because today was the Advancement Tournament, the one day where disciples could punch each other in the face with the sect's official blessing. Truly, a sacred occasion.
The sky was perfectly blue, the wind whistled in dramatic fashion, and even the birds seemed to be screeching their bets on which disciple would be sent flying first. It was a divine atmosphere, full of anticipation and the occasional scammer selling "good luck" talismans that suspiciously smelled like old socks.
At the heart of the sect's sprawling grounds lay an enormous arena, packed with more disciples than the sect's fire-safety rules should legally allow. Every corner was filled with shouting, scheming, and that one guy loudly proclaiming that he "totally saw the future" and knew the winners—only for him to be thrown off the bleachers when his first prediction failed miserably.
In the middle of all this chaos stood the battle stage—a sacred battlefield where dreams would soar, dignity would shatter, and at least one person would undoubtedly leave on a stretcher. This was the day for Unofficial Disciples to claw their way up to Official status, Outer Disciples to fight tooth and nail for the coveted Inner Disciple spot, and for some particularly unlucky fools to reconsider their life choices mid-air after being sent flying by a single palm strike.
For many, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to rise above mediocrity.
For others, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to provide comedic relief by getting absolutely demolished in front of ten thousand witnesses.
The excitement was contagious. The bets were rolling in. The sect elders were sipping tea, pretending to be wise, while secretly taking part in the gambling ring. And in the midst of it all… one particular disciple was about to break every known expectation—and possibly a few bones in the process.
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"Yo, yo, everyone, chill ya!!"
Like a rapper in his prime from the '90s, an old man with long white hair and beard strutted onto the stage, hopping and grooving as if he had just dropped the hottest album of the millennium.
"So everyone, as you all know, I am the one and only host for this year's betti—cough, cough—I mean Advancement Tournament."
The seven-foot-tall elder, with a slim physique wrapped in a pristine white divine garment, suddenly caught himself mid-slip and hastily corrected his words. His radiant presence screamed wisdom, but his behavior? Pure chaos.
"Those who know me, I love you all!"
Elder Yang blew a flying kiss to the cheering audience. Then, without missing a beat, he spun on his heel, grinned like a rogue, and continued, "And those who don't know me…"
Raising both middle fingers high, he roared, "Fuck you bunch of bitches!"
The crowd erupted, half in hysterical laughter, the other half furiously cursing him out, yet somehow, everyone was having the time of their lives.
"Anyway, I am Elder Yang, also known as Rapper—cough, cough—I mean, Sword Lord Yang." Once again, he barely avoided another verbal misstep, clearing his throat like a seasoned scammer pretending to be a saint.
"So for today's tournament, we have about 508 disciples participating for advancement!" Elder Yang announced grandly, hands on his hips, nodding as if he had personally counted them all (he hadn't).
Just then, a loud voice shot out from the audience. "Elder Yang, I wanna ask you something! Can I ask?!"
Elder Yang waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, go on! But make it quick, my rap battle—cough, I mean, this honorable tournament—must continue!"
The disciple didn't hesitate. "I heard your wife ran away with Elder Ma from the Golden Cloud Sect. Is that true?!"
A heavy silence fell upon the arena.
Then—
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"LOL!"
"Ayo, for real?! No way!"
The audience exploded like a bomb had been dropped, laughing so hard that a few disciples nearly coughed up their Qi. Even the sect elders were stifling their chuckles behind their sleeves. The air was filled with mockery, jeers, and a collective sense of pure, unfiltered entertainment.
Elder Yang's eye twitched. His beard trembled. The veins on his forehead looked ready to burst.
"WHO. THE. MOTHER. FATHER. GRANDPA. GREAT-GRANDPA. DOG-STEALING. DONKEY-KICKING. PILL-FORGING. TURTLE-EGG-EATING. PIECE OF HUMAN GARBAGE SAID THAT?!"
His voice echoed like a heavenly thunderclap, shaking the arena. He pointed aggressively at the audience. "If you got the guts, get your sorry ass up here and see if I won't spank you so hard your ancestors will feel it!"
The disciples were losing it. Some were rolling on the floor laughing. Others were clutching their stomachs, tears in their eyes. Someone in the back even screamed, "Elder Yang, calm down! Your blood pressure, man!"
But Elder Yang wasn't done. "My wife did NOT run away with that old fossil Elder Ma! She just… temporarily relocated… for research purposes… very far away… permanently!"
More laughter erupted. Somewhere, Elder Ma of the Golden Cloud Sect sneezed, utterly confused.
Elder Yang huffed, brushing his sleeves dramatically. "Anyway, back to the tournament! Enough nonsense!" He turned to the battle stage, trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left. "Let the fights begin!"
But the disciples weren't letting go that easily.
"Yo, Elder Yang, how's the single life treating you?"
"Is Elder Ma a better man than you? Be honest!"
"Did she at least leave you with the house?!"
And thus, Elder Yang's misery continued.
---
"Anyway! These here are the fine gentlemen who will be ensuring your lifeless bodies are transported in style!" Elder Yang waved dramatically toward the lineup of towering, muscle-bound men stationed outside the arena. Each one looked like they had been sculpted from stone and raised on a diet of raw demon meat and bad intentions.
Their grins were so sinister, it was as if they were already taking bets on which disciple would die first.
The participating disciples stared at them, their faces turning as pale as ghostly paper talismans. Should they be worried about the tournament… or their funerals?
Gulp.
A synchronized gulp echoed through the arena.
Somewhere in the crowd, a disciple whispered, "I suddenly feel like becoming a farmer…"