Chapter Thirty-Two: The Freshmen Tournament
Cultivation Academy of the Magic Capital
Combat Arts Branch
The once-deserted notice board was now surrounded by a throng of students. At the start of the semester, it had been announced that there would be occasional duels and competitions, with substantial rewards for outstanding performers—even the chance for personal instruction from a formidable mentor.
Now, the notice board displayed the requirements and prizes for this year’s Freshmen Tournament.
More than two months had passed, and the new students had settled into their training routines. Those with exceptional talent had already reached the peak of the first rank, while even the less gifted had mostly arrived at the mid-stage of the first rank. Of the three hundred freshmen in the academy, none remained mere mortals.
After all, anyone who could sense and control their vital energy, however slightly, qualified as a first-rank martial apprentice. With the help of the initial fifty credits, achieving this first rank posed little difficulty.
Everyone was focused on the upcoming Freshmen Tournament.
“Zhang Yang, are you going to participate?”
“Of course. Even if I don’t win a place, I have to give it a try. Isn’t it all about participation?”
“That’s right, I’m joining too. I think I might even place. Who knows, maybe a mentor will take notice.”
“Come on, the mentors are all experts—they’re not blind!”
“Oh, just you wait! This time, I’m determined to rise above the rest!”
“You? Rise above? That’s about as likely as a pig climbing a tree.”
...
The area around the notice board buzzed with discussion and camaraderie.
Life for new students was rather monotonous—class, cafeteria, dormitory, day in and day out. It was little different from any ordinary university, except here the dorms were better, the cafeteria more refined, and the mentors truly powerful.
This Freshmen Tournament was like a stone thrown into a tranquil lake, stirring things up after a long calm. To these students, just embarking on the path of cultivation, it was their very first real competition.
Everyone was eager, those who advanced quickly or felt strong enough even debating whether to conceal their true strength or strive for first place.
The thoughts of youth are always rather amusing. Everyone imagines themselves the protagonist of this world, viewing everything from their own perspective, convinced that the world revolves around them.
Perhaps years later, they’ll look back and find these thoughts laughable. But for now, this is how they think—and not just a few of them, but most.
...
Yang Fan had wandered around the Magic Capital for two days, unfamiliar with the city and unsure where to go. He had money now, but no idea how to spend it, having never imagined in his first eighteen years that one day he would be able to live like this. He’d never planned what to do if he ever came into money.
He found a bank, called Zhao Rui to ask for an account number, and transferred the money for his phone and hotel stay.
Naturally, Zhao Rui protested, but Yang Fan felt he couldn’t remain indebted—before, he had no choice, but now that he had money, he couldn’t let the debt stand. Still, he could sense Zhao Rui’s disappointment over the phone. Yet there was no help for it; Yang Fan didn’t want to rely on others’ kindness forever. Though he’d paid the money back, he kept the favor in mind, even if it was tinged with a hint of self-interest.
Utterly bored, Yang Fan decided to return to the Cultivation Academy of the Magic Capital.
After a few days’ wandering, most of the gloom he’d felt had dissipated. He was never one to dwell on things for long, so his troubles seemed less significant.
He took a cab back to the academy.
Arriving at the gate of the Combat Arts Branch, Yang Fan was stunned to see the dense crowd gathered not far from the entrance.
What was going on? Didn’t anyone have class?
He moved forward to investigate—after all, where there was excitement, he had to join in.
He squeezed his way through the crowd with some difficulty, emerging at the front, drenched in sweat.
There, he saw the rules for the Freshmen Tournament posted on the notice board.
Cultivation Academy of the Magic Capital
Combat Arts Branch
First Freshmen Combat Arts Tournament
Participants: Freshmen
Requirement: First rank or above
Date: February 7, 2019
Location: Combat Arts Branch Gymnasium
Prizes:
First place: 300 credits, one F-grade alloy weapon
Second place: 150 credits, 10 second-grade Bone Tempering and Muscle Refining Pills
Third place: 100 credits, 5 second-grade Bone Tempering and Muscle Refining Pills
Fourth to Tenth place: 50 credits
Eleventh to Twentieth place: 20 credits
All participants: 5 credits
Rules...
“Freshmen Tournament,” Yang Fan murmured as he gazed at the list.
“Yang Fan, you’re back?” someone called.
Turning, Yang Fan saw Tan Hao pushing his way out of the crowd to stand beside him.
“Yeah, I’m back,” Yang Fan replied.
“Any thoughts on the tournament?” Tan Hao asked with a grin.
“Not really, but I do want that F-grade alloy weapon,” Yang Fan said cheerfully.
“Not really? Sounds like you’re gunning for first place to me!” Tan Hao declared loudly.
The surrounding crowd turned to stare.
Who were these two, so arrogant as to claim first place right away?
Yang Fan hadn’t spent much time at the academy—after the initial classes, he’d barely attended. He knew few people, and even fewer knew him. Now, everyone was staring.
Yang Fan felt a little awkward; being the center of attention in such a public place was uncomfortable. He dragged Tan Hao out of the crowd.
The others soon lost interest, dismissing the two as braggarts.
Walking through the campus, Tan Hao said, “Yang Fan, don’t take it lightly. A few geniuses with second-rank potential have already broken through, and several others have reached the peak of the first rank. Some have even started learning combat techniques. Don’t let your guard down.”
“Some are already second rank? Good. Otherwise, I’d worry people would accuse me of bullying,” Yang Fan answered nonchalantly.
He was joking, of course. He’d killed even peak second-rank Darkworlders—why would he fear these students who did nothing but train? Suffering an upset defeat? Not likely.
“Well, you were the earliest among the freshmen to reach the second rank, so you should still be stronger than those who just broke through,” Tan Hao said with a sigh. He’d said his piece; whether Yang Fan listened was another matter.
“By the way, have any of those who reached second rank or the peak of first rank gone out on missions?” Yang Fan asked.
“Not that I’ve heard. So far, only you and Zhou Yiyi have been out. No word about anyone else,” Tan Hao mused.
“I see,” Yang Fan replied, forming a rough idea. Those who hadn’t experienced bloody combat couldn’t truly call themselves martial artists. Though their cultivation had caught up, could they really match him in a real fight?
But Yang Fan forgot that aside from his fight with a Darkworlder, all his previous missions had been crushingly one-sided, relying on overwhelming strength—hardly glorious. The only thing he could pride himself on was having seen blood and taken lives.
...
There were still a few days left—it was February 3rd, and the tournament would begin in four days.
The rules of the tournament were clear.
The initial elimination round would be a free-for-all among all registered freshmen, whittling the number down to one hundred.
These hundred would then draw lots for one-on-one matches, cutting the field to fifty.
Those fifty would battle again in a free-for-all until only twenty remained.
The top twenty would draw lots once more to determine the final ten.
The final ten would stand as champions, open to challenge by any eliminated contestants; a victor could take a spot among the ten. This gave those unfairly targeted in earlier rounds another chance.
Among these ten, the three with the best records would face off to decide first, second, and third place.
“Best record” meant fewest times challenged and most victories—few challenges implied overwhelming strength, while most victories spoke for themselves.
Yang Fan felt that he should put on a good performance this time. Remaining obscure wasn’t necessarily good; making a name for oneself wasn’t necessarily bad either.
Who among the young doesn’t harbor a dream of standing at the center of the world, imagining themselves the hero?
...
Time passed quickly, and soon the day of the tournament arrived.
Yang Fan hadn’t prepared much. Unlike the other students, who were cramming in as much last-minute training as possible, Yang Fan had completely slacked off—eat, sleep, wander, eat again, sleep again.
Even Tan Hao was speechless at his attitude. Did he not care about the competition at all?
The day before the tournament, Zhou Yiyi also returned.
She met with Yang Fan, who was shocked—though her talent was lower than his, she had now reached the second rank as well.
A smug Zhou Yiyi looked at him, a hint of challenge in her eyes.
This guy had lorded it over her at the peak of the first rank—how about now?
It was like that old saying at the gambling table: early winnings are just paper; only what you have at the end is real.
Yang Fan was genuinely rattled.
After asking Zhou Yiyi, he learned that she’d been pushing herself to the limit, taking on missions against evenly matched opponents, and finally breaking through.
Yang Fan felt a pang of disappointment.
A young woman had the courage to face danger, while he, a grown man, kept choosing weaker opponents—was that really right?
He was torn between the desire to grow stronger and the fear that life could only be risked once.
...
Cultivation Academy of the Magic Capital
Combat Arts Branch
The inaugural Freshmen Combat Arts Tournament was underway.
All freshmen had registered. It wasn’t just about winning—a mere registration earned five credits, an irresistible temptation.
Two months into the semester, everyone now understood the value of credits, their uses, and the doors they could open. Who didn’t want a mountain of credits?
Credits meant resources. Credits meant cultivation. Credits meant a future.
Yang Fan entered the gymnasium, frowning as he looked around for his class.
Truth be told, he’d forgotten what most of his classmates looked like—he’d never paid much attention, and now, after so long, he barely recognized anyone.
“Yang Fan! Over here!”
He saw Tan Hao calling out loudly from a distance.
Others near Tan Hao turned to look in the same direction.
It wasn’t just Yang Fan who’d forgotten his classmates’ faces—his classmates, too, felt a vague sense of unfamiliarity toward someone they’d barely seen.