At his command, over thirty disciples in brocade robes emerged from the main hall. They worked in silence, using wooden stakes and rope to demarcate the arena on the open ground before the hall. Their swift, practiced movements betrayed them as seasoned veterans—far from ordinary low-ranking members of the Seven Mysteries.
As the arena took shape, Li Feiyu turned to Han Li with growing unease.
"Are we really just going to hide here and do nothing? Watch them fight without lifting a finger? That doesn't seem right."
"What's wrong with it? Your young lady is in no danger—she's perfectly safe for now. Once both sides finish their duel, we'll take advantage of the chaos during the Wild Wolf Gang's withdrawal to spirited Miss Zhang away. Then the two of you can vanish together, find somewhere they'll never think to look. That way, you won't become the scapegoat upstairs—you won't be stuck carrying that black pot you were never meant to bear." Han Li's tone was detached, revealing how little attachment he felt to the Seven Mysteries.
"That's elopement! Xiuer would never agree!" Li Feiyu shook his head vigorously.
"Then knock her out and carry her off yourself. Once the raw rice is cooked, what's done is done." Han Li's reply was deliberately nonchalant.
"You—" Li Feiyu gaped at him, speechless and fuming.
While the two argued, Wang Juechu solemnly received two blood-red documents from a disciple—the Death Pact itself. He kept one and dispatched a messenger to deliver the other to Jia Tianlong.
The Gang Leader's expression turned grave as he accepted it. He carefully unfolded the document, scanned its contents, and upon verifying no irregularities, nodded and folded it shut. Then he began selecting his champions.
After careful deliberation, he chose thirteen elite fighters from the Wild Wolf Gang. To minimize losses among his own, he also selected a dozen capable fighters from the allied minor factions. Regardless of their willingness, once they signed the death pact, they would fight for their lives or perish. The remainder of his fifty were Iron Guards accustomed to coordinated combat. Naturally, the Golden Light Master would participate as well—Jia Tianlong was counting on his flying sword to turn the tide.
While Jia Tianlong busied himself with selections, Wang Juechu had at some point retreated into the stone hall and had yet to reappear, presumably agonizing over his own roster.
When the arena was finally completed, the Sect Leader emerged with three to four hundred fighters in his wake.
Men and women, young and old, all possessed piercing gazes and steady gait—the unmistakable bearing of the Seven Mysteries' finest. Three figures following closest behind Wang Juechu drew Jia Tianlong's sharpest attention.
The first wore flowing scholar's robes, his face refined and scholarly. The second was tall and broad-chested, a steel-bristled beard framing a face of raw ferocity. The third was clad in gray, a long sword strapped to his back, his countenance cold and remote.
At first glance, all three appeared to be in their thirties or forties. But closer scrutiny revealed in their eyes and bearing the weathered gravity of men in their seventies or eighties—their true ages far exceeded their outward appearance.
Jia Tianlong understood instantly. These three had to be Wang Juechu's grand-uncles. The sect leader was truly gambling everything to keep him here.
He turned to the dwarf at his side.
"Master Golden Light, what do you make of those three? Can you handle them?"
"Mere mortals. The moment my flying sword is drawn, their lives are forfeit. What is there to worry about? Do you doubt me?" The Golden Light Master's eyes narrowed in displeasure, his tone turning sharp.
"No, not at all! A mere passing question—please do not take offense." Jia Tianlong hastened to smooth things over, unwilling to antagonize his most critical asset at this juncture.
"Hmph!" The dwarf's anger subsided somewhat.
Only then did Jia Tianlong allow himself a measure of relief. Managing this celestial master was no easy task.
With a private, bitter smile, he spun around and bellowed: "Ready? Begin signing the Death Pact!"
At his command, the Wild Wolf Gang's selected fighters solemnly inscribed their names upon the document, sealing their death pact as an oath of resolve.
Simultaneously, Wang Juechu spoke with equal coldness: "Sign the Death Pact!"
Dozens of pre-selected champions stepped forward from the ranks of the Seven Mysteries, prepared to affix their signatures to the document.
As they emerged, Han Li's gaze swept across the group, scanning for familiar faces. He noted the Sect Leader's three grand-uncles but paid them little more than a cursory glance. His attention settled upon an elderly man in a green robe.
Upon recognizing the old man's features, Han Li could not suppress a low exclamation: "Elder Li!"
It was indeed Elder Li—Ma Rong's master, the man whose life Han Li had once saved. That he should be among the duel's participants was entirely unexpected.
Recovering from his surprise, Han Li turned sharply to Li Feiyu and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Do you see? Elder Li is there too—he's going to sign the death pact!"
Li Feiyu stood motionless, staring into the distance as though he had heard nothing, his expression vacant and remote.
"What's wrong?" Han Li was puzzled. "Even if Elder Li is signing the death pact, there's no need for you to look like that."
Li Feiyu finally withdrew his gaze and stared blankly at Han Li. Then he spoke a sentence that froze Han Li's blood in his veins.
"Xiuer... Xiuer is there too. She's going to participate in the Death Pact Blood Duel!"
As the words left his lips, Li Feiyu's face turned ashen.