As Ruen focused on the ground beneath and behind him to cast his techniques, a wooden hand, glowing with sap, grasped his head and yanked him violently!

  Zamian hurled Ruen into the middle of the buried trunks with such force that the Warlord stumbled and rolled, desperately trying to regain his footing. But he was too slow.

  Huffing, Zamian charged forward, seizing Ruen’s ankle with a crushing grip. With a roar, he swung the Warlord like a rag doll, slamming his handsome face into the shattered wooden debris.

  Blood splattered from Ruen’s face, but his body quickly glowed with a brown hue as earth’s essence surged through him. He lashed out with his free leg, landing a powerful kick that cracked the wooden muscles and bark-like skin on Zamian’s chest.

  Even then, Zamian didn’t release his grip easily. With a snarl, he smashed Ruen’s face into the debris once more. Only when the Warlord twisted his ankle to free himself and delivered a devastating kick to Zamian’s grinning face did the Zealot let go, stumbling back to regain his balance.

  Ruen huffed, blood running down his forehead, as he stood shakily. His right knee was sprained, his movements uneven, but he had calmed himself.

  He had been trained. This wasn’t his first fight.

  For a brief moment, both cultivators paused, taking ragged breaths before lunging at each other again.

  Zamian’s green glow flared brighter, and he leaped at Ruen with blistering speed. This time, Ruen was ready. He sidestepped and drove his fist into Zamian’s wooden chest.

  A loud crack echoed as Zamian’s body visibly fractured. But instead of retreating, Zamian planted his feet firmly, refusing to be pushed back. He retaliated with a relentless flurry of punches, each aimed at Ruen’s torso and face.

  For the first time since fighting with the Beginning of the Cycle technique activated, Zamian felt himself taking real damage. First from the explosion, and now from Ruen’s bare fists.

  The Warlord’s body, enhanced by essence, was as strong as Zamian’s transformed form.

  Worse still, Zamian realized that Ruen’s technique was superior. With each exchange, the Warlord gained the upper hand, his precise movements breaking Zamian’s rhythm.

  But despite the widening cracks spreading across his wooden form, the glowing grin on Zamian’s face never faltered. His eyes flickered white and green with increasing intensity, without an inch of despair.

  As the battlefield crumbled around them, the buried tree trunks were pulverized with each impact. The land itself seemed to groan under the chaos.

  Zamian laughed, thinking. ‘This vermin is trying to reach the ground!’

  Time seemed to slow as Zamian observed Ruen’s movements. Each punch landed tenfold for every blow he could connect. And when Zamian’s fists did strike, they hit Ruen’s well-guarded arms, which protected his vital areas.

  But Zamian wasn’t focusing on Ruen’s skill. His instincts whispered to him, pointing out countless flaws in his own techniques: his stance, his punches, his kicks, his timing.

  He was learning.

  So he did what he could—he learned and practiced.

  Suddenly, Zamian’s elbow connected with Ruen’s face, sending the Warlord stumbling. Before Ruen could recover, Zamian followed up with a kick to his knee, forcing him to the ground.

  Ruen reacted quickly, rolling to the side just in time to avoid Zamian’s crushing stomp. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes trembling for a fleeting moment before his brown glow intensified, and he lunged back into the fight.

  But now, both fighters noticed something peculiar.

  Ruen’s movements, polished and refined, reflected years of practice and training—muscle memory he was gradually recalling and applying. Meanwhile, Zamian’s attacks, which had initially resembled the frenzied strikes of a wild beast, were becoming sharper, more deliberate.

  Zamian couldn’t anticipate Ruen’s movements perfectly; he was still being struck, slowed down by the Warlord’s precise counters. But his punches were landing more often now. And the blows he received weren’t causing as much damage as before—his wooden muscles tensed and flexed at the right moments, instinctively absorbing the impact.

  Even so, time was not on Zamian’s side.

  He could feel his essence burning rapidly, fueling his wooden body’s regeneration. Surviving an enhanced Warlord’s strikes as a Zealot was already an incredible feat. But after trading hundreds of hits, his reserves were nearing their limits.

  The battlefield itself posed another problem. Their bodies were too powerful, and the trunks Zamian had buried beneath them were nearly obliterated. Once they reached solid ground, Ruen would have the upper hand.

  Ruen likely understood this as well. He could try retreating to more stable terrain, somewhere without the treacherous remains of the wooden trap. He’d take a few hits during his escape, but he could reposition himself for a more advantageous fight.

  But Ruen hesitated. He didn’t know where Zamian’s trap ended or whether the wooden monstrosity had other hidden techniques waiting to be unleashed. The Warlord was stalling, waiting to hit solid ground where he could dominate the battle.

  And Zamian knew that.

  This battleground, this plan—everything was crafted specifically for Ruen.

  Zamian was just lying to Clarice when he said he would fight any Warlord that appeared. If another one came instead of Ruen, he would have quietly and quickly left without hesitation and fled toward the tunnels, heading for the Camp of Salvation.

  He had anticipated Ruen’s reliance on his exploding spheres and his reluctance to deviate from his preferred tactics. If a clear path was laid before him—fight until he could reach the ground to have an advantage—why would Ruen risk trying something new? He would only act if Zamian forced his hand.

  This was the personality of the Sultan’s youngest child. The least talented of the Princes, who adorned himself with excessive jewelry to flaunt his status. The one who needed to demonstrate power and dominance, especially under his father’s command, when tasked with accompanying other Warlords during the Sanctuary’s invasion.

  He was the type who would rather slaughter thousands—tens of thousands—of commoners and weaker cultivators than risk himself fighting alongside his companions in a carefully laid trap for the Chosen.

  But Ruen wasn’t a coward. He was insecure.

  Zamian hadn’t reached this conclusion alone.

  It was Clarice who had painted this picture.

  Her insights—how Ruen fought, the rumors about his personality, his reliance on the same predictable techniques—had allowed Zamian to craft this plan.

  But no plan, no matter how clever, could carry Zamian all the way.

  This strategy could give him better odds, and give him an opening, but it wouldn’t hand him victory. Instead, it wouldn’t even give him a draw.

  It was simply delaying his loss.

  The rest depended on Zamian’s skill and battle prowess.

  Feeling the situation worsening, Zamian resolved to gamble. As his instincts screamed at him to correct his flaws, he kicked the floor and lunged toward Ruen. The Warlord easily dodged, briefly confused, but kept his rhythm.

  When Zamian repeated this maneuver two more times, Ruen spotted an opportunity. Each of Zamian’s jumps destroyed more of their battleground. Now, amidst the broken bark and scattered leaves, Ruen could see a sliver of exposed ground.

  Tired of the relentless close combat, which left him bruised and his muscles torn, Ruen bolted toward the cleared earth. He didn’t care about the potential retribution from Zamian—once he connected with the ground again, the advantage would be his.

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  As if on cue, the moment Ruen changed course, Zamian’s eyes glowed fiercely. He kicked off the ground and intercepted Ruen midair. The two tumbled through the wreckage, rolling until they came to a stop near the exposed earth.

  Ruen laughed, his battered face twisting into a smug grin as his eyes shone with a brown glow. Lying on his back, his right hand touched the earth, where essence shimmered.

  “I win, you fr—”

  His words were cut off by a crushing punch to his face.

  And another.

  And another.

  Zamian had mounted Ruen, pinning the Warlord down. His thighs locked Ruen’s left arm, while the right remained free, still touching the ground. Punch after punch rained down, each strike heavier and more feral.

  Zamian wasn’t thinking—he had a single objective. There were no plans, no calculated maneuvers, just a pure desire to smash Ruen’s head!

  The Warlord’s body glowed with brown essence, but Zamian’s sheer weight pinned him down. Ruen, trained to thrive on the ground, was caught in a situation he never prepared for. Earth cultivators weren’t taught to avoid being grounded—why would they? The earth was their friend's most reliable ally!

  But bellow him, there wasn’t the usual ground filled with Earth’s essence—but wood!

  Desperately, Ruen focused his free hand, channeling Earth’s essence by connecting it to the single spot not covered by wood.

  Dozens of Bonded Spheres erupted from the ground, shattering the wooden trunks and slamming into Zamian’s torso and head. Some missed entirely, as Ruen’s blurred vision and blood loss muddled his aim.

  Zamian’s punches began to slow, his blows growing weaker and more erratic. Many missed Ruen’s face, striking the debris and soil instead.

  Meanwhile, Ruen’s spheres diminished, the few that hit failing to dislodge Zamian.

  The battlefield was reduced to a cacophony of labored breathing, the crunch of fists meeting flesh, and the thuds of earth colliding with wood.

  Zamian’s body began to shrink, the wooden armor fusing back into his skin.

  Huge wounds opened where his body had cracked, his ribs visibly shifting with each breath.

  A final, sickening punch landed, accompanied by the crunch of shattered bone and the wet squelch of ruptured flesh.

  The Bonded Spheres ceased.

  “Ahhhhhhhh!” Zamian screamed, his face a grotesque mix of red blood, green sap, and streaming tears

  He slammed his fist into Ruen’s faceless head once more, his voice breaking. “You blighted vermin!” His chest heaved as he spat on Ruen. “Was it worth it? Was it worth killing my aunt?”

  The broken, lifeless body offered no reply.

  “Answer me!” Zamian roared, grabbing Ruen’s shoulders and shaking him violently.

  Suddenly, white text obscured Zamian’s vision.

  Completed Side Quest: Kill a Level 4 Mortal

  Reward: +400 free stat points

  Status: Complete

  Blinking, realization dawned on Zamian as he rolled away from Ruen’s lifeless body, collapsing onto the ground beside it.

  His chest heaved as he stared up at the distant white leaves glowing softly above him.

  He chuckled weakly, his voice barely a whisper. “See, Aunt Misandra? I did it," Zamian blinked again, his vision swimming with blurs and shadows. He couldn’t even twitch a finger of his battered body. Forget knowing which bones were broken—his entire form felt like a useless sack, filled with splintered fragments of bones and shredded organs.

  It wasn’t pain that overwhelmed him now; it was a strange, almost detached numbness like his body had abandoned him entirely.

  He then commanded the White Dot to display his stats. The familiar text blinked into view:

  PERSONAL INFORMATION

  Name: Zamian Greenfield

  Level: 3 [00%]

  Tier: Mortal

  Main Pathway: Creation

  Title: None

  STATS POINTS (!)

  Body: 002/700

  Mind: 100/600

  Soul: 200/600

  (!) Free Points: 400

  Dismissing the text, Zamian caught the sound of voices from his right side. Unable to turn his head, he listened intently. A familiar female voice reached him first.

  “Ruen? Did you kill that monster?”

  Footsteps followed quickly, accompanied by a gasp and the noise of broken wood being shifted.

  “Oh no, Sultan, please no,” a male voice muttered. Though Zamian couldn’t see clearly, he sensed several presences rushing to check on Ruen’s body.

  “Is he…?” one of them began, his voice trembling.

  “We… we’re dead,” another screeched in panic.

  “Idiot sandworms,” Clarice barked, her voice cutting through the panic. “You two, gather his remains. You may be hurt, but you’re not useless. And the rest of you—go check the other one.”

  “Who is he?” a larger, masked outsider asked as he stepped into Zamian’s field of vision, staring at the mangled body lying motionless on the ground.

  The man squinted at Zamian, his gaze passing briefly over his bloodied face. “Yeah, he looks dead. His chest is a pool of blood, and I can’t tell if his skull is dented or cracked.” Then, suddenly, the man froze. His voice rose in shock. “No way! This guy is alive! Who is he?”

  The other three outsiders, along with Clarice, hurried to gather around Zamian, leaving the other two to take care of Ruen’s remains.

  Even in his blurry vision, Zamian analyzed their faces. All of them—except for Clarice—were bloodied, likely from the earlier explosion.

  Clarice’s eyes widened for a brief moment before settling into a gleeful, sinister smile. “Are you really alive, bastard?” she murmured, crouching down. Her gaze locked with Zamian’s cold, unwavering eyes for several seconds before she shook her head. “This is him. This is the wooden creature that killed Prince Ruen.”

  “What?!” they all exclaimed in unison.

  “Let’s take his body to the Sultan,” Clarice said, her mind racing. “Alive. Yes, alive. We’ll bring him to the Sultan so he can have his revenge and spare us.”

  The outsiders exchanged uncertain glances but ultimately stayed silent.

  Clarice stood, waving a hand dismissively toward Zamian. “But even like this, he might still be dangerous. We should cut off his arms and legs first, just to be safe.”

  “...Mistress, but he’ll die,” one of the outsiders protested weakly.

  “Maybe,” Clarice admitted with a cruel smile. “But we’ll do it slowly. That way, we can stop just before he dies. He’ll feel every moment. Yes, I like this plan. It’s a good plan.”

  Zamian stared back at her, cold and unblinking. He could barely feel the ground beneath him, let alone the damage they’d inflicted. They could slice his body with twigs, and he wouldn’t even flinch.

  Of course, he had no intention of dying here.

  As Clarice began issuing commands, Zamian focused inward. ‘Blighted White Dot, could you please put my stat points into my Body Stat? Pretty please?’

  In response to his will, his body flashed with a sudden, brilliant white light, startling everyone around him.

  “What’s happening?!” one outsider yelled, recoiling.

  A wall of text filled Zamian’s vision:

  +300 Body Points (!)

  (!) Your Body Stat Cap has reached a milestone → 1000/1000

  Distributing remaining stat points…

  +50 Mind Points

  +50 Soul Points

  As the text vanished, for the first time, Zamian truly understood what his Body Stat meant. Energy surged through him as his essence fused with his bones, muscles, organs, and blood, empowering him from within.

  But his body was still a mess. His muscles were torn, his bones broken, and his organs a mangled wreck. Moving now would only waste the essence fused with him—a temporary solution at best.

  His instincts screamed and took him out of his stray thoughts.

  “Kill him!” Clarice barked, her voice edged with fear. She had seen the glow and recognized it, comparing it to Zamian’s glowing eyes. Though she didn’t know exactly what it was, she wasn’t about to take chances.

  The outsiders hesitated only for a moment before they charged. Their bodies glowed with Earth’s essence, stomping toward Zamian with murderous intent.

  And Zamian moved.

  Without any Nature’s essence to enhance himself, he relied purely on the essence infused into his battered body. With a single spin on the ground, he extended his leg outward, sweeping through the attackers with a force that knocked all four Great Warriors off their feet.

  Zamian pressed his bloodied hands against the ground, forcing himself upright. Without hesitation, he rushed toward each fallen cultivator, stomping on their heads with brutal efficiency. In the span of four breaths, four skulls burst beneath his heel.

  Grabbing one of the headless bodies, he hurled it toward two outsiders who were furiously willing walls of earth to rise in Zamian’s path. The cultivators were momentarily stunned as they realized Zamian’s aim was wildly off, the head landing far from their position.

  Capitalizing on their brief confusion, Zamian dodged the incoming wall and closed the distance in an instant. With each of his hands, he seized one of their wrists and slammed both of them to the ground.

  Then, with relentless ferocity, he smashed their heads against the hardened soil. Once, twice, three times—until they burst open, painting the ground with blood and bone.

  In the process, Zamian endured a flurry of blows, including four Bounded Spheres that cracked against his body. His bleeding worsened, crimson streaking down his battered frame.

  Turning sharply, he spotted Clarice.

  Once more, she was running—fleeing from him after sacrificing her companions to buy time.

  But this time, there was a difference.

  “You don’t have essence either, vermin,” Zamian muttered under his breath as he pursued her.

  Clarice glanced back, her eyes wide with terror as she saw the naked, blood-soaked figure barreling toward her. He looked less like a man and more like a monster pulled from the depths of a nightmare. Her voice cracked as she began to plead.

  “Please—I can give you anything—no! Let’s talk about this!”

  But Zamian didn’t listen.

  Reaching her in a few breaths, he grabbed Clarice by the hair and yanked her back.

  His other hand shifted to her neck.

  Amidst her gruesome, piercing screams, he twisted her neck, the sickening crack of bone echoing in the ruined clearing.

  Without hesitation, even taking some of his time, he tore her head from her shoulders, severing it with brute strength.

  Breathing heavily, he tossed her headless body to one side, then flung her open-mouthed, once-beautiful head to the other.

  “Always the head,” he muttered with a grim chuckle, his body swaying unsteadily from side to side. Blood dripped steadily from his wounds, pooling at his feet.

  Exhausted, he willed the White Dot to display his stats.

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 0080/1000

  Mind: 600/650

  Soul: 400/650

  Zamian chuckled, the sound ragged. “I won’t survive when this hits zero, right?”

  He knew it. The only thing keeping blood flowing through his battered body was the essence fused into him. It forcefully held him together, refusing to let him collapse.

  Maybe it was the same essence that had kept Ruen alive for a while, even after his face had been smashed to an unrecognizable pulp.

  “I don’t accept it,” Zamian growled, shaking his head. “There is no time to think about death.”

  Ever since Lin Zhi’s lecture on struggle, he’d understood a harsh truth.

  He had to prove his worth to the world.

  To keep living, to avoid decline and death, he had to struggle!

  For his father, for his friends, and—above all—for himself.

  His mind raced. His instincts screamed and whispered in chaotic unison. His eyes, which had ceased their glowing, now flashed erratically with white light.

  Suddenly, he jerked his head to the side, his gaze locking onto the cracked sapling in the distance.

  A wild grin spread across his bloodied face as he staggered toward it.

  “I’ll struggle as much as I can,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “So you better not disappoint me, White Dot.”