Standing nearby, Jared remembered the moment had entered the city, Lyra dueling Kael from that very sect. Sword intent crackling between them, each slash meant to kill. Had Jared not intervened, one of those two would have died that day.

He stepped forward, eyes unwavering. “Corln, I will represent Sword Sect in the championship.”

“You?” Corin studied him. “You might have reached Wandering Immortal Realm Level Eight, but Sacred Sword Manor’s core disciples stand at Earthly Immortal Realm Level Four at least. If you go…”

“I know the risk,” Jared replied, voice steady. “That is precisely why we should go. Hide, and the world calls the Sword Sect cowardly. Fight, and we sharpen our sword technique, and our name.”

Lyra chimed in, “Master Morden, Jared’s progress borders on miraculous. He might give us a miracle of our own. Let us go with him. Even if we cannot compete, we can cheer on.”

Around them, the other disciples nodded, hope flickering In every gaze. Seeing their passionate faces, Corin sighed. “Very well. If you insist, go. But remember, nothing outweighs staying alive.”

He turned back to Jared, voice grave. “I will register you for it. The championship enforces three iron rules. First, sword technique only, no spells, magical items, or outside forces. Second, bring your own weapon, nothing but a sword. Third, once you step up, life and death rest with fate, no one may interfere.”