Atorn spared the green-robed man the briefest glance, offered no reply, and vanished.

Swish!

Before anyone’s eyes could follow, the green-robed man was cleaved clean in two, blood and viscera spilling across th ground like toppled buckets of paint.

A hush rippled outward. Every spectator’s shoulders tightened, faces paling as the stench of blood announced the fight was no longer an exhibition but an execution.

Atorn was in the Earthly Immortal Realm Level Nine. Power of that caliber could have crowned him head of a major se even within level six.

Atorn stepped from the fading blood-mist, white robes unstained, expression flat. “Send someone who can actually fight,” he said, “stop wasting my time with trash.”

“I will fight you,” a new voice called. A figure plummeted from the vaulted sky, landing in a gust that tossed dust into spinning halos around his boots.