The cold brutal reality of the battlefield returned but in a new controlled form.

In the vast desolate center of the four territories, the leaders of the four factions acted in unison. Theron, Gorgoth, Grok, and Vrak all extended their powers, shaping the very ground. The black basalt plain cracked, heaved and then settled. It was forming a massive, perfectly circular arena. A simple raised platform was erected for the leaders of each faction, turning them into spectators at their own bloody coliseum.

The tens of thousands of cultivators—human, demon, beast, and cultist—formed a vast, silent ring around the arena, a wall of tense watchful eyes. The air crackled, not with the chaos of war, but with the focused anticipation of a formal duel.

"First," boomed Warlord Grok, his voice echoing across the plain, "the Demon Realm versus the Cultists!”

A silence fell over the Cultist ranks. High Priest Vrak nodded and a hulking human stepped forward. He was easily seven feet tall, his body covered not in armor but in a grotesque tapestry of tattoos, blood-red runes that seemed to writhe on his skin. He carried a jagged, double-bladed axe.

"Borlag the Flayer!" the Armored General announced, his voice flat. "8th-Level Core Formation."

From the demonic side, a creature of similar size but far more alien leapt into the arena. It was a massive horned beast-demon, its skin the color of a deep bruise, its muscles knotted and unnatural. It carried no weapon, its massive three-taloned hands flexing and clicking.

"K'thrax!" Arch-Fiend Gorgoth's voice rumbled. "8th-Level Core Formation."

The two titans faced each other. Borlag roared, a fanatical cry and his runes glowed. A massive, spectral image materialized behind him—his Martial Spirit, a fifteen-foot-tall skinless behemoth wielding a spiritual copy of his axe.

"Blood-Boil Curse!" Borlag bellowed. He and his spirit swung their axes in unison. A wave of invisible sickening energy shot towards the demon, alongside a massive blood-red axe-wave from the Martial Spirit.

K'thrax just snarled. It opened its fanged maw and let out a guttural roar. A wave of chaotic, black-purple demonic Qi erupted from its body, meeting the dual attack. It didn't just block; it corroded. The Blood-Boil Curse dissolved into nothingness. The spiritual axe-wave sizzled and evaporated on contact with the demonic Qi, like water on a white-hot stone.

Borlag's eyes widened in shock. K'thrax charged, its movements impossibly fast for its bulk. Borlag commanded his Martial Spirit to intercept and raised his own axe in defense.

K'thrax slammed into the spectral behemoth with its talons extended. The Martial Spirit was torn apart like wet paper. K'thrax didn't slow, smashing through the spirit's remnants and slamming its massive open palm into Borlag's chest.

CRACK!

The sound of shattering ribs and a collapsing breastplate echoed across the plain. Borlag, his eyes rolling back, was sent flying, tumbling end over end before crashing onto the basalt floor unconscious.

Score: Demons 1 - Cultists 0

A collective gasp went up from the Human Realm. K'thrax spat on the ground near Borlag's body and roared in triumph. He then leapt back to his side.

On the Human Realm platforms there was muffled conversation. "By the ancestors..." Dargan the Red-Axe muttered, his knuckles white on his own axe. "No technique. No art. Just... pure, brutal power."

"You're wrong," Jarek Volkov said, his eyes never leaving the arena. "His demonic Qi is innately corrosive to our Qi systems. Borlag's curse and his Martial Spirit's attack were both complex arts; the demon's Qi is a purer, more fundamental energy. It simply defiled and overpowered them. A direct counter."

“They are using curses… the stories that Fengliu has told me about his sister… I must let him know once we are out of here. This must be the group or closely related to them…” Li Y thought to himself after seeing the first fight.

"One victory," the Red-Eyed Mistress hissed, her voice carrying from the Cultist plateforms, her fury palpable. "Stiletto! You are next. Do not fail."

A slender nondescript human woman in dark shadowy leather, her face hidden by a veil, stepped into the arena. Her cultivation was lower, only 7th-Level Core Formation,but her aura was cold and dead.

From the Demon side, a different type of creature emerged. A slender whip-tailed demoness, her skin a pale, sickly green. She, too, was 7th-Level. "Vyliss!"

The moment the match began, Stiletto vanished. She was a master of stealth, one of the Shadowy One's own disciples.

Vyliss stood still, her long barbed tail tracing lazy circles in the dust, a cruel smile on her reptilian face. Her head twitched, her senses clearly not limited to sight, scanning the arena. A flicker of shadow appeared behind Vyliss.

Stiletto materialized, a dagger glowing with a venomous green light plunging towards the demoness's spine. CRACK! Vyliss's tail moved faster than the eye could see. It snapped out, wrapping around Stiletto's descending arm, the barbs sinking deep. The demoness cackled and pulled, yanking the human assassin toward her.

It looked over. But as Vyliss pulled her close, Stiletto, her arm impaled and bleeding, smiled. "For the True Gods," she whispered. A small, grotesque Martial Spirit materialized around her wounded arm—a spectral 'Blood-Leech Spirit.' It latched onto the demon's barbed tail and Stiletto's own black blood crawled through it.

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It was channeling a curse directly into Vyliss's body. Vyliss shrieked, a high-pitched terrifying sound, as the 'Parasitic Soul-Rot Curse' invaded her. She dropped Stiletto, clawing frantically at her own body. Her body convulsed, her green skin turning black and necrotic.

"A SOUL-POISON!" Gore-Baron Mael roared from the Demon platforms. "THAT IS A KILLING ART! A VIOLATION!"

"She is not dead," the Red-Eyed Mistress replied coolly, her voice dripping with venom. "The rules are 'knocked out' or 'gives up.' If your champion is too weak to fight through a simple curse, she is free to surrender. The match continues."

Vyliss was now on the ground, writhing in silent agony and her spiritual sea clearly under attack. She was utterly incapacitated. Arch-Fiend Gorgoth let out a low growl. "ENOUGH." He waved one of his six hands. "We... concede."

A healer demon rushed out and dragged the convulsing Vyliss back to their side for treatment. Stiletto, clutching her ruined arm, bowed to the Cultist leaders and walked off the field.

Score: Demons 1 - Cultists 1

The Human camp shivered. "The Cultists are just as monstrous," Bronwyn Steel muttered, her face pale. "A specialized art," Jarek noted, his pen flying across a scroll. "They sacrificed their own champion's blood, using the Martial Spirit as a conduit for a soul-curse. Bending the 'no-kill' rule to its absolute limit. Demons are not immune to soul-poisons, it seems."

“They have made the demons upset though, not a wise move if you ask me.” Someone else said.

"Ignis!" the Demon leaders called, their tone unchanged though their killing intent was rising. A new demon stepped forward. This one was shorter, barely human-sized but his skin was like cracked obsidian with magma-light glowing from within. He was at the 8th-Level Core Formation, but the air around him was already superheating.

From the Cultist side, a warrior who was not human stepped up. It was a H'sskar, a snake beast who had joined the Cultists. He was 9th-Level Core Formation, his scales a dark and oily green. "A 9th-Level against an 8th-Level," Sylvia observed. "This should be the Cultists' victory."

The match began. H'sskar was impossibly fast, slithering across the basalt, his hands weaving signs. "Miasma of the Serpent God!" H'sskar opened his mouth and unleashed a massive, rolling cloud of toxic green-yellow poison mist that raced towards Ignis. Ignis didn't move. He didn't cast a spell. He just... flared. FWOOOM!

An aura of black-purple fire erupted from his body, instantly incinerating the poison mist. It wasn't just a shield; it was an atmosphere. The very basalt floor around him began to melt into slag. H'sskar reptilian eyes went wide. His poison, his greatest weapon was useless against this person.

The demon was 100 yards away and the heat was already starting to singe his scales. "This is not 'fire cultivation,'" High Mystic Caelia said from the Human platform, her voice tight. "That is... higher-level flames. An innate talent or ability. Our conventional water arts would likely be vaporized on contact."

H'sskar, seeing his art was useless, made a desperate choice. He shot forward with his fangs extending. He was aiming for a physical takedown. He never made it. As he crossed the 50-yard mark, his scales began to blacken and curl. As he crossed 20 yards, his flesh began to melt.

Ignis simply raised a hand. A stream of the same black-purple fire lanced out. H'sskar, knowing he couldn't block it, desperately threw himself to the side. The fire-stream clipped his shoulder and side. He let out an agonized, inhuman scream as his scales and flesh were horribly burned. He hit the ground, smoking and writhing before falling unconscious from the sheer pain.

Score: Demons 2 - Cultists 1

A heavy, oppressive silence fell. The Red-Eyed Mistress was gripping her chair so hard her knuckles were white. "Last chance, Malak," High Priest Vrak whispered. A new champion stepped forward for the Cultists. This was clearly their "ace." Zealot-Commander Malak, a 9th-Level Core Formation human clad in heavy black rune-etched plate armor.

He carried a massive jagged greatsword that pulsed with a dark sacrificial light. On the Demon side, their own champion emerged. It looks like they were not going to stand for that loss they suffered earlier.

Ur'goth, a 9th-Level Core Formation demon. He looked like a smaller, more compact version of the 8th-Level Arch-Fiend Gorgoth, with four powerful arms and thick plate-like carapaced skin. He carried no weapon.

This was the true fight. "FOR THE TRUE GODS!" Malak roared as he charged ahead. A massive armored Martial Spirit, a 'Spectral Zealot,' materialized behind him, mirroring his form and movements.

"Judgment Sword!" He and his spirit swung their greatswords in unison, unleashing two massive overlapping waves of dark energy. Ur'goth didn't dodge. He met the attack head-on. His four arms were a blur. Two arms clapped together catching the energy-wave from Malak and crushing it. The other two arms punched the air, shattering the Martial Spirit's attack with concussive force.

Malak, slightly taken back that both his attacks were so easily defended against, brought his sword up to block as the demon charged. Ur'goth was an engine of destruction. Malak and his spirit were master swordsmen but they were fighting an opponent with four arms. Every parry was met with two more punches. Every slash was caught by one of the demon's hands, his carapaced skin easily deflecting the blade while the other three arms battered Malak's defenses.

"God's-Blood Shield!" Malak roared, a desperate crimson barrier erupting around him as he and his spirit were overwhelmed. Ur'goth smiled. He brought all four of his arms back and then punched the shield simultaneously. KRA-K-K-BOOM!

The shield shattered like glass. The Spectral Zealot spirit was caught in the backlash, destabilized and vanished. Before Malak could even register the failure, two of the demon's hands seized his greatsword, ripping it from his grasp and throwing it far out of the arena. The other two hands struck his chest in a devastating four-armed combination. CRUNCH!

Malak's heavy rune-etched plate armor caved in. He coughed up a lungful of blood and armor fragments, his eyes wide with shock, before he crumpled to the basalt, unmoving. Ur'goth roared in triumph raising his four arms into the sky.

He looked down at Malak's unconscious body, clearly fighting the instinct to tear him apart. Frustrated by the "no kill" rule, the demon simply spat on Malak's body before turning and stomping back to his side.

Final Score: Demons 3 - Cultists 1

The match was over. The Demon Realm had won. They would now face the winner of the Human-Beast match for the first choice of quadrants. The Cultists were relegated to the loser's bracket. The Demon camp let out a unified, deafening roar of triumph.

Arch-Fiend Gorgoth nodded, his six arms folded. "We... will... wait. For... the... winner." The Cultist leaders' faces were a mix of fury and humiliation. The Red-Eyed Mistress looked murderous, her gaze fixed on the triumphant demons. But the Human Realm camp was dead silent.

They had just watched their "original" enemy, a fanatical and ruthless organization be utterly and brutally dismantled. Grand Elder Theron's face was a mask of stone. Korgath was cracking his massive knuckles. They were next. Their opponents, the Primal Beasts, were rumored to be just as physical, just as strong and just as savage as the demons they had just seen.

Li Yu had watched every fight with the interest to learn. The Demons relied on raw, innate superiority: stronger bodies, tougher hides, more limbs and purer and more corrosive energy.

"They don't just fight with just techniques," he concluded silently, his gaze falling on the four-armed Ur'goth. "Their bodies are the technique." He now had a baseline for their power. He was ready for his own match.