A Waste of Time

Chapter 150: Fitting Symbol

The Elders sat high upon their stage, gazes fixed on the Eight Trigram Tree Array as the trials unfolded. Below them, the Instructors kept their silence, their own eyes following the water mirrors set above each branch of the Tree. Every mirror revealed a different domain where the Juniors of the Mountain tested their mettle.

One after another, disciples lost their footing and were yanked from their platforms in beams of light, their chances extinguished in an instant. The victors advanced, their stages drifting closer together as their numbers halved. Two hundred fifty-six became one hundred twenty-eight. Bamboo rafts drew nearer on the Lake. Mountain peaks shifted. Volcanic platforms burned hotter. Coral bubbles clustered tighter. Storm-clouds sparked wilder.

The domains of wind and earth followed their own cruel rules.

Inside the endless storm, disciples trapped at the eye of the hurricanes were forced to endure the chaos until fate dragged them into collision with another cyclone. The victors devoured the losers’ tornados, growing larger and more violent with each swallow, until only a handful remained.

Underground, the tunnels wound deeper into darkness. Some Juniors fought their way past traps and wicked mechanisms, only to clash before iron gates where the path narrowed. Others waited, motionless, until the gates opened of their own accord — fortunate enough to advance without lifting a blade. Yet luck alone never softened the Earth Domain; those who emerged were strong, bloodied or not.

“The Earth branch is as tough as ever,” one Instructor muttered, watching the mirror above the seventh branch.

Cuifen, standing beside him, allowed herself a faint smile. While most Juniors strained in their brutal domains — Lake, Mountain, Fire, Water, Lightning, Wind, and Earth — those in the Heaven Domain sat cross-legged, eyes shut, cultivating without a care. They had settled their duels quickly, then plunged into meditation as dense Spirit Energy poured around them.

Cuifen’s gaze softened with a memory. She too had once entered the Heaven Domain. Her luck ended after a few rounds when she crossed paths with a monster who stripped away her chance at the Core Circle. From then on, her road was set — an Instructor, bound to serve the rules of the Mountain.

For every disciple, the law was clear:

Remain in the Inner Circle as long as you linger below Foundation Establishment. Break through, and your fate is decided at the next Sect-Competition. Only those who seized the Core Circle continued as disciples, taught not by grey-robed Instructors but by green-robed Elders. Core Disciples enjoyed Spirit Resources tenfold richer than their peers, access to restricted floors in the Dao Repository, cheaper Sect-Facilities, and greater missions through the Hall. And above all, they could step into the Beast Lairs — to raise a beastling companion from birth or risk taming a Magic Beast grown fierce.

Cuifen’s green eyes shifted toward the mirror of the Lake Domain. There, her attention caught on a boy in tattered clothes standing atop a bamboo raft, raising his hand before a duel could begin.

“Wait. Big brother... are you sure you want to do this?” Daemon’s voice carried calm but also exasperation, his dark eyes narrowing with impatience.

His opponent blinked, confused.

Daemon sighed and explained, “You really don’t care that using a Spiritual Treasure against me would get you disqualified?” He jerked his chin at the Instructor floating on the giant leaf in the Lake’s center, the man whose sole duty was to intervene when a Junior was about to be maimed.

But the boy’s frown deepened when he realized the truth. Across the Lake, the remaining one hundred twenty-six disciples all reached into their sleeves, their belts, their storage pouches — and drew out their Spiritual Treasures. The rules of the second round had shifted, and everyone else had known but him.

“Hah!” The young man across from him sneered, emboldened. “You don’t even know the rules of this stage, and yet you dare dream of becoming a Core Disciple? Take this!”

He thrust his dagger forward, channeling his strongest technique. A cone of hardened ice shot from the blade, sharp and merciless, aimed at Daemon’s chest.

I’m not trying to be a Core Disciple, you moron, Daemon thought, too lazy to dodge. With a flicker of will, he let his barrier flare to life, light wrapping his body in defiance of the incoming strike.

Daemon didn’t spare his opponent a second glance. The young man in yellow robes swung his dagger again and again, desperate to pierce the colorful barrier shimmering around him. Ice cones shattered one after another, their jagged shards scattering harmlessly across the raft’s surface. The boy looked like a monkey in heat, too eager to break himself before he ever broke through.

Daemon sighed and turned his head lazily toward the Instructor standing atop the giant leaf at the center of the Lake. The grey-robed Elder hovered there with hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable as he watched the duels unfold.

“Hey, old man,” Daemon called out, his voice carrying over the crash of ice against his barrier. “Lend me a weapon to use against this horny fellow!”

The Instructor’s brows furrowed at the boy’s casual demand. Old man?

He wasn’t even that old—barely a couple of decades older than this brat. Still, irritation warred with unease in his chest. He could not dismiss Daemon as he might any other Junior. The boy’s chances of clawing his way into the Core-Circle were high, and if he succeeded, he could return later with a grudge sharp enough to make life on the Mountain miserable for years.He thought of Ping Xueling, once an Instructor in the Inner-Circle like her sister Cuifen. A single Core Disciple’s fancy for her beauty had ended her prospects. She now languished at the Mountain’s foot, forced into menial guard duty at the abodes below the Gate — her station no better than the Guardian Beasts watching over a position higher than her spot. Even Outer Elder Zhou Liang, who spent his youth branded a slave and only clawed to elderhood in the twilight of his years, enjoyed more prestige at the Outer-Circle's administrative hall than she ever would as long she's down there in no man's land.

No, offending a talent like Daemon was dangerous. Yet neither could he bend the rules here, not under the watching eyes of the Disciplinary Chief, a Grand Elder, and over half the Elder Council.

Outside the Array, silence fell over the Elders’ platform as the boy’s words echoed. One by one, the green-robed Elders turned toward the two seated at the center: an old woman cloaked in blue, and an old man clad in silver.

For a breath, none spoke. Then Shen Duan’s lips moved, his words carrying with a weight that reached everyone — Elders, Instructors, and even the Disciples still within the Eight different Domains of the Array and those who lost in the first-round and are now waiting at the Assembly Arena.

“It is only fair for a Body-Refiner without a Storage Tool to ask for a weapon when facing a Spirit-Cultivator who bears both a Space-Pouch and a Spiritual Treasure. Unfortunately, we cannot give you time to master it. Use what you are given, as you are.”

With a flick of his finger, a beam of light streaked across the Array like a meteor’s tail, hurtling toward the Lake Domain.

Mo Qiuya’s sharp eyes narrowed. She alone saw what flew from Shen Duan’s hand. That fool… he’s given him the Cane!

The weapon landed in Daemon’s grip, humming with restrained power. It was no mere Spiritual Treasure, but the Spirit-Thorn Scepter — the Disciplinary Chief’s own Cane, a towering symbol of authority and judgment. A true Artifact.

Forged of thorn-laden darkwood twisted like the branches of a shadowed forest, its surface exuded quiet menace. Dark-Gold and Deep-Silver hoops circled its shaft, engraved with sigils that pulsed faintly, each inlaid with Spirit-Gems that gleamed like captive stars. To Instructors and Disciples alike, it was an object of awe — a rod that amplified strikes, restrained aura, and embodied the Mountain’s will.

Daemon ran his fingers along its gnarled surface, admiration softening his eyes. “Good Cane,” he muttered, almost wistful. He longed to meet the craftsman who had carved such artistry into power. Then his grin returned, sharp and mischievous.

“Time to whoop your ass with it.”

The boy leveled the Scepter at his opponent, the young man in yellow robes who had so smugly thrown ice at him, thinking no retaliation would follow.

Now, the tables had turned.

Here's a link to my discord server if you want to talk - .gg/HwHHR6Hds