Chapter Eighty-One: To Kill, Not to Be Hunted

The outer disciples erupted in astonishment. The elder in red frowned deeply, glancing repeatedly at the eerily quiet dueling platform, while the elder in purple had long since opened his eyes, his gaze filled with panic.

Suddenly, Su Fan struggled to open his eyes, barely managing to sit up with his hands pressed against the ground. Across from him, Hong Yuan also painfully pulled herself into a seated position.

The elder in purple let out a long breath and looked toward the elder in gray, who remained silent, eyes closed. The thought in the purple-robed elder’s mind was clear: with both of them so gravely wounded, how could they possibly continue?

“Junior Brother in purple, neither of them has claimed victory, nor has anyone admitted defeat. Let us simply watch in peace,” the elder in red said with a faint chuckle, turning back to the dueling ground.

Within the arena, Hong Yuan shot Su Fan a cold smile and said, “You still refuse to concede?”

Su Fan frowned. “We’re both equally injured. Why should I yield?”

A mocking look appeared on Hong Yuan’s face. “Is that so?”

With that, she formed an incantation gesture, and the red mist that had previously dissipated swiftly began to coalesce once more. Su Fan’s heart filled with alarm—he realized that Hong Yuan had kept a reserve. Yet now, his own spiritual energy was thoroughly depleted. The Phoenix Feather Crossbow’s devastating strike, for all its fearsome power, had come at a tremendous cost, leaving him unable to muster any resistance.

As Hong Yuan’s incantation continued, the red mist rapidly gathered around her, the remnants of the mist previously scattered by the Phoenix Feather Crossbow now fully restored.

On the viewing platform, the elder in green asked in puzzlement, “Though Hong Yuan has gathered the red mist again, it holds no offensive power. It’s useless against Su Fan—worse, it’s a waste of her own spiritual strength.”

The elder in red smiled smugly. “Is that so?”

The two “is that so?” were spoken in nearly identical tones—master and disciple indeed, sharing the same arrogance and disdain.

As the crowd looked on in confusion, Hong Yuan swept her hand through the red mist, then suddenly opened her mouth and inhaled sharply. The mist surged into her, and her body slowly began to float.

The elder in purple cried out in alarm: “She’s healing herself—Red Cloud’s Ninth Transformation, the Eighth Layer!”

The elder in red laughed. “Good eye, junior brother. If your disciple remains as stubborn as before, he may well follow the same path as Zi Yun.”

The purple-robed elder’s brow furrowed. “Sect Master, mention Zi Yun again and you’ll have my enmity.”

The red-robed elder shot him a mocking glance, thinking to himself: even the likes of the Third Emperor Da Xian could leave you so gravely wounded—what do you have to threaten me with? I once thought too highly of you.

He then continued to watch the arena with a radiant smile. As the red mist poured into Hong Yuan, the pallor on her face faded and color returned.

Hong Yuan fixed Su Fan with a cold, predatory stare, as if she would not rest until she’d devoured him. She raised a finger, aiming it swiftly at the center of Su Fan’s brow.

A look of anguish crossed Su Fan’s face. If he suffered a heavy blow from her finger, he would be crippled or dead. And knowing Hong Yuan’s temperament, only his death could appease her rage.

The red-glowing finger hovered just a step away from his brow—if it struck, there would be no hope. But the next instant, Su Fan vanished.

Hong Yuan’s expression changed, and she jerked her head up, her face flushed with anticipation of victory. Su Fan now stood a full ten feet ahead of her, trembling, his body wreathed in a faint purple light.

The elder in purple gave a slight smile and threw a glance at the now-ashen elder in red, pride shining in his eyes. The blue-robed elder murmured, “This is the Divine Purple Celestial Phenomenon? Su Fan has actually grasped it.”

Though the blue-robed elder spoke to himself, the disciples nearby overheard, and the seemingly bland words quickly spread among them.

Of the Seven Great Arts of Tianyuan, the Divine Purple Celestial Phenomenon was the most difficult to comprehend—even the blue-robed elder, known for his mastery of techniques, had failed to master it. Yet now, the one deemed of utterly mediocre talent by all present had done so.

Had they heard this under ordinary circumstances, they might have laughed it off. But Su Fan had repeatedly defied expectations: entering the Sword Repository to claim a legendary treasure, summoning the Phoenix’s Song, and now displaying the Divine Purple Celestial Phenomenon. Among all the disciples, Su Fan had become a legend. They now held him as their paragon, transferring all the honor that had once belonged to Hong Yuan onto him.

Some even began to speculate that Su Fan might ultimately win the grand competition—even though his cultivation had only just reached the mid-stage of the Golden Core, far beneath Hong Yuan.

As the Divine Purple Celestial Phenomenon manifested, Hong Yuan seemed to go berserk again, red mist swirling about her as dense streams surged toward Su Fan. Su Fan exhaled deeply, inwardly wondering how the purple glow had suddenly appeared.

But the onslaught of the red mist left him no time to ponder. His mind raced, recalling techniques the purple-robed elder had used. He formed hand seals.

Instantly, a veil of purple mist unfurled behind him, bringing with it a sense of calm and refreshing coolness. It was pleasant, but this was no time for comfort.

His hands kept forming seals. Then Su Fan barked, “Phantasmal Purple Immortal Finger!” The purple mist behind him spun into a vortex, which grew and grew, showing signs of suppressing Hong Yuan’s red mist.

A murderous gleam shone in Hong Yuan’s eyes. She changed her gesture from finger to palm. With a wave, several streams of red mist merged into one, forming a vast cloud, even more imposing than the previous dragon-like wave.

In momentum and in real power, this red mist was now truly formidable. It pushed the purple mist back, forcing Su Fan to keep casting his seals.

He retreated, step by step, until there was nowhere left to go.

Should he keep retreating? Su Fan had never intended to retreat. Why should he? He was here to kill, not be hunted. The purple mist churned, making the dueling platform itself spin.

Within the dark vortex, half of a weathered purple finger emerged—mountainous, imposing, suppressing all. Like a blade, it cut through every obstacle.

With each advance of the red mist, the purple finger pressed forward. The purple mist was thickening, the red mist fading, and slowly, the red began to be transformed by the purple.

Hong Yuan formed an incantation with one hand, wielding a small flag in the other, struggling to keep the red mist together, but she could not stop its inevitable dissipation.

A cold glint appeared in Su Fan’s eyes. He muttered, “Die.”

The word sounded like a decree from the heavens. The half finger plunged down, the red mist collapsing, retreating in an instant until it reached Hong Yuan herself. Without mercy, the finger crashed down upon her body.

Like an ant crushed beneath a mountain, Hong Yuan's small form was completely buried. Su Fan panted heavily, eyes fixed on the spot where she had vanished.

All outside the arena, save for the three elders, stared in shock at the massive finger, waiting for it to vanish so they could see the fate of the red-clad genius.

The elder in red’s face twitched, and his deeply shut eyes betrayed no emotion. Why, when Hong Yuan had been injured before, had he been so anxious, yet now seemed so calm? Perhaps he had already given up on Hong Yuan—or perhaps, this was only the beginning, and the real Hong Yuan would be born from this very strike.

“Look, the finger just moved!”

“Nonsense. The Phantasmal Purple Immortal Finger is unshakable.”

“No, there’s a white light within the purple shadow.”

“Why does that white light look so familiar?”

As the disciples debated, Su Fan finally noticed the change. The finger was indeed trembling; beneath it, a white light shone.

Su Fan licked his parched lips and sighed in resignation, “Tianyuan’s Seven Colors.”

The white light grew ever brighter, the purple fading until it vanished altogether. The indomitable finger crumbled as the purple light withdrew.

From within the white light, a figure emerged. Was it Hong Yuan? The form was similar, but the temperament was utterly changed. Su Fan’s mind raced. What kind of art in this world could so utterly transform a person?

He searched everything he knew, even the memories of immortals and demons, but found no clue.

This white light was not cold nor sinister, but blazing hot—hot enough to dissolve anything it touched. An ordinary person would be vaporized in an instant.

But Su Fan was no ordinary man; he was a cultivator, able to walk in the white light for a limited time. Escape was his only option—any delay meant certain death.

But where could he go? He looked around: there was no escape. Hong Yuan grinned hideously, her laughter echoing like the wails of damned souls, chilling to the bone.

As the white light was about to engulf him, the hem of Su Fan’s robe began to melt. Not even the infernal forging within the bodies of immortals and demons had ever made him feel such terror. He had thought that was the hottest place in existence, but today he learned otherwise—there is always a higher heaven.

When cornered, what could he do but fight back? As long as a sliver of hope remained, he would try to kill Hong Yuan before he died.

But was it possible? He calculated: he could endure the white light for three heartbeats. Hong Yuan was not far—one heartbeat to reach her, one to strike with the Purple Moon Blade at her neck, one to retreat as the white light faded.

By that reckoning, he had a chance—it was better than waiting to die. Yet Hong Yuan was alive and would not just stand still.

But Su Fan could not hesitate. He took two steps, leaping into the white light. Instantly, his gray hair whipped about, his form a blur as he sped toward Hong Yuan.

Below the stage, the gray-robed elder opened his eyes and murmured, “What is he doing? Suicide? It doesn’t seem so.”

Hong Yuan laughed wildly, reaching to seize him. Su Fan endured the scorching heat, dodging desperately. Hong Yuan clung to him like a shadow, and in the space of two heartbeats, Su Fan’s life hung by a thread.

And so, the story continues...