Jin Eryndor descended from Artifact Refinement Peak with a sense of purpose. Along the way, various disciples caught sight of him. Seeing his direction and recognizing he had come from the summit, they quickly understood his identity. Within Skyshade Sanctum Sect, the higher one's status, the closer they lived to the peak of the mountain. This alone made it clear that Jin Eryndor wasn't someone to be trifled with.

Moreover, Eryndor was just a child. No reasonable adult would stoop to the level of antagonizing a child, especially one from a prominent family.

Jin Eryndor moved steadily down the mountain. The area he traversed housed the Inner Sect disciples, each of whom had their own private training grounds. It was rare to see inner disciples gather in groups for collective training unless it was during sect tournaments or special events.

But he wasn’t interested in the inner sect training grounds today. His destination lay elsewhere: the Outer Sect Training Grounds.

The Outer Sect Training Grounds were a hub of activity, a place where the dragons and fishes mixed freely—a melting pot of talent and mischief. Here, one could find all kinds of individuals. Disciples focused solely on cultivating spiritual energy, striving to deepen their connection with the heavens. Pure body cultivators, whose path lay in strengthening their physical forms to their utmost limits. And a smattering of dual cultivators, attempting to balance both disciplines for greater versatility.

While dual cultivation promised unique advantages, it also demanded an extraordinary amount of time and effort, as the training for body cultivation often diverted focus from spiritual cultivation. This duality forced many to consider their goals and potential benefits carefully. For the vast majority, the path of a single focus—either spiritual energy or body refinement—remained the more practical and widely accepted choice.

Eryndor, dressed in his ostentatious golden robes adorned with intricate patterns, drew considerable attention as he walked through the sect. The vibrant attire seemed to shine under the sunlight, making him the focus of many curious glances and murmured conversations.

“Oof! do you know who is that kid in the golden outfit?” one disciple asked his companion, his tone laced with curiosity.

“No idea,” the younger disciple replied, shaking his head.

“But judging by his attire, his status must be quite high. Maybe the child of a sect elder or an inner disciple?”

“Wow, kids nowadays are so adorable. Just look at him! Makes me want to have one,” a female disciple remarked playfully, her gaze lingering on Eryndor.

“If you don’t mind, I can help you with that. Heh heh,” another male disciple teased with a sly grin.

“Help your own head! Go dream somewhere else!” she retorted with a glare, storming off in mock indignation.

Eryndor smirked as he caught fragments of their chatter, clearly unbothered by the attention. His steps were steady as he headed toward the Outer Disciple Training Grounds.

The area was bustling with activity. Disciples of varying skill levels were immersed in their training. Some practiced their punches, others swung swords, while a few focused on their body conditioning exercises. The sheer diversity of techniques on display was both impressive and chaotic.

The training ground was noisy but strangely harmonious, as every disciple intuitively kept a respectful distance from one another, avoiding unnecessary confrontations.

Eryndor observed the scene with a discerning eye. Some disciples demonstrated decent technique, while others appeared to be flailing without direction. The disparity in skill levels was glaring.

“Outer disciples truly are a mixed bag,” he muttered to himself. The chaotic energy of the training ground didn’t appeal to him, and he soon lost interest.

With a sigh, he turned away, try to find a quieter place to continue his day.

Eryndor's attention was caught by a series of cheers and shouts echoing through the training grounds. Following the noise, he noticed a sparring arena where disciples were energetically engaged in a duel.

In Skyshade Sanctum, while internal conflicts leading to harm or death were strictly forbidden, friendly sparring matches were encouraged. As long as no one was seriously injured or killed, the elders usually turned a blind eye. After all, competition fostered growth. A sect without competition was one that would stagnate, eventually leading to its downfall. However, excessive rivalry could also erode the foundation of a sect. Striking the right balance was key to its longevity.

Eryndor approached the bustling crowd gathered around the arena. The place was packed, with disciples craning their necks to get a better view of the sparring match. He tried to push his way through the throng to get a clear look at the action, but his short stature and the sheer density of people made it impossible.

He made a few more attempts to slip through but failed each time. Frustration began to bubble up inside him.

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“Seriously?! All this for a simple sparring match?” Eryndor grumbled, his tone laced with irritation. “Don’t these people have training to focus on? Why are they all crammed here like this? How am I supposed to see anything?!”

His indignant muttering went unheard amidst the excited chatter of the crowd.

Eryndor muttered a curse under his breath, realizing there was no way he could squeeze through the dense crowd. Scanning his surroundings, his gaze landed on the four thick pillars positioned at each corner of the sparring arena. His eyes lit up with inspiration.

"If I can climb up one of those," he thought, "it'll be the perfect spot to watch the match. But... can I even manage to climb it?"

With determination written all over his face, Eryndor rolled up his sleeves and approached one of the pillars. Wrapping his arms around the sturdy column, he locked his hands together for a secure grip. His legs followed suit, clasping the pole tightly with his ankles crossed.

Like a determined inchworm, Eryndor began to inch his way up the pillar. It was no easy feat; sweat beaded on his brow, and his muscles strained as he used every ounce of his strength. After what felt like an eternity and every bit of his "nine oxen and two tigers" worth of effort, he finally made it to the top.

Perched at the summit of the pillar, Eryndor now had a clear view of the sparring match. Two outer sect disciples were locked in a fierce battle on the arena below, exchanging punches and kicks with precision. Judging from their movements, Eryndor quickly deduced that their cultivation levels weren’t particularly high.

“This is the outer sect, after all,”

he mused, his analytical mind kicking in.

“And their techniques… hmm, they’re not particularly refined. I can easily follow their movements with my eyes.”

Eryndor’s mind wandered as he observed the fight.

“Why are these two going at it so fiercely?”

he wondered.

“Is it some personal grudge or a matter of pride? Or maybe one of them issued a challenge?”

The match itself was not particularly complex. Both fighters relied on basic foundation-level combat techniques that Eryndor had seen and memorized from his studies. Their battle was a straightforward clash of endurance—testing who could outlast the other and exploit the first sign of fatigue.

Eryndor, now seated comfortably on the pillar, found himself surprisingly engrossed in the simplicity of the bout.

"It's all about stamina and patience," he thought.

Eryndor watched as the match unfolded to its brutal conclusion. One fighter overextended, leaving himself vulnerable. The other seized the opportunity, stepping forward and landing a powerful punch straight to the chest. The overextended fighter collapsed, coughing up blood, and the match was decided.

“Seems like this was just a friendly spar, not a grudge match. Otherwise, the winner would’ve followed up with a harsher finish,” Eryndor thought to himself, nodding slightly.

The two fighters left the stage, and almost immediately, another disciple leapt up onto the arena, shouting:

“Durin Thalor, at the second stage of Qi Refining, challenges Erynar Veylin! Do you dare face me?”

Durin Thalor was a short but stocky figure with a long face and sharp features, his squinted eyes giving him an air of confidence. He pointed directly at a scruffy-looking disciple standing amidst the crowd. The target of his challenge, Erynar Veylin, had a wiry frame and a sly, almost mischievous demeanor.

Despite his unassuming appearance, Erynar smirked and wasted no time hopping onto the stage.

“Erynar Veylin, second stage of Qi Refining. Durin Thalor, I’ve had enough of your bluster. Let’s settle this once and for all!” he snapped.

“Bluster? From me? Everyone in the outer sect knows your snake-like tongue! Yesterday, you even insulted Althara Sylis, the junior sister I admire! Have you no shame? Today, I’ll make you pay for your insolence!” Durin Thalor shouted, his anger flaring.

“Big words for someone about to lose. Bring it on!” Erynar shot back, charging forward.

The two met in the center of the arena, each throwing a fierce straight punch. The clash of fists echoed loudly, forcing both fighters to stumble back a step.

Erynar huffed and dropped into the opening stance of Ferocious Tiger Fist, a low-tier Yellow Grade martial art. This revealed that he had spent some resources to obtain and train in this technique.

Not to be outdone, Durin shifted into the stance for Swift Wind Fist, another low-tier Yellow Grade martial art. It was clear that the fight would come down to who was more proficient with their technique and who had the stronger will.

Eryndor perched atop his column, observing the spectacle with a mix of amusement and reflection.

“Fighting over a woman again. It seems women really are at the root of so many conflicts,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

The match below was chaotic but engaging. Both fighters relied heavily on basic strikes—straight punches, hooks, and sweeping swings. Without the ability to infuse their attacks with spiritual energy, the fight became a brawl of fundamentals and endurance.

Bruises appeared on their faces as the fight dragged on. Finally, Erynar spat blood onto the ground and taunted:

“Durin Thalor, you’re tougher than I expected. Perhaps we were destined to clash like this!”

Durin, unamused, snarled:

“Erynar Veylin, you dared insult Ms. Althara! I’ll crush you for that!” With a loud roar, he charged forward again.

Eryndor rolled his eyes at the theatrics.

“Destined to clash? Oh please. Can you two just finish this already?”

The fight dragged on, with neither side gaining a decisive advantage. Both fighters began to slow, their movements growing sluggish as exhaustion set in. Despite their bruised and battered appearances, neither showed any intention of surrendering.

Finally, Durin seized an opportunity. He lunged forward, locking his arms around Erynar’s shoulders. With a ferocious cry, he slammed his forehead into Erynar’s with all his might.

The impact was brutal. Blood streamed from Erynar’s forehead, and he stumbled backward before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

Durin stood swaying but victorious. He raised his arms shakily and laughed through gritted teeth:

“That’s what you get for insulting Junior Ms. Althara! Learn your place!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers as Durin staggered off the stage. Meanwhile, a few disciples carried the unconscious Erynar to a quieter corner to recover.

Eryndor watched the aftermath with a thoughtful expression.

“In a fight between equals, ruthlessness and conviction often decide the victor,”

he mused.

“Aggression can unsettle an opponent, giving you an edge. But it’s a double-edged sword—it can leave you more vulnerable, too. Still, there’s no denying the importance of fighting spirit.”

“This was a valuable lesson,” Eryndor thought, his eyes gleaming with newfound determination. “I need to introduce some real opposition into my training and adjust my mindset if I want to break through this bottleneck.”

Satisfied with what he had learned, Eryndor hopped down from his perch and sprinted back home, eager to implement these insights into his training.