Zhou Fan took off Lin Hao's storage ring and, without hesitation, withdrew three qi pearls. He calmly transferred them into his own ring, his movements unhurried and precise, as if this outcome had been inevitable.
Then, turning to face the other disciples, Zhou Fan's cold gaze swept across them.
"Anyone else want a spar?" he asked with a faint smile. "But let me be clear—there's no sparring without a wager. After all... weaklings shouldn't waste my time for free."
A ripple of anger spread among the crowd.
"Zhou Fan, don't get so arrogant!" someone shouted. "Lin Hao was just weak. Don't think defeating him makes you high and mighty!"
Zhou Fan smirked. "Oh? Then how about this…"
He pointed toward the instructor Wei Han who had been observing silently.
"Why don't you all hand over your qi pearls to our instructor now," he said mockingly. "That way, I don't have to dig them out of your disgusting, feeble bodies one by one. Will you be so kind?"
This was all part of Zhou Fan's tactic.
He wasn't just provoking them—he was baiting them. The angrier they became, the more reckless they would act. And the more they fought him, the more qi pearls he would collect.
Sure enough, his plan worked.
One by one, ten disciples stepped forward and handed their qi pearls to the instructor, their faces burning with rage and humiliation.
Zhou Fan smirked, arms crossed, radiating arrogance.
"You don't need to be so modest," he said loudly, eyes gleaming with disdain. "You can all come at me at once. It might actually make it worth my time."
The crowd erupted in furious shouts, but none backed down. Zhou Fan stood like an immovable mountain, waiting—daring—them to strike.
The disciples moved in synchronized rhythm—fists flying, feet pounding the ground in unison. One aimed a high punch toward Zhou Fan's temple, another swept low at his legs, while two came in from the sides with hammering blows meant to crush him between them.
Zhou Fan ducked under the high punch, stepped over the sweeping leg, and twisted his body just enough for the twin strikes to collide behind him. He spun and drove an elbow into one attacker's ribs—*crack*—then pivoted to palm-strike another straight in the nose.
A disciple threw a heavy punch—Zhou Fan caught the wrist, pulled him forward, and kneed him in the gut, folding him instantly.
One jumped, aiming a flying kick—Zhou Fan sidestepped and slammed his palm into the airborne man's chest, sending him crashing into two others behind.
Another came from the back with a roar—Zhou Fan backhanded him without even turning, knocking him cold.
In just seconds, all ten were on the ground, groaning or unconscious.
Zhou Fan cracked his knuckles.
"Only hands," he said with a smirk.
"Even if you weaklings trained for a million years," Zhou Fan sneered, stepping over the fallen disciples, "you still wouldn't be able to touch me."
He was utterly disrespectful—mocking, fearless, and deliberate in his provocations. He didn't care about honor. He cared about dominance ofcourse this was all a facade so that he could extort more qi pearls later.
"Zhou Fan," a calm voice interrupted.
Fang Min stepped forward, the air around him distorting as he released his Rank 1, Late Stage aura. The pressure was sharp, enough to make several nearby disciples flinch.
The surrounding disciples gasped as Fang Min's aura surged.
"Wow… Fang Min really has talent for cultivation," one murmured.
"He's already reached late stage of Rank One," another added in awe.
"At this rate, he might break through to Rank Two before anyone else in our batch…"
Whispers spread like wildfire, admiration building as Fang Min stood tall, radiating confidence.
"You don't think you're overdoing it a little?" Fang Min said, eyes narrowed.
The ones who hadn't dared fight Zhou Fan earlier now stood behind Fang Min, their faces filled with hope.
Zhou Fan looked Fang Min up and down with utter contempt, then laughed—a cold, scornful laugh that echoed through the courtyard.
"Fang Min," he said slowly, as if tasting something rotten. "You're that flea buzzing in everyone's ears, right? Still clinging to the idea that you matter?"
He took a step closer, eyes gleaming with disdain.
"You break through to late stage and suddenly think you're some heavenly prodigy? Don't make me laugh. You're not a cultivator—you're just a well-dressed punching bag."
The crowd winced.
"You talk about overdoing it?" Zhou Fan smirked. "The only thing you've ever overdone is existing. And trust me—your presence is the only thing weighing down this clan."
He leaned in slightly, voice low and venomous.
"If I spit on the ground right now, that spit would be worth more than your cultivation."
"ZHOU FAN!" Fang Min roared, his rage exploding as he shot forward like a spear, fists wrapped in glowing qi.
He attacked furiously—punches rapid, precise, his footwork sharp. Each strike carried the force of a late-stage Rank One cultivator, his killing intent undeniable.
But Zhou Fan was calm.
Fang Min's fist flew toward Zhou Fan's jaw—Zhou Fan tilted his head slightly, the punch grazing nothing but air. A counter came instantly—a sharp jab to Fang Min's ribs. He staggered, but didn't stop.
He spun with a roundhouse kick—Zhou Fan ducked beneath it and struck his exposed knee with a palm strike. A pop echoed. Fang Min winced.
"Too slow," Zhou Fan said coldly.
Fang Min gritted his teeth and came again, mixing feints and qi-infused punches. But Zhou Fan weaved through them like smoke—effortless, precise.
Another dodge.
Another strike—this time to the armpit. Fang Min's arm spasmed.
A step to the side.
A sharp chop to the neck. Fang Min stumbled, breath hitching.
"Your openings are so wide, I could walk through them blindfolded," Zhou Fan mocked.
Fang Min threw one last desperate punch—Zhou Fan caught it mid-air, pulled him in, and slammed his fist into Fang Min's solar plexus.
*Boom.*
Fang Min dropped to his knees, coughing violently, unable to breathe. His arms trembled beneath him as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Zhou Fan stood tall above him, hands calmly folded behind his back.
"You're not weak because you're untalented," he said, voice barely a whisper. "You're weak because you thought you had talent."
Then, without haste, Zhou Fan lifted his foot and placed it on Fang Min's head, pressing it into the dirt with cold indifference.
"Now," he said sharply, his tone like a blade, "take out those three qi pearls... if you'd be so kind."
Fang Min didn't move. His body trembled, but his pride kept him frozen. Blood dripped freely now—thick, hot, and silent.
Zhou Fan's gaze darkened.
Smash!
He stomped harder into Fang Min's cheek, twisting his heel mercilessly.
"You're wasting my precious time," he said, each word laced with disgust. "Next, I'll break your jaw."
Tears welled in Fang Min's eyes—not from the pain, but the unbearable shame. His fingers shook as he reached into his ring and pulled out three qi pearls, holding them out like a broken offering.
Zhou Fan snatched them without a word, then wiped his hand on Fang Min's robe like he was cleaning filth from his hand
He walked calmly to the instructor, eyes sweeping over the shocked crowd.
"I believe I still have thirty-three qi pearls to collect," he said with a smirk.
The instructor hesitated but handed them over.
Zhou Fan pocketed the haul.
Before He had only four qi pearls.
Now, after claiming three each from elevendisciples, he stood with a total of 37 qi pearls—and earlier he had take qi pearls from Lin Hao so currently Zhou possessed a total of 40 qi pearls.
Zhou Fan turned and walked away, calm and unbothered, as if the entire fight had meant nothing to him. The bruised bodies, the shattered pride, the silence left in his wake—it was just another moment in his day.
He didn't care about fear.
He didn't care about fame.
All he cared about… was benefits.
Zhou Fan had humiliated them on purpose—provoked them, crushed them—so that hatred would take root. So that later, when they thought they had grown strong enough, they'd come crawling back to challenge him.
And when they did?
They'd bring more qi pearls.
More resources.
More profit.
They were nothing more than walking treasure chests to him.
And Zhou Fan would be there to break them again—and collect.