Spencer could feel everything happening around him, yet he had no control over his body. However, his senses had sharpened dramatically. He saw the world with startling clarity, the colors more vivid than ever before. He could feel the wind brushing his skin like a gentle caress, smell the faint aroma of soil and greenery with staggering intensity. It was overwhelming.

  One of the pursuers lunged at him at the indication of Ralph. Everyone else readied their weapons, gripping it tightly in their hands, cautious about the reason why Spencer had stopped all of a sudden coupled with his unusual eyes and the aura he radiated.

  The attacker executed a short-range movement skill, a technique ill-suited for escape but perfect for bursts of speed in combat. One moment, he was meters away; the next, he was swinging the blunt edge of his blade at Spencer's thigh, likely aiming to incapacitate rather than kill.

  They don’t want to kill me… Spencer realized as he watched the strike approach, his thoughts strangely detached. They’re just trying to scare me into submission.

  With his body no longer under his control, Spencer could only watch, his thoughts racing as the blunt edge of a blade arced toward his thigh.

  Then it happened—a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. His leg shifted ever so slightly, the precision flawless. The blade passed harmlessly, missing even the faintest graze of his skin. Before the attacker could react, Spencer’s elbow snapped upward, striking the disciple’s jaw with calculated force.

  The blow was perfectly timed, delivered at just the right angle with enough power to render the Qi Gathering Realm, Stage four disciple unconscious in seconds. It was effortless, efficient, and terrifyingly precise.

  A few gasps escaped the crowd, the shocking display leaving the pursuers momentarily speechless.

  In the Qi Gathering Realm, improvements primarily manifested as slight enhancements to physical attributes and expanded qi reserves. Neither of these advantages was insurmountable; physical strength could be countered with greater force, and larger qi reserves through efficient usage.

  Watching the brief exchange unfold, Spencer began to see things more clearly. The raw precision and control exhibited in his body’s movements weren’t simply the product of a cultivation art—it was mastery, honed skill beyond the realm of brute force. This wasn’t just about power; it was about perfection.

  This is combat. Spencer thought, falling in love with the idea of perfection. With that sprouted another thought in his mind.

  Qi Gathering realm must be the realm where it is easiest to jump across stages to battle.

  With newfound clarity, Spencer began noticing finer details in the battle. He could feel the precise force applied in the earlier elbow strike—it was nothing extraordinary, just average strength. Yet, the impact had been devastating.

  Fragments of knowledge about the Qi Gathering Realm resurfaced in his mind. The progression of the realm was methodical:

  Stages one to three involved refining the meridians in the limbs—arms and legs. Stages four to six focused on the torso. Stages seven to nine refined the meridians in the head.

  This meant the disciple’s head—including the jaw—was equivalent to that of someone at Stage 1 of the Qi Gathering Realm, just like everyone else here. In this aspect, they had no advantage over him whatsoever. It was a revelation that tipped the scales of the fight further in his favor.

  Spencer watched his body act with ruthless efficiency, picking up the blade and gripping it tightly in his left hand. Without giving the pursuers time to regroup, strategize, or attack, he struck first. Not having registered the reality, the second disciple fell as quickly as the first, crumpling to the ground after a precise blow to the nape.

  “I didn’t sign up for this. Ralph, you motherfucker! Hell to your protection squad!”

  The third disciple, panic etched on his face, bolted toward the man with the highest combat prowess. Ralph followed suit, his expression twisted with anger. “Worthless pieces of shit,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “Who knew you’d all be this useless? Can’t even handle a rank one, you greedy bastards.”

  Before they could regroup, Spencer’s body moved again. He hurled the baton from the second disciple’s hand with pinpoint accuracy. It spun through the air and slammed into the knee of the fleeing third disciple. The impact was brutal, forcing the knee sideways mid-stride, sending the disciple tumbling face-first into the dirt. “Mmph,” came the muffled sound of his attempted protest, instantly silenced by the soft soil.

  The strongest disciple had already started moving, sprinting toward the third disciple with a scowl etched deep on his face. He reached just in time, raising his sword to block a blow aimed at the vulnerable spine between the shoulder blades. As much as he loathed Ralph, he couldn’t deny the importance of the Protection Squad. Climbing their hierarchy, even slightly, made acquiring resources significantly easier. While he loved money, he valued his life more—so he was quick on his feet to rescue the third disciple. Strength in numbers was their only chance.

  The blade in Spencer’s hand met the disciple’s sword with a resounding cling, the impact reverberating through the disciple’s arm. The sheer force of Spencer’s strike caused his grip to waver as vibrations shot up his arm. In a way, it was because Spencer had swung the blade downwards while the disciple had only inserted the sword horizontally to block the blade, positioning him at a significant disadvantage.

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  Before he could recover, Spencer’s knee shot already toward his head. Although he managed to raise his other arm to block, the force behind the strike was overwhelming, driving his hand into his own head and staggering him. Off-balance and disoriented, he failed to react as Spencer exploited the opening, delivering a precise blow to the tendons in his wrist. The disciple’s fingers spasmed uncontrollably, the sword slipping from his grasp as his shaky grip finally gave way.

  “Stay back!” the strongest disciple shouted, his voice firm as he warned Ralph, who was heading toward the fight. He didn’t even glance at the sword he had dropped, his focus entirely on retreating.

  He quickly regrouped with Ralph, the two now standing side by side, both staring at Spencer in horror. The precision and overwhelming strength behind Spencer’s attacks weren’t lost on the strongest disciple. That kind of skill wasn’t unheard of, even for someone at Qi Gathering Realm Stage 1—but it required a lifetime of training in efficient power management and countless battles to refine timing to such a degree. Yet, the reports they’d received claimed Spencer was from Earth. Could the reports have been incomplete?

  “Are you sure we’ve got the right person?” he growled through clenched teeth, his sharp glare fixed on Ralph.

  “Are you doubting me?” Ralph glared back, he wasn’t one to let others push him around. “Do your job properly, and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded with their share as well,” he added, gesturing dismissively at the fallen disciples sprawled on the ground.

  As the third disciple began to lift his head, still groggy from his earlier tumble and unaware of the near-disaster he had just escaped, Spencer’s foot came down with a heavy stomp, driving the disciple’s face back into the ground, the sheer force rendering him unconscious instantly.

  Spencer’s expression remained indifferent, cold and detached. Without pausing, he surged forward in another short burst of movement.

  "Use every defensive measure you’ve got!" the strongest disciple barked. In the blink of an eye, his hands turned an ashen gray, the telltale sign of a hardening technique. Ralph, panicked and desperate, pulled out a small spherical trinket and crushed it without hesitation. The response came instantly, forming a shimmering golden film around his body—a protective shield, judging by the fear still etched across his face.

  Meanwhile, the strongest disciple gripped a talisman tightly, channeling his qi into it. A faint glow enveloped his hand as the talisman activated. Spencer chose to attack the other disciple first, stabbing the blade straight into his chest. Ralph moved back, scared of engaging head on with Spencer. He was, after all, a rank three as well, one of the lowest ranks in the group.

  The scene unfolded differently than anticipated. As his blade descended, it struck the disciple’s hardened hand with a clang. The gray surface cracked slightly, but it held firm, showing no signs of giving way beyond those tiny fissures. Unfazed, the disciple countered immediately, launching a punch with his other hand. He didn’t seem to care whether the blow physically reached Spencer or not, focusing entirely on his attack.

  Spencer reacted quickly, pulling the blade back and positioning it defensively. The punch itself fell short of connecting, but the faint glow surrounding the disciple’s hand extended outward, forming a spectral apparition of his fist. The glowing projection hurtled forward with the same speed and force as the original punch, slamming hard into the blade before vanishing into a puff.

  Spencer’s other hand wasn’t idle. While blocking the gray-fisted disciple’s spectral blow, he hurled the sickle he'd taken from the third disciple straight toward his opponent's head. The disciple instinctively raised his hardened, grayed hand to block the incoming sickle, creating a brief moment of obstruction in his own vision. Spencer seized the opportunity, swinging his blade low with practiced precision, aiming at the legs. He noticed that his own movements were in no way excess, such that the disciple before him wouldn’t be able to see any movement past the wall of hand he established before him.

  The disciple, relying on sight and sensing no movement beyond the sickle, failed to anticipate the strike. He shouted in frustration at Ralph, “Do something, asshole! You’re not getting out of this scot-free if I go down!” His confidence in his defense blinded him to Spencer’s feint.

  While the sickle was successfully deflected, Spencer's blade found its mark. The strike severed the disciple’s left leg cleanly before embedding deeply into his right thigh.

  “ARGHH!” A guttural scream ripped from the disciple as pain surged through him, robbing him of balance. Spencer didn’t hesitate, relinquishing the lodged blade and grabbing the severed leg by the ankle. With calculated movement, he swung it toward the disciple’s head. Despite the overwhelming pain and panic, the disciple reflexively raised his hand to block the incoming blow, disrupting its momentum. Spencer moved to follow up with an uppercut aimed at his chin, but he found himself rolling away instead.

  A thin, glowing blade of pure energy swished past, missing him by inches. The razor-sharp construct, launched by Ralph, continued on its path, slicing through the outstretched hand of the disciple blocking his severed leg. Blood sprayed into the air, splattering onto the disciple’s face as his howl of agony echoed through the jungle. Overwhelmed by the combined trauma of losing his leg and hand, he collapsed to his knees, clutching the injury with his remaining hand.

  "You don’t curse me like that!" Ralph snarled, his face contorted with rage as he glared at both Spencer and his fallen ally.

  “Ralph, you asshole! I curse your entire bloodline!” The wounded disciple spat, fury momentarily numbing the searing pain in his body. “This fight is more important! Do you want to live or wallow in your pathetic pride, you fucking pig?”

  Ralph had decided to not care about his arm while launching just because of his previous words, he would’ve never agreed to the mission if he knew what a fucktard teammate this person was. Alas, he couldn’t have known, as Ralph had only joined in the most recent batch of admissions.

  His skin on the hand was still grayed, covered by a faint layer of gold, despite that the blade of energy managed to slice the hand, showing how powerful the artifact Ralph used was. A pity he wasn’t an ideal teammate.

  Meanwhile, Spencer’s body moved like a perfectly tuned machine, oblivious to the emotional chaos around him. Unconcerned by the narrowly avoided attack, he swiftly retrieved the sickle, showing no hesitation or fear. His precision and indifference contrasted starkly with what Spencer knew of himself. If he had control, he’d likely have faltered, taking a moment to gather his wits after such a close call—and doubted he could even perceive the incoming energy blade.

  It took barely a second to pick up the sickle and throw it spinning towards the defenseless disciple who was in the midst of verbal conflict. By the time he realized it was too late, the blade had already cut through his neck, dislodging his head from the rest of the body.