The fog in Dead Man Valley never lifted But in Leos eyes it was only a rough modeled obstacle test course The broken stone carvings the warrior monks called miracles lost all their empty Chan mystery inside his mind

  The system navigation voice kept talking like a machine It said target motion parsing complete It said it detected a nonlinear displacement path

  It said it was replanning kinetic output Leo spat the grass root out of his mouth He did not see a dragon shadow movement art

  He saw the balance point between friction and centripetal force

  He refused to cultivate through the scripture breathing methods To him inner power was only directed conversion of bioelectric energy He sprinted through jagged rock piles

  He twisted his body to the exact edge where joints would dislocate He gave this strange footwork a name He called it Manhattan rush hour

  It was the instinct he learned on Manhattan streets It was the instinct that slipped between yellow cabs and suit wearing pedestrians It was the instinct that kept a five star rating alive

  Every sidestep and every sudden shift of center followed strict kinetic formulas None of it relied on mystical luck

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  Three years of exile vanished under the systems nonstop countdown When the heavy iron gate of Dead Man Valley opened again The man who walked out no longer looked like a New York delivery rider

  Leos long hair hung like dry grass Deep in his blue eyes lived the cold of precision instruments His whole body carried a mechanical killing pressure that did not belong in an immortal sect

  The sect tournament arena roared with voices Color flags snapped hard in the mountain wind When Leo appeared at the edge in a servant uniform almost torn into rags

  Mocking laughter burst out like knives To everyone watching he was only a stray dog who got lucky and did not die in the valley Manager Zhu sat high on the platform

  He rolled a jade thumb ring between his fingers He looked down at the outsider with contempt Then he signaled for the draw to begin

  It felt like fate making a joke Or like the system reaching into causality behind the scenes The lot in Leos hand pointed straight at Zhu Zihao

  He was Manager Zhus nephew He was also the handpicked rising star among the servants this year Zhu Zihao strode onto the stage in brocade and bright silk

  The long sword in his hand shone with a hard cold glow He stared at Leo who stood expressionless in rags He hooked a finger at him in open ridicule

  He spoke with arrogant superiority and called Leo a foreign mutt He told Leo to kneel and admit defeat He said he might then consider letting Leo die with dignity

  Leo did not answer He only adjusted the distance between his feet by a hair In his vision the whole arena became a traffic grid packed with red and green lights

  Zhu Zihao became nothing more than an obstacle blocking the only route The cold logic of New York streets took over his brain again Time was running out

  The delivery had to be made

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