E-Rank or SSS-Rank: I Awakened a Skill That Shouldn't Exist-Chapter 91: Preparation For The Tournament Of Power (part 2)

Chapter 91

All across the world, a storm was brewing—the long-awaited Tournament of Power was on the horizon. From mighty awakeners to regular humans, influential heirs to nameless prodigies, young adults everywhere were training relentlessly. The rewards were beyond tempting: generous riches for the top ten, and for the top five? Life-changing treasures—mystical artifacts, rare weapon, or secret items that could boast their power, wealth and influence by alot.

Every continent buzzed with excitement, desperation, and determination. People were willing to bleed, break, and battle just to reach the top.

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Western Continent – Veiled Ridge Province

On an isolated plateau, a whirlwind of movement blurred through the air. Dozens of fighters in crisp white martial uniforms surrounded a lone figure—also clad in white. It was twenty against one.

And yet, he wasn’t the one struggling.

His body weaved between attacks like flowing water. A fist aimed at his face was dodged with a mere tilt of the neck. Another two came from opposite sides—but a subtle twist of his torso allowed both strikes to miss entirely, causing the attackers to crash into each other.

With a sudden leap, the lone martial artist spun midair and kicked outward with both legs, sending two opponents crashing into the dirt. He landed gracefully, pivoted, and slammed an elbow into the jaw of another assailant, knocking him out cold. A punch came from behind—his blind spot—but he caught it effortlessly with one palm.

Then came a flick of his finger—just a flick to the attacker’s cheek.

Bang.

The air cracked like thunder, and the attacker flew backward, skidding across the ground unconscious. It looked simple. Casual. But the watching crowd knew: that was a secret technique—Focused Qi Flick—a technique so condensed and sharp it could shatter bone if performed correctly. And in his hands, it was devastating.

Within five minutes, it was over. Every single opponent lay defeated.

Cheers erupted from the bystanders.

"Martial Brother Jay is incredible!"

"Amazing... he beat them all alone!"

The young man stood tall, barely winded. His long black hair swayed in the breeze, framing a chiseled face marked by a faint scar on his cheek. His body was lean but powerful, every movement precise. Women swooned just watching him, but Jay didn’t even seem to notice.

He turned calmly to face the elder martial artists who had arranged the match.

They flinched.

Just two years ago, this young wanderer had founded a modest martial arts club—barely taken seriously. He wasn’t even an awakener, and yet now... now he stood above many of their finest. His kindness and humility had won over many, but not the elders. They believed martial arts must remain pure, untainted by upstarts without background or bloodline.

They’d issued a challenge: if his club lost, they’d be barred from entering the Tournament of Power.

Jay had accepted. Alone.

They had sent their elites—fighters strong enough to contend with B-rank awakeners. Some had even sparred evenly with early A-rankers. But Jay? He dismantled them with grace and ease.

He stepped forward, his voice calm and unshaken.

"Our deal was simple," Jay said. "I win, and I go to the tournament. The defeated don’t."

"What are you implying?" one of the five elders snapped, his face twisted with fury. "That we held back? That we sent weaklings? Those were our elite disciples!"

His voice echoed across the plateau, but Jay’s expression remained calm. The elder’s words were meant to defend their pride—but deep down, everyone knew the truth. Jay’s comment felt like a subtle insult... no, a direct slap to their reputation.

The stakes were high. If their best disciples couldn’t defeat Jay, then they had no chance of claiming the Evol Shard at the Tournament of Power. And without that shard, their sect’s future was at risk.

Jay’s fingers twitched. His smile remained, but only barely.

"Are you going back on your word now?" he asked quietly, his tone calm but sharp enough to draw blood.

The elder’s heart skipped a beat. He noticed the twitching—everyone did. It was a known sign: when Jay’s fingers began to tremble like that, it meant he was holding back his anger. And if he stopped holding it back...

He turned to the other elders for support—but they averted their eyes, faces grim.

Not one of them moved.

They were called Martial Art Elders, masters of countless ancient disciplines. But the young man standing before them... he was different. Raw power, technique, precision—he surpassed them all. And unlike them, Jay had no limitations. No hesitation.

The elder’s confidence cracked.

His legs buckled as he slowly sat back down, swallowing his pride along with his fear, praying Jay wouldn’t take this further.

Fortunately for him, Jay had no time to waste. He gave a respectful nod, the tension fading from his face, and turned.

"We’ll see you at the tournament," he said calmly, before walking away with the members of his martial arts club trailing behind him.

The elder exhaled shakily. Relief washed over him like a wave.

Then, trying to save face, he muttered under his breath, "Are we really supposed to be afraid of that boy?" He looked at the others, hoping someone would agree.

No one did.

Instead, the oldest elder, a weathered man nearing his seventies, scoffed. "You’re a fool."

The remark stung, and the elder opened his mouth to retort—but paused when he saw the cold, unflinching stares from the rest. No one defended him.

"You’re only asking that because you’ve never seen what he’s truly capable of," the old man continued. "You think what he did earlier was serious? You think that was him fighting?"

Another elder, shaking his head in disbelief, added, "He didn’t use a single one of his signature moves. We banned him from using them in the agreement, remember? Thought it would give our disciples an advantage."

The complaining elder went silent.

He had assumed Jay had used his feared techniques—that it was the only explanation for how easily their elites had been taken down. But if that wasn’t even his full strength...

His mind reeled.

"I believe," the older man said with a grave expression, "that Jay has surpassed even the rumors we’ve heard."

A long silence followed.

Then, a fourth elder spoke—one who rarely ever did.

His voice was quiet, but each word felt like stone. "If you’ve ever faced him in a real battle..." He paused, his eyes distant, haunted. "You’d never want to fight him again."

No one argued after anymore the weight of the elder’s word pressing on them.

Elsewhere...

Jay walked calmly at the front of his martial arts club, the faint wind brushing through his black hair as the group made their way down the mountain trail. The others followed behind, speaking in hushed tones. Though martial clubs were different from hero guilds in formality, they served similar functions—leaders, vice leaders, joint missions, and even the occasional portal clearing. Yet among all the clubs in the region, none were as unorthodox—or as terrifying—as Jay’s.

At Jay’s side walked a man in his mid-thirties, older, taller, and constantly glued to the glowing screen of his phone. His fingers swiped through data rapidly as he kept pace with perfect ease, never stumbling despite never looking up. It was a subtle display of his martial prowess. His every step was precise, balanced—effortless.

He sighed, casting a sideways glance at Jay. The young man was smiling faintly, the kind of calm smile he always wore. Not cheerful, not warm—just... still.

Dave had known Jay for over two years now, and he had seen the boy angry, seen him furious—but never sad. It made him wonder: Where had Jay really come from? Who was he before all this?

Jay had only arrived in this region three years ago. And yet in that time, he had built a reputation, founded a martial club, and even governed a city under his name. His disciples, while fiercely loyal, never called him "Master." They all referred to him as "Martial Brother."

Dave exhaled again, unable to hold his thoughts anymore.

"There are over five thousand people already registered for the Tournament of Power," he said without looking up. "And more keep pouring in every second. Must you really go?"

Jay didn’t answer right away. He kept walking, eyes ahead, as if considering the weight of the question.

Dave continued. "You already have everything. A city. Influence. Disciples. Respect. You’re not some power-hungry kid chasing glory. So why do it? It’s not the prize, is it?"

Jay finally stopped, the others halting behind him. The breeze quieted.

He turned slightly toward Dave. "You know Old Ji’s condition."

Dave nodded. Of course, he knew. Old Ji was nearing the end of his lifespan—a wise and aging figure who had taken Jay in, mentored him, protected him like a father would. The man had stood by Jay when no one else would.

"I’m going to Evol him," Jay said softly. "With the Evol Shard."

And just like that, he turned and continued walking, the others falling in step behind him.

But Dave wasn’t convinced.

That was only part of the truth. He had known Jay too long not to sense when something was missing—when a motive had weight but lacked the full picture.

And he was right.

There was another reason Jay was going.

He had searched far and wide. He had faced dozens—no, hundreds—of opponents. He had fought them in duels, ambushes, challenges... and never once had he lost. Not even once. Every victory came with ease. Every battle ended before it could excite him. The hunger in his eyes had faded long ago.

Jay wasn’t just going for Old Ji.

He was going for the Evol Shard.

And to find an opponent who could finally, truly make him fight.

To be continued...