Outworld Liberators-Chapter 203: End of Mortal Tournament

Tabulae saw Raj’s back pulling farther away, but it did not shake her. If anything, it sharpened her.

The man above was more capable than she was, so she stopped chasing with raw rage and climbed with something steadier. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

Fast, yes. But stable. No wasted grabs. No frantic slips.

Above them, Eldric whistled once.

The fog and cloud that had been hugging Corpse Mountain shifted as if the sound had hands.

Mist peeled away from the rock face. Distance returned. Shapes became people.

And the moment everyone could finally see who was near them, the climb turned ugly.

Throwing knives flashed. Axes spun end over end. Preloaded crossbows snapped and spat bolts at close range. Dry lips licked wet for one last puff through blowpipes.

Men clung to stone with one hand and tried to kill with the other.

The air filled with sharp little impacts and panicked breathing. It was chaos with rules no one had agreed on out loud.

Most aimed at the strongest first.

Irongrit was already a cultivator, and everyone felt it the way you felt a storm coming.

Ten participants nearest to him threw stones and small knives more than they committed, testing, hoping someone else would take the real risk.

It was a half hearted violence, fear dressed up as strategy.

Elsewhere it was not half hearted at all.

Sackmace, Lonequiver, and Reelfisher found themselves ringed by twenty killers moving with purpose.

They wore no banners, but their work had a name.

Debt Collectors Society, an affiliate under the Contractcrown of Plunder Alp, mortal sellswords hired to make outcomes happen.

They were not here for glory. They were here for payment.

Did Radeon know? Of course he did.

He let it play. Eldric had been told to stay silent. It made the heavens look impartial.

Mortals fighting mortals. No divine hand tipping the scales, only grit and blood.

It also made the competition harder for free, and hard was what drew the right disciples.

On the cliff face, the Debt Collectors moved like they had rehearsed this part.

Handlefiddler led them, fingers always twitching as if he was tying knots in the air.

He had crossed paths with the trio before, winning some, losing some, and this time his employer wanted them dulled and delayed so no master would take a liking to them.

"Nothing personal," Handlefiddler called, voice carrying easy over the scrape of stone. "I hope you understand."

"There’s nothing to be offended about," Lonequiver replied, scratching his ear like he was bored. "It is not like you are bothering us."

Handlefiddler’s smile tightened.

"I am amazed you can stay confident."

He beckoned, and the men above lifted rocks. Between the stones ran thin steel threads, almost invisible against the fog torn air.

That was the weakness they were aiming for. The trio did not favor cutting steel.

A net of threads could slice skin, tangle limbs, and let the weights do the rest.

The rocks fell. The threads sang.

"Grab onto me," Reelfisher roared.

Lonequiver and Sackmace grabbed him without arguing. Reelfisher snapped his rod out and let the line fly, thread whipping down the rock face.

His boots ran the rock like it was a wall meant for him. Both hands locked on the rod, forearms hard, and they dropped.

A hundred feet. Two hundred. Three.

The debt collectors leaned in, already tasting the fall.

Then the trio did something that made the watching eyes blink.

All three hands caught the fishing line.

They did not keep falling. They reversed.

With the rod’s line locked at depth, they ran up the rock face like men sprinting uphill on a rope that the world itself could not cut fast enough.

Their bodies moved in rhythm, harmonic qi made the steel fishing line stiff.

In seconds they had gained distance that should have cost minutes.

In the audience stands, people watched the numbers drop like coins falling through a torn purse.

The moment Eldric stripped away the fog from Corpse Mountain, the fighting started at once.

Before that, the count had already fallen to six hundred.

[Numbers of participants remaining: 561]

[Numbers of participants remaining: 543]

[Numbers of participants remaining: 517]

Participants dropped like flies. The ones still clinging climbed as hard as they could, faces flashing across the viewing screens.

Blood seeped from bitten lips. Gums bled from too much gritting of teeth.

It was the hard truth of a mortal body, and the harder truth of what mortals would do for the chance at cultivation.

[Numbers of participants remaining: 500]

Raxutus roared with the rest, and for all his size he still broke like a boy.

Tears ran down his face as he clung to the rock and screamed at the sky.

"I am still good, God Eldric. Don’t do this to me."

He pleaded until he saw the truth of it. Bodies kept flashing back into the arena, one after another, like sparks snuffed and tossed away.

The count was dropping too fast. Raxutus swallowed the rest of his words and went quiet, eyes wide, breathing hard.

It seemed the competition was over.

He stared at the stretch of cliff he had been climbing, dazed, then closed his eyes. All he could do was pray his effort had been enough.

When the mortal participants returned to their special seating, their wounds vanished as if they had never existed.

Blood dried. Bruises faded. Broken skin sealed.

The pain left their faces and only the exhaustion remained, the kind you could not heal with any pill.

Eldric appeared on the viewing screen again.

"It was such a great competition," he said, and the praise sounded sincere.

Then his smile thinned and something like sadness crept in.

"However, there is still a limit to what mortals can do."

He lifted one hand.

"Now, we will be showing those who placed for Mortal Recovery Pills. Cornlark, please step forward and receive your prize."

A youth stood from the seating, no older than seventeen. He had wanted the peak, wanted to be seen, wanted to win.

Fate had not smiled on him today, but it had not spat on him either.

He walked down with his shoulders tight, trying to look like he belonged in front of all these eyes.

Eldric handed him a wooden box.

Cornlark opened it. Inside lay a pill the size of a thumb joint, jade-like in color, the kind of thing men sold homes for.

Then Eldric handed him a large sheet of paper.

Cornlark blinked at it, confused, but he did not dare ask.

"This certification will be awarded to all participants who placed five hundred and above," Eldric said. "This is a First Priority Enrollment certificate. It is non transferable."

A murmur spread through the stands. The words hit harder than the pill.

Eldric let the sound rise, then continued.

"If you have unfortunate finances, Radeon Terraces will help you. With this certificate, you may work for us, and your cultivation dreams will not be for naught."

Ghost attendants moved at once. Pale figures gliding between rows, silent as breath, distributing papers to the mortals who had survived far enough to matter.

Hands reached out. Fingers trembled. Some people held the certificates like holy writ. Others clutched them and looked around, ready to fight to death if someone dared snatch it from them.

"Our Second Priority Enrollment will be similar to First Priority Enrollment," Eldric said.

"The requirements will be more strict. However, if you present either certificate and plan to pay out of your own pocket, you will be processed to have a master right away. Cultivation will begin after three days."

The crowd stirred. People whispered about the certificates, about what they meant, about what they were worth even if they could not be sold.

Some were aggrieved, angry that the paper was not for sale.

Others swore to return next time, to train, to claw their way into the five hundred so their lives would not end at the foot of a mountain.

The awarding continued.

Far off, Corpse Mountain began to crumble, rock shedding in slow sheets, as if the trial had already eaten what it wanted and was ready to collapse back into silence.

In a quiet corner of Radeon Terraces, far from the arena noise, the herb fields lay in neat rows like green stitches on dark soil.

The air smelled of crushed leaves and damp earth, and the only sound was the soft scrape of boots between beds.

Four faces held the same hard seriousness.

Fay. Thaddeus. Lifara. Oswin. They did not care what the frenzied crowd was winning or losing today.

They did not even glance toward the distant screens.

Radeon had given them a different hunger to swallow.

Train hard, he had said, because the four of them would be entering their first secret realm.

A different kind of tournament. A private one, whispered only to the upper echelon, the sort the cultivators in the know waited for like gamblers waited for loaded dice.

They had asked if they could go ahead, eager to get moving, eager to get out from under the waiting.

Radeon had not offered comfort. He had offered a threat dressed as advice.

"If you do not win, then I may start doubting your will to cultivate."

Then he had left them there with the herbs and the silence, and the knowledge that tomorrow was already coming.