"Our junior disciples lack real-world combat friction," the Sect Leader continued, pacing behind his throne. "They spar in controlled environments. They lack the desperation of true, high-stakes conflict. Therefore, the council has decreed that for the next six months, we are implementing the Official Sect Martial Ranking System."

Ji’an blinked. ’Wait. Are they literally introducing a seasonal ranked ladder?!’

"All Inner Sect disciples, regardless of their peak affiliation, will be entered into a unified competitive bracket," the Sect Leader explained, waving a hand to summon a massive, glowing holographic leaderboard in the center of the hall. "Disciples will be required to complete dangerous, high-yield sect missions daily to earn merit points. Furthermore, they may formally challenge any disciple ranked above them to a duel."

The rules were laid out with bureaucratic precision. No killing. No permanent crippling. Healers on standby.

But short of death, everything else was fair game. It was a six-month, brutal, relentless grind designed to forge diamonds under extreme pressure.

"The top ten disciples on the leaderboard at the end of the six months," the Sect Leader concluded, his voice ringing with pride, "will form the core vanguard representing our sect at the regional tournament. They will receive the highest tier of sect resources, unrestricted access to the forbidden libraries, and personal guidance from the Sovereign Elders."

A murmur of intense, bloodthirsty excitement rippled through the chief disciples standing behind the thrones.

Lu Jianheng’s hand tightened on Cloud-Piercer, while Gu Zhiwei’s golden eyes burned with pure, heroic determination.

Yan Lie grinned, clearly visualizing the amount of kneecaps he was going to shatter.

Xie Wangchen remained perfectly still, but the ambient temperature behind Elder Qin’s throne dropped by five degrees.

Ji’an leaned back in her throne, letting out a quiet, profound sigh of relief.

’Thank the culinary gods I am a Martial Uncle,’ Ji’an thought, practically melting into the plush cushions. ’I am management! Management doesn’t participate in the blood-sports! I can spend the next six months sitting on my balcony, drinking tea, and watching these absolute lunatics beat each other into pulp from a safe, comfortable distance. I will set up a concession stand and make a killing selling popcorn!’

"Now," the Sect Leader clapped his hands together, looking down at a scroll of parchment. "That covers the Fourth Generation juniors. However, we must address a... unique logistical anomaly within our current hierarchy."

The Sect Leader slowly, reluctantly, turned his gaze toward the left side of the horseshoe.

Every single Peak Master turned their head. Every single chief disciple shifted their gaze.

They all looked directly at Lin Ji’an.

Ji’an’s smile vanished. The comfortable plush cushions suddenly felt like they were stuffed with needles.

"Martial Uncle Lin," the Sect Leader said, coughing awkwardly into his fist. "Your situation is unprecedented. You hold the rank and title of a Third Generation Sovereign Elder. By law, you are exempt from junior evaluations."

"Exactly! The law is the law!" Ji’an nodded vigorously, sitting up straight. "I am perfectly content to observe, supervise, and provide nutritional support to the combatants. Someone has to keep the vanguard hydrated, right?"

"However," a cold, sharp, utterly venomous voice sliced through her excuse.

Elder Qin Changxu leaned forward in his throne.

He had fully recovered from his bathhouse Qi deviation, and he was currently looking at Ji’an with a level of petty, vindictive hatred that could curdle milk.

"While Martial Uncle Lin holds the title of an elder," Elder Qin stated, his voice dripping with condescension, "his actual cultivation base is merely at the early stages of Foundation Establishment. He is functionally, and chronologically, a junior."

Elder Qin looked around the horseshoe, addressing the other Peak Masters.

"Are we to allow a sixteen-year-old boy, whose only demonstrable skill is tossing a wok, to sit idle and reap the benefits of a Sovereign title while our true disciples bleed in the mud to bring glory to the sect? Is it not a mockery of our martial traditions to shield him from the crucible simply because of a drunken technicality?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the other Peak Masters. They didn’t like Ji’an. They didn’t like that a cook had bypassed decades of grueling cultivation to sit beside them.

Behind Elder Qin, Xie Wangchen’s eyes darkened to pitch-black voids. The ice around his boots began to crackle. He was a millisecond away from drawing his sword and severing his master’s vocal cords for daring to insult her.

But Ji’an didn’t need Wangchen’s protection. She had a much louder, much more chaotic shield.

BANG!

Jiu Zui slammed his massive, rusted wine gourd onto the mahogany table with enough force to crack the heavy wood.

The Drunken Sovereign stood up. He didn’t look drunk anymore.

The terrifying, crushing aura of a Second Generation monster flooded the Ascendant Hall, instantly silencing the murmurs of the Peak Masters.

"A mockery?" Jiu Zui rumbled, leaning across the table, his amethyst eyes burning into Elder Qin’s soul. "You think my apprentice is a mockery, Changxu? You think because he cooks, that he is weak?!"

Jiu Zui turned to the Sect Leader, throwing his arms wide.

"My kid doesn’t need to be shielded!" Jiu Zui roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "He survived the Lower Realm! He extorted the entire black market! He compressed his internal meridians to the density of a dying star in a single week!"

Ji’an’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror.

’Master, no. Master, what are you doing?!’ Ji’an’s internal monologue shrieked, desperately waving her hands under the table to try and get him to stop talking. ’What about my black market incident being a secret?! Stop hyping me up! Let them think I’m weak! I want to be weak! I want to stay as a salted fish! Weak people get to stay in the kitchen! I don’t want to fight and die!’

"You want him in the crucible?!" Jiu Zui challenged, pointing an accusatory finger at the entire council. "Fine! The Drunken Peak officially waives Martial Uncle Lin’s exemption!"