"But I expected more."
Adams rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the scene before him. In the blink of an eye, he was in the arena, standing directly in front of the master, Gale. The atmosphere grew tense as the disciples watched with bated breath, wondering what their sect master would do next.
"Gale," Adams began, his voice low and edged with disappointment. "You and your apprentice have truly let me down. I know that fighting isn't exactly your strong suit, but I expected more—much more. To be honest, what I witnessed was barely worth my time. You're not even bleeding, not even showing the slightest sign that you've just been in a fight. It was as if you were merely playing around.
I wouldn't even call it a spar, to be frank."
Adams' tone was calm, almost bored, as if the fight had failed to provide him with the entertainment he sought. He turned away slightly, as if losing interest, his gaze sweeping over the arena with a hint of disdain.
The disciples who had been watching the battle intently exchanged bewildered glances. They had just witnessed an intense clash of power and technique, the ground torn apart by the sheer force of the blows exchanged. The air had been thick with tension, the kind that makes even seasoned warriors hold their breath. And yet, here was Adams, dismissing it all as if it were nothing.
"Did we just imagine that whole thing?" one disciple muttered to another, disbelief etched on his face.
"No way," the other replied, shaking his head slowly. "I mean, the ground is still cracked from their attacks. But if the Sect Master says it wasn't much of a fight... then what kind of battles has he seen?"
"That was intense," a third disciple whispered, her eyes wide. "But the Sect Master... he's treating it like it was nothing."
The Arena erupted in shock. The onlookers who had only recently arrived at the sect exchanged confused glances, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. A murmur of disbelief spread through the crowd, the newcomers struggling to grasp the situation.
"Is he serious?" one of them whispered. "That kid looks like he hasn't even started cultivating."
"What's Adams thinking? Sending someone after a boy who's just sitting there?" another scoffed. "This has to be a joke. How can that child pose any kind of threat?"
But the disciples of the Primordial Chaos Sect remained silent, knowing better than to doubt Adams' words when Elamenor was involved. Despite his unassuming appearance, Elamenor was a figure both respected and feared within the sect.
His raw strength alone could shatter the entire Divine Plane, and his defense was so impenetrable that even the most powerful weapons would fail to pierce his skin—assuming anyone could even manage to land a blow.
This was Elamenor, the Warchild of the Primordial Chaos Sect. The only one who could possibly match him was his sister, Erren, known as the Mischievous One of the Primordial Chaos Sect. But for those unfamiliar with his power, the command seemed utterly absurd, a challenge they believed would end as quickly as it began.
As the murmurs of disbelief and confusion spread through the crowd, Adams remained composed, his eyes never leaving Elamenor. The tension in the arena was palpable, with the silence from the disciples of the Primordial Chaos Sect only adding to the newcomers' unease.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a burst of laughter. James, who had been watching the scene unfold with keen interest, couldn't hold it in any longer. His laughter was loud and hearty, reverberating throughout the arena, causing heads to turn in his direction. The laughter wasn't mocking; it was full of genuine amusement, as if he had just heard the punchline to a great joke.
"Ha! You've done it now, boss," James exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with mirth. He looked over at Elamenor, who had begun to rise from his seat with a calm and composed demeanor. "You're really going to make that old fool face him?"