Chapter 161

Chapter 161: Accumulating Power

While Midi carefully studied the current state of the West Coast, a silver-haired woman stood in the uppermost chamber of Zhenlu Arena’s golden headquarters within Faero Bay’s wealthy district. Her slim frame leaned forward as mages delivered their report.

“What of the Sanshou fighter?” she asked flatly.

A mage sighed. “His bones were crushed, organs destroyed. Beyond saving.”

“Even with the Empire’s Alchemist Guild techniques?” Her brow tightened. “Could secret medicine revive him? It’d bolster morale.”

Another mage shook his head. “His magic flow’s severed. Medication might heal his body, but he’d never fight again.”

The woman’s expression darkened. She cared nothing for the nameless fighter, but Zhenlu Arena’s experts were products of the Guild’s secret techniques—men who’d unknowingly traded forty years of life for a ten-level boost, gaining reflexes and recovery beyond their rank.

They were lesser versions of Demon Swordwomen, meant to become undead or flare briefly before death. Yet this war machine of flesh had been crippled by one strike from a youth?

Black-haired, black-eyed, twenty years old, level 40, radiating killing intent. Who was he? Why visit Lionheart Arena? Did he target Zhenlu deliberately, or had ties to their rivals?

The woman sifted possibilities, but clues were scarce. More intelligence was needed.

“We must strike back now!” A booming voice shook the room. The giant knight loomed in Delos Empire armor, wild-haired, eyes feral. “Zhenlu’s reputation can’t falter here!”

She fixed him with a glacial stare. Though dwarfing her, he stiffened under that gaze.

“You’d fight personally?”

“If you command it!”

“And if you die?” Her lips twitched. “Shall I clean your mess? Who’d lead Zhenlu then? Me? And if I fall, the West Coast crumbles. The Empire and Guild didn’t waste resources for your pride.”

“But you’d never lose to—”

“Enough.” Her voice iced over. “We hold vital roles—no reckless moves. Publicly, we concede. Privately…” She gestured. “Send the assassins.”

As Zhenlu stirred hidden currents, Midi prepared. Having faced the Delos Empire across lifetimes, he knew their patience. They crushed the weak but hesitated against unknowns.

He expected no open challenges now—Zhenlu wouldn’t risk exposure. Covert strikes? To a man who’d survived bloodier games, such shadows meant nothing.

However, though Midi feared nothing, he wasn’t free from constraints that might curb his actions.

This clash differed from past battlefield encounters or the tense standoffs of earlier noble wars. On this land, neither Midi nor the Delos Empire sought direct confrontation. Instead, they moved their pieces across the West Coast like a chessboard, locked in silent rivalry.

Though Midi wielded immense personal power, he knew storming Zhenlu Arena’s headquarters himself would provoke the Delos Empire to retaliate by sending formidable foes against him—figures like the notoriously fearsome “Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare” or royals from the Lightsaber lineage.

Conquering the West Coast alone? Even Midi wasn’t that arrogant.

While he’d step forward at critical junctures, his priority lay in nurturing a faction—one that would quietly sway the West Coast, weaving an invisible net to spread his will and ambitions. This was Midi’s most pressing task.

A sword alone couldn’t rule.

In maritime affairs, Wells was biding his time. Interfering now, while Midi’s chosen heir lacked influence, risked provoking the Flying Sail Family’s hostility. So Midi kept Kelvin in contact with Wells, waiting.

But with Lionheart Arena as his base, Midi could openly intervene. His goal was simple:

Strengthen them.

Elevate every disciple’s power.

At dawn, Midi gathered everyone in the Arena. Seated as elder, Dickson and Kelvin flanked him while host Randall sat below. Thirty-odd disciples faced them, tension thick.

Having seen Midi’s earth-shattering strike yesterday, awe mingled with unease. Would this mysterious youth now lead Lionheart Arena? What path would he set? What demands would he make? Questions churned in every heart.

“Yesterday happened because you’re weak,” Midi stated bluntly, sweeping his gaze across them. “From today, as elder, I’ll teach you the *Lionheart Swordsmanship*. Master this, and you remain disciples—never share it beyond these walls. This is your foundation to become true experts.”

With a flick, he sent bamboo slips—each inscribed with the sword art’s basics—landing before every disciple.

Adapted from the Hamilton family’s techniques, this manual discarded moves only geniuses could wield, simplifying them. Midi’s annotations and training methods made it exhaustive.

Even the least talented disciples—some below West Coast averages—grew wide-eyed reading the opening lines. None missed its worth.

This was real swordsmanship.

Most Arenas and academies across Arad only offered disconnected “skill books”—guides to channel magic, inner strength, or holy light for profession-specific skills. None taught how to chain skills smoothly, learn faster, or level up efficiently.

Before Midi, Lionheart Arena had been no different—distributing skill books, then Randall demonstrating techniques. Though a level 40 expert, Randall’s teaching relied on personal experience, ill-fitting many disciples.

But *Lionheart Swordsmanship* changed everything. It wove leveling, skills, combos, and battle strategies into one system, infused with insights from Hamilton experts across generations.

With this comprehensive text? Their leveling speed would triple.