"So we're in agreement then?" Jin asked Francis who had come to the flying dock of the Illusion Room Sect. It was the same large wooden structure that he had left from with Elder Flower back when he'd gone to the Mad Monks Sect.

It had barely been half a year since he'd returned, and he was off again.

It reminded him of all the flying he'd had to do in his past life to attend conferences and political gatherings to network.

The reason had changed however, now he was just travelling to get his ass beat, or slash, potentially killed. Truly, a great improvement.

"Flesh out the world-map you left me in terms of geometric structure and underlying logic. Enough so that Hashimi can just slap the aesthetic elements on top when she comes back, yep," Francis said happily enough.

He'd worked very hard these past few months since the zombie shenanigan had ended. This was probably a well-deserved break. No team discussions and no feedback, just a single task to work on for a few hours every day.

Jin had scaled up the map of Skyrim to the very real size that he wanted it to be and had given Francis the blueprint. The man would now have to make the world ready for Hashimi's final step, slapping on the architecture and actual looks.

"We'll have to see how much time we'll have to work on the project," Jin muttered, a tad displeased. He'd much rather be staying back and working on the scenario. His role was also arguably the hardest, so the delay would cost them the most.

Francis and Hashimi would make Skyrim, and Jin would inhabit it. He still had so many enemies, allies and civilians to make that he couldn't even think about it, only approaching the task one NPC at a time. Considering how complex the NPCs in scenarios had to be, this meant he'd barely be making any progress in the day-to-day, but such was life.

"I've been to a tournament before, back in the day," Francis muttered eventually as the other inner and core disciples set to participate in the tournament gathered.

"Any information older than 100 years is a bit outdated," Hashimi replied nonchalantly.

Francis' eyebrows did a little bushy dance atop his eyes. "It's only been 47 years," he complained before shaking his head. "Anyway, the tournament is geared towards combat sects. What you have to understand is that while all tournaments eventually end in a bracket composed of several one-on-one matches, there is always a preliminary round or two. The task is always different. For example, I had to cultivate for a month, those that got the furthest advanced to the next round. I didn't manage."

"That sounds pretty boring to spectate," Jin commented. Letting people cultivate for thirty days in solitude? If they tested that, he could simply seclude himself, work on his scenario and then come out pretending he hadn't made much progress.

"There are no spectators for the preliminaries; you either pass or don't. Anyway, what I'm saying is that the tournament is meant for combat sects, so they test what they value. Of course that includes cultivation progress, but the secondary concern of combat sects is their main occupation, which is composed of combat missions which usually have as a target to eliminate a certain danger, either in the form of a heavenly beast or a demonic cultivator, or to find some specific ingredient that grows in a dangerous place."

"Wait," Jin muttered, with wide eyes. "Do you mean to tell me…" he looked at his solemn older compatriot.

"It seems you understand…"

"The combat tournament…" Jin said quietly. "As a preliminary task to root out the weak, they're going to make us do something resembling a combat mission."

"They wouldn't, would they?" Hashimi suddenly asked, aghast.

Francis deadpanned and looked at the two of them. Then he promptly turned around and left.

"Try not to die, you two!" he shouted over his shoulder with a wave. "And if you do, make sure to do so painfully!"

"I love that guy," Jin said, turning to his female friend.

"Yeah, he's great," Hashimi said wistfully. "He's like the 200-year-old brother I never wanted."

"Everyone gather!" suddenly came a very loud female voice from behind them.

Ungluing their eyes from the courageous form of Francis walking off back towards the inner ring, the two turned around to see that Elder Flower had arrived and was critically looking at the collected disciples.

For the inner ring, there were five disciples. Hashimi, Jin, the wheat-coloured boy who liked and failed to use spells in the sparring part of the mandatory combat classes, the lanky-haired boy who'd once warned Jin of tousling with Lung Junior and his squad, and Lung Junior himself, who looked extremely exhausted and malnourished. There were dark bags under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a very long time.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

His usually fanciful and colourful robes hung limply on his frame and he looked like he didn't want to be here.

"I'll assume this is everyone, then," Elder Flower eventually said from the front of the group. She had her arms crossed and was frowning. Had she expected more people?

Respectfully, Jin wanted to say, if she wanted to head a larger group of disciples into a potentially deadly tournament for the sake of honour and practice, she should have become an elder in a combat-focused sect.

The Illusion Room Sect produced training rooms; they weren't battle-maniacs.

Jin suspiciously looked at the wheat-haired boy who was drawing runes into the air, Lung Junio, who was looking down the mountain from the edge of the landing platform and Hashimi, who was doodling on a piece of parchment with a perverted look on her face.

Anyone who joined a production sect and then actually wanted to fight probably had a few screws loose. Case in point.

Only the lanky-haired inner disciple seemed mostly normal.

"Regardless, five disciples will suffice," Elder Flower announced with a frown as she said so, a wooden boat floated from atop the mountain to gently land beside her.

It was one of those traditional Chinese constructions with red sails and fanciful creatures carved into the railing.

"I will now warn you one last time that the inter-sect tournament we are going to participate in is potentially dangerous. Now is your last chance to back out. Once we arrive, you will be representing our sect and will have to behave honourably."

Jin only managed to listen to the words back out. He was already turning around to leave.

"Not you, Jin!" Elder Flower shouted promptly, forcing him to turn around and sullenly join the other disciples in getting on the boat.

"The journey will take three to four days, the tournament will start in seven," the elder continued, acting as if she hadn't said anything. "On the boat, I will brief you on the format of the tournament as it is known, the adversaries you are most likely to face and the way you should behave once we arrive. Now, get on the boat."

Jin felt like he was getting drafted for war. Not just any war, either. He felt like he was being drafted by the Red Army and forced to halt the German advance on Stalingrad with only a pitchfork in hand.

But just like those poor bastards back then, he didn't have a choice either.

Sacrifices had to be made to find one's place in the complex work environment of a sect. A simple rear-position with minor amounts of paperwork and loads of creative freedom would come his way in the future, once he became an elder. It was a pyramid scheme, basically, just like most of society.

He got on the boat with the other disciples.

As he went to sit down against the benches leaning on the railing, he inadvertently brushed past Lung Junior, who gave him a haunted look.

"You're sick," the other man said before going to sit as far away from Jin as possible.

The line was delivered in such a monotone that Jin seriously wondered for a second if the boy was actually diagnosing him with something.

He sniffed at his robes, wondering if he smelled particularly diseased today.

He didn't smell anything weird…

"What's his problem?" Jin wondered quietly.

"You don't know?" the lanky fellow who'd warned Jin at the beginning of the zombie fiasco whispered curiously, sitting down on Jin's left, Hashimi taking the seat on his right.

"Should I?" Jin asked curiously.

"He's been trying to do the thing I warned you of to your Illusion Rooms, but every few minutes, he's kicked out of the scenario and screams. It's been annoying everyone at the library recently," the other disciple explained. "How did you manage that?" he then asked curiously.

Jin stared at him impassively. He still remembered how the boy had implied that it was good for the other disciples that Lung Junior and his posse were wasting their time on sabotaging Jin, considering it gave a reprieve to the other inner disciples they liked to torment.

"What's your name, brother?" Jin asked.

"You can call me brother Fang, why?" the other boy asked curiously.

"Well, brother Fang," Jin started. "There is no secret. Perhaps you should just try the Room for yourself," he said before turning around and ignoring the taller man.

There really was no secret, but the angry glare he could feel staring into the side of his head likely meant that the other boy didn't believe him.

Three to four days…

This was going to be a long trip.

-/-

Cultivators had a warped perception of time in comparison to mortals because they lived longer.

After all, to a mortal with a lifespan of perhaps 70, seven years was 10% of their life.

To a foundation establishment cultivator who could live up to 210, seven years barely represented 3% of their life. The ratio between mortals and foundation establishment cultivators, in how much they valued their time, was that to a foundation establishment cultivator, three days felt more like one.

There was just one problem.

Jin was a foundation establishment cultivator, but even if one counted both sets of memories together, he was barely pushing fifty.

That meant that to him…

Three days were just three days…

"I'm fucking dying," he whispered harshly to Hashimi on the third day.

Elder Flower had been lecturing them nearly non-stop from dawn till dusk for the entire time, telling them about the various sects who might participate in the tournament, the rules of the tournament, personal anecdotes about when she participated in the past and more of such.

Everyone's eyes had already glazed over ages ago, but the woman just kept talking.

It seemed that she was pretty passionate about the subject.

Jin didn't care. He just wanted to jump off the boat at this point. He'd rather take his chances with the desert they were currently gliding over and the heavenly beasts making those disconcerting roars every now and again.

If he heard one more instruction on how to approach a three against four scenario against the Blazing Fire Sect, which was very different to the modus operandi of a three against four scenario against the disciples of the Scarlet Flames Sect, he was going to gouge his ears out.

"I think we can stop worrying," Hashimi said quietly from next to Jin.

"No, Hashimi, this is serious. I'm about to die," Jin whispered back.

The dark-haired girl to his right just shook her head and gripped his hair with her hand. She forcefully turned him until he was looking where their boat was pointing.

A large volcano covered in buildings and shrubs was towering into the harsh desert sky in front of them. The shadow it cast was immense.

Jin wouldn't hesitate to believe that the volcano, looking a bit like Mt. Fuji was higher than the highest skyscraper in his previous world.

"We're here," the girl informed him.

Jin, who'd been blanking out, suddenly looked around.

There in the sky surrounding them were countless other boats, large swords, rainbows, dragons, flying snakes, clams and other sorts of transportation artefacts and beasts.

Surrounded by all directions, but they were all going in the same direction. Towards the volcano.

The home of the Blazing Fire Sect, the host of this year's tournament.

Jin was so happy he smiled, whooped and turned around to lean over the railing to get a better look.

He even sent a wave at a group of cultivators passing them by on a large purple cloud.

All he got in return for the gesture were disdainful looks. One of the younger-looking disciples even gave him the middle finger.

Talk about rude.

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