The competition ended. Meng Hao survived — barely, painfully, and with a cracked rib and two broken fingers — but he survived. His final ranking placed him precisely in the middle of the remaining disciples: not talented enough to attract dangerous attention, not weak enough to be expelled. It was, by his calculation, the optimal outcome.

But the cultivation world had no tolerance for optimal outcomes. The day after the competition, Patriarch Reliance summoned him again.

'You passed,' the Patriarch said. 'Mediocre rank. Safe. Unremarkable. Exactly what you wanted.'

'Thank you, Patriarch.'

'Don't thank me. Mediocrity is an acceptable strategy for surviving the Outer Sect. It is not an acceptable strategy for what's coming.'

Meng Hao's stomach tightened. He had learned to recognize the Patriarch's 'bad news' voice.

'The State of Zhao is going to war,' the Patriarch continued. 'The Violet Fate Sect has been pushing against our borders for a decade, and the Emperor has finally decided to push back. Every sect in the state has been ordered to contribute cultivators to the war effort. The Reliance Sect is sending its most promising disciples.'

'I'm not promising,' Meng Hao said quickly.

'The obelisk disagrees. Your survival probability is high. Your performance in the competition, while unremarkable, demonstrated adaptability and unusual techniques. You're going.'

Meng Hao stood in silence, absorbing the weight of the news. War. Real war, not sect competitions. Real enemies, not ring opponents who would stop before the killing blow.

'Take the Blood Immortal technique with you,' the Patriarch said, and his voice was softer now, almost gentle. 'You're going to need it.'