The Winner is Decided

As Chu Xingchen's demeanor grew increasingly casual, the young man's expression became more and more strained. Yet, the speed of their moves remained nearly identical. Faced with an easy kill on the board, the young man made no attempt to drag things out to annoy Chu Xingchen.

It was clear.

Sometimes, it wasn’t about whether the young man wanted to—it was about whether he could.

The current situation made it obvious: the young man couldn’t afford to stall maliciously.

If failure carried no punishment...

Then it would be Chu Xingchen’s turn to punish him.

At this moment, the young man—supposedly the one conducting the trial—sat as if on pins and needles, while Chu Xingchen, the supposed examinee, looked utterly at ease.

The young man was playing a game of chess, but Chu Xingchen was playing with his psyche.

Watching Chu Xingchen nearly toss pieces onto the board with his toes, the young man finally couldn’t hold back:

"You’re not even playing! You’ve been chatting with this woman the whole time!"

Chu Xingchen grinned. "What nonsense. I’ve been humoring her—my mind’s been fully focused on the game."

The young man’s eyes widened, fists clenched as he glared at Chu Xingchen, infuriated by the shameless remark. But all he could do was slam down a piece in frustration.

Chu Xingchen leisurely picked up a piece and placed it deliberately on the board.

Truthfully, Chu Xingchen wasn’t seriously playing chess, nor was he earnestly chatting with Xie Lingyu.

After all, grave-robbing made him little more than a thief in the eyes of the tomb’s owner.

No one was good-natured enough to tolerate their own grave being dug up and still hope for a peaceful resolution.

If fists couldn’t secure something, did winning a game of chess stand a chance?

If they weren’t fighting here, would they really hold back when the coffin itself was at stake?

And given that this was clearly the first trial, taking things one step at a time would drag things out endlessly.

So, while toying with the young man, Chu Xingchen had been observing their surroundings, with Wanbian—his spiritual weapon—dispersed as fine needles to scout the area.

After all, when someone was being tormented, they were more likely to overlook small details.

The spatial distortion around them felt familiar—reminiscent of the technique Daoist Yuyang had used when they fought the Mist Mystic Temple Leader together: the Nine Palaces Formation.

There was a sense of space being stretched and warped.

Had Chu Xingchen arrived here as a Nascent Soul cultivator, he’d have been helpless.

Even an ordinary Divine Transformation cultivator would have no choice but to comply.

But unfortunately for the young man, Chu Xingchen was at the Divine Transformation stage—and he had Wanbian.

Chu Xingchen’s expression turned serious, his moves no longer careless:

"There’s something I’ve never understood."

The young man eyed him warily—he’d learned enough about Chu Xingchen’s habits to know that this sudden seriousness wasn’t a good sign.

Unfazed by the lack of response, Chu Xingchen continued:

"Sometimes I think, if I ever build a tomb, I’d set up a quality check. If someone can brute-force their way through my designs, I’d just hand them what they want—spare me the indignity of having my coffin pried open to see if there’s anything left."

The young man looked up. "What’s your point?"

"My point is... do you think I can break through this grave?" Chu Xingchen raised his hand slightly, and Wanbian condensed into a black piece, landing squarely on the board’s central point—Tian Yuan.

A crushing pressure erupted, scattering all the pieces into motes of light.

Chu Xingchen locked eyes with the young man.

"I’ll never beat you at chess. But I’m certain you can’t beat me in a fight."

The young man’s expression remained calm.

"Then why hesitate? Strike if you dare."

Chu Xingchen released his grip, letting Wanbian’s oppressive aura radiate across the board.

"Just proving I’m a reasonable man. Your move—go ahead."

The young man stared at the black piece that was Wanbian, knowing full well no ordinary piece could land on the board now.

Chu Xingchen’s face betrayed no emotion.

Normally, when a tomb was discovered, the surest way to keep its location secret wasn’t to extract promises—it was to ensure the discoverer never left.

So beneath the seemingly peaceful game, lethal intent lurked.

The chess match was a facade.

Chu Xingchen knew it, and so did the young man.

If losing carried consequences, the young man shouldn’t have lost his composure. So what was the game’s true purpose?

Waiting for Chu Xingchen to strike first? Or for him to break the rules?

For Chu Xingchen, the optimal strategy was always the same: make the opponent slip up first.

So now, faced with an unplayable board... what would the young man do?

The young man slowly stood, gazing at Wanbian’s black piece on Tian Yuan. He chuckled softly.

"She once promised me that solving this game would let us stay together forever."

"But no matter how long I studied, all I saw was inevitable defeat."

"I couldn’t win the game—just as I couldn’t win her heart. But... protecting her matters more than chess."

Chu Xingchen burst into mocking laughter.

"I thought you were a player. Turns out you’re just a lovesick fool. Can’t even take a hint, still deluding yourself into thinking your devotion means something. Bet she’d prefer you gone over ‘protected.’"

The young man’s face darkened instantly, his glare fixed on Chu Xingchen’s taunting smirk.

"You’ll take that too?" Chu Xingchen doubled down. "No wonder she looked down on you."

The young man’s folding fan transformed into a sword, and without hesitation, he lunged at Chu Xingchen.

Wanbian flashed forward—a single needle holding back the blade’s descent.

The shockwave obliterated the chessboard and everything around them.

Chu Xingchen’s gaze never left the young man.

And in that moment, he understood the game’s true purpose.

The space around them twisted, revealing dozens of mirrors behind Chu Xingchen.

Each mirror reflected a different game—every move Chu Xingchen had made, every match he’d played.

Thin, nearly invisible threads linked each mirror to Chu Xingchen.

Among them, one stood out—a vivid red thread tied to the first game he’d played with any semblance of focus (though "focus" was generous).

Winning or losing didn’t matter. What mattered was the mental energy invested in the game.

Thirty-odd threads converged, channeling energy into the young man’s body.

Chu Xingchen could faintly sense his own spiritual power being siphoned away—just a trickle, barely noticeable.

So chess drained energy? Direct action was the better choice after all.

His eyes calm, Chu Xingchen noticed identical mirrors forming behind the young man, their threads latching onto him as well.

The realization struck: this was mutual. Whoever invested more focus would lose more energy.

And judging by the thinness of the young man’s threads, he hadn’t been fully engaged in the game either.

No wonder he’d played so quickly.

Then, another mirror appeared behind the young man—this one showing his enraged face as he swung his sword.

A thick, glaring thread connected this image to him.

Chu Xingchen smirked.

Now that was a real breakdown.

Behind Chu Xingchen, a mirror also manifested, with Wan Ban shielding him in front, though it remained nothing more than a thread-like defense.

This was likely the work of the rules.

And not just any rules—these were the rules of a simp. The one who invested the most heart would suffer the greatest disadvantage.

Though the rules applied to both sides, the cultivator buried beneath this grave mound was undoubtedly no weaker than the Great Ascension Realm.

As the dungeon boss, the young man’s only advantage lay in the timing of the rules’ activation.

However, such rules only worked against cultivators whose strength couldn’t outright crush him. If one’s power was overwhelming, no rule could stand in their way.

Just as the grave of a Great Ascension cultivator could never withstand the hoe of a Tribulation Transcension expert.

What’s there to say when you can end it with a single strike?

“It’s over, simp.”

Chu Xingchen gripped Wan Ban, his gaze icy.