Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat!

On the battlefield below, Eamon toyed with Astrid, barely using half his strength. Whether Astrid was holding back or giving it her all, Ethan couldn't tell. Across the valley, Julian faced seven fighters from Hurricane City, and at first glance, he seemed to be on the defensive, almost overwhelmed. But Ethan knew better. Julian was only playing along—his true power still sheathed. Even the aura he released was no more than the peak of the Nether Rank.

Then, in the distance, eight new figures appeared, racing toward the valley. Ethan stiffened. They had some kind of tracking method, and it seemed the survivors had all converged here. By his count, only five more competitors should have been missing—so why were there eight?

He didn't yet know that, after he entered, thirteen other light pillars had appeared across the battlefield. Those extra fighters were the victors of the remaining contests, and they had all finally gathered here.

Ethan's eyes flicked to Julian. Even with eight new arrivals, he wasn't in real danger. The battle would drag on for a while yet. If that was the case, maybe he could circle around, sneak to the peach tree growing on the opposite cliff, and claim it before anyone noticed. After that, he could deal with Eamon and Astrid.

He even wondered what the Windspirit Faction leader's face would look like if he learned his own son had died here. As for Astrid… after killing Inugoro, her death was all but written.

Ethan crouched low, ready to slip away, when Micah—who had been lying prone beside him—suddenly sprang to his feet. His expression twisted with both hesitation and excitement. Then, to Ethan's horror, he reached into his pants. From somewhere near his belt line—Ethan chose not to dwell on exactly where—Micah pulled out a yellow scroll covered in runes. His fingers trembled in a blur, forming a rapid sequence of seals.

"Boss, let's go!"

Whoosh! The scroll shot out like a meteor, slamming into the ground near the Youth-Preserving Fruit tree. With a resonant boom, a golden shield flared into existence, encasing the tree.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ethan straightened, glaring.

"I—I put a shield on it! To keep it from getting hurt!" Micah stammered, then pointed at Ethan. "I saw you stand up! I thought you were about to make a move!"

"Damn it…" Ethan swore under his breath. "I was going to circle around, not announce our presence to the whole valley!"

Down below, the sudden explosion drew every gaze. Eamon's eyes lit with a cruel smile.

"You few—catch that kid. I've been wanting to deal with him for a while. Hit him hard, it doesn't matter if he dies!"

"Yes, Young Master!" The eight newcomers answered in unison, grinning with predatory delight. Wind surged around their bodies as they shot upward. None of them had reached the Wargod Rank yet, but their command over wind let them soar through the air with ease.

Julian, who had been about to unleash a devastating counterattack, froze when he heard Ethan's voice echoing from above.

"Haha! You guys are in for some real bad luck!"

"Worry about yourself first!" one of the seven men spat, redoubling his attacks on Julian. After fighting seven-on-one for so long without victory, their shame and anger had reached a boiling point. The young master's displeasure loomed over them like a blade.

Meanwhile, the eight Windspirit disciples reached the cliff, hovering just beyond Ethan and Micah. One of them stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, cold eyes looking down on them.

"Kneel and beg for mercy, and maybe we'll spare your lives," he said, voice dripping with arrogance. "Swear publicly that the Lord of Beastfall City is our Young Master's lapdog, and perhaps you'll even profit from the humiliation."

Ethan shook his head slowly, lips curling in disdain. "If you want to be someone's dog, that's your choice. Don't expect me to wag my tail with you."

He was about to strike—the type who preferred action to words—when an unexpected voice chimed in.

"I don't get it," Micah said loudly, disdain dripping from every syllable. "Do you guys have brain damage, or do you just die if you don't show off? Look at yourselves—gray-haired turtles pretending your shells are hard enough to scare someone. You're nothing but a bunch of country bumpkins who've never seen the world!"

Ethan blinked, caught off guard. He glanced at Micah, then at the disciples whose faces were turning purple with rage. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

"You know what?" he said. "He's right. Look at these gray-haired turtles—how do you all end up with heads full of white hair at your age? Probably burned out your life force trying to power up your ranks. Bet you're all still virgins too. Three-second wonders, the lot of you!"

Until Micah pointed it out, Ethan hadn't really noticed. All the Windspirit disciples had gray hair, streaked with white, giving them the look of prematurely aged old men. Could it be the side effect of their Soul Sense techniques?

He unconsciously ran a hand through his own jet-black hair. A faint worry gnawed at him—he wouldn't end up like that, would he? The casual gesture only seemed to mock the Windspirit disciples further, and their fury flared hotter.

"Boss, teach these bastards a lesson!" Micah muttered, leaning in. "I can't stand their smug, chin-up faces. If I still had my spatial pouch, I would've yanked every one of their gray hairs this morning!"

Ethan glanced at him sidelong, suspecting the guy had been bullied by the faction disciples more than once. Micah caught his look and awkwardly scratched his nose.

"I've only got three scrolls left," he said. "Two for escape, and one for attack. See? They're all right—"

He reached toward his waistband again. Ethan instantly turned away. "For the love of—just keep your pants on."

Micah grinned toward the eight hovering disciples. "Heh… you guys are about to get knocked around like gourds."

"Your mouth is really asking to be smashed," the lead disciple snarled. Wind surged around him as he launched forward, his figure blurring into a phantom. In a blink, he was upon them, a palm strike cutting through the air toward Micah's face.

"As you wish," Ethan said, stepping in front of Micah.

Micah blinked in confusion—what do you mean by that?—and then understood when he saw Ethan's oversized black staff materialize in his hands.

But Ethan didn't swing the staff first. Instead, his left hand lashed out.

Boom! His slap landed squarely on the Windspirit disciple's face, even faster than the incoming palm. The man's wind aura flared in panic, forming a translucent shield over his cheek—