Chapter 321: Map and Runes
The male disciples from the visiting sects, the rugged brawlers of the Crimson Blade Sect, the calculating scholars of the allied factions did not swoon.
They executed rapid, deeply paranoid tactical analyses.
They looked up at the Obsidian Ranking Board ledger projected in golden light above the plaza.
They looked at Rank 3: Lin Ji’an — 131,200 Merit Points.
Then they looked at the relatively petite, ridiculously relaxed figure in the blazing red trim.
"Do not be deceived by his lack of heavy plate armor or massive broadswords, brothers," the Lead Gen-1 Disciple of the Crimson Blade Sect hissed to his vanguard, his eyes narrowing into paranoid slits as he gripped his heavy hilt. "To secure the Third Overall Rank in a sect populated entirely by monsters like the Ice Demon and the Sword Lord, while possessing a physical frame of such modest proportions... he must be a supreme master of the most terrifying hidden subterranean assassination Daos."
"Look at the weapon strapped to his leg," another try-hard muttered, wiping a cold sweat from his brow. "It is flat and wide, dense cast iron. It must be an ancient, specialized executioner’s paddle designed specifically to completely liquefy internal organs and shatter meridians without leaving a single external mark on the skin! And, just look at his robes... he wears deep red silk so his enemies cannot see the literal sheets of blood soaking his tunic after a stealth harvest!"
The try-hard swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper.
"He is a sociopathic, blood-soaked subterranean butcher! He is the target priority number one in the survival zone tomorrow morning! If we do not form a multi-sect coalition to hunt down and eliminate the Red Menace within the first hour of the culling... he will systematically harvest our Sovereign Tokens from the shadows while we are distracted by the regular duelists!"
"Why is the two-tailed silver spirit-cat looking down at us like we are already seasoned meat?" a junior brawler whimpered beside him.
Hovering near the outskirts of the foreign contingents, a few highly seasoned, exceptionally pragmatic cultivators merely took a slow swig from their gourds, looked up at Ji’an, then looked at her cast-iron spatula, and chuckled softly.
"That kid’s a mere chef," a master grunted to his young apprentice, leaning back against a stone archway. "A ridiculously high-level, arrogant, and heavily seasoned cook who probably beat half the ranking board to death over a disputed bag of wild mountain onions. Take my advice, kid... don’t touch his prep area in the survival zone tomorrow morning, or you’ll end up as the base stock for his lunch."
On the elevated marble dais, Sect Leader Bai Yunfei concluded his grand, sweeping diplomatic address, oblivious to the complex, multi-directional sociological warfare ravaging the concourse below.
"Let the visiting delegations retire to their designated guest pavilions! Rest well, fellow young cultivators! At dawn, the Grand Arrays shall activate, and the gates of the Illusory Shattered Realm shall open!"
The massive golden chime rang out a final time.
The gathered crowds began to retreat toward the opulent courtyards, but the heavy weight of thousands of eyes remained locked entirely upon the Vanguard lineup.
Specifically, on the small chef in the blazing Szechuan Red combat belt.
Lin Ji’an stood rigidly on the marble dais amidst the dispersing crowds.
She could feel it.
Hitting her left cheek was the intense, scorching, and radioactive heat of the visiting orthodox maidens’ romantic yearning.
Hitting her right cheek was the cold, deeply paranoid, heavily coordinated, bloodthirsty killing intent of the visiting male try-hards who were actively forming anti-chef hit squads in the courtyard corners.
She looked up at the golden projection of the merit leaderboard.
She looked down at the interlocking silver buckles of her non-regulation red combat corset-belt.
Her transmigrator brain executed a final, exhausted assessment of her current reality.
She had tried to avoid the plot.
She had tried to hide behind her gray apron, cook soup for novices, and remain an unperceived background character who occasionally sold high-tier pork belly to the logistics pavilion.
Instead, in the span of twenty-four hours, she had accidentally:
Rizzed up an entire visiting convent of emotionally repressed orthodox maidens.
Fundamentally broken the psychological stability and traditionalist dogma of the Heartless Dao peak lord.
Turned the most dangerous, sociopathic male lead into a walking, devoted bridal escort.
Convinced the entire visiting continental male demographic that she was a legendary, blood-soaked subterranean executioner who needed to be actively hunted down by a multi-sect coalition.
Ji’an let out a long, slow, misty breath into the cool mountain air.
She didn’t panic anymore.
She didn’t bite her nail.
The absurdity of the web novel’s World Will had finally pushed her past the threshold of anxiety and directly into the realm of acceptance.
She reached down to her calf, unfastening the heavy leather retention straps, and smoothly drew the Black Iron Spatula, letting the cold, perfectly balanced cast iron rest comfortably in her calloused right palm.
She looked out over the dispersing sea of rival geniuses, foreign brawlers, and calculating merchants.
Her silver-flecked eyes ceased looking like frightened prey, igniting instead with a dark, brilliant, unhinged smirk.
’You know what?’ Ji’an’s internal goblin declared, giving the heavy cast-iron spatula an expert, whistling twirl in the morning air. ’If they want a butcher... I’ll make sure to give them a butcher. The kitchen is officially open, boys. And tomorrow morning, you’re all on the menu.’
***
The concept of a "crunch-time development cycle" was not exclusive to the video game studios of Earth.
As Lin Ji’an was rapidly discovering, the orthodox cultivation world possessed its own lethal version of the night-before-launch software panic.
It was 2:00 AM on the eve of the Official Sect Martial Ranking.
The Grand Astrolabe Chamber of the Array Peak, the highly restricted, subterranean nerve center that controlled the geographical physics of the Illusory Shattered Realm, was currently operating at a state of caffeinated hysteria.
The chamber was a circular cavern illuminated by the floating, shifting, three-dimensional holographic topographical maps of the survival dimension.
And standing at the central control console, her Szechuan Red wide-sleeves rolled up past her elbows, a smudge of glowing magical ink smeared across her cheek, was Chief Architect Lin Ji’an.
"No, no, no! Shift the spawn coordinates of the Heavenly Supply Drop!" Ji’an barked, pointing her cast-iron spatula like an orchestra conductor’s baton at a floating projection of the Scorched Canyons biome. "If you drop the loot crate on the edge of the canyon, the aerial-sword users will just dive-bomb it and extract before the ground-fighters can even engage! I want that chest dropped at the lowest elevation point of the ravine! Make them fight uphill to get out!"
"Genius!" wept a senior Array Master, a five-hundred-year-old man whose eyes were bloodshot from staring at runes for eighteen straight hours. "It creates an inescapable kill-box! The psychological pressure will be exquisite! Adjusting the Z-axis coordinates now, Martial Uncle!"
"And what about the Encroaching Void Array, Chef?!" yelled a junior array-coder from across the room, frantically weaving golden runes in the air. "The toxic fog is currently set to a slow, steady advancement of one mile per hour!"
"Too predictable!" Ji’an snapped, taking a swig from a clay mug filled with concentrated, triple-brewed Black-Lotus espresso. "Make the fog advance in erratic, unpredictable surges! I want them to think they have time to roast a marshmallow, and then I want the fog to sprint at them like a rabid cheetah! We are not rewarding campers!"
The fifty-odd Array Peak disciples and elders in the room cheered, their fingers flying across their runes.
In the span of twelve hours, Lin Ji’an had completely revolutionized their entire conceptual understanding of environmental torture.
They looked at her not as a cook, but as a messianic, visionary god of esports game design.
"Alright, people," Ji’an sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, feeling the caffeine physically vibrating against her skull. "Lock the boss-spawn parameters. Ensure the Rank 7 Illusionary Beasts only trigger if a faction accumulates more than twenty percent of the tokens. I am going to sit in a corner for exactly five minutes, and if anyone asks me a question about collision physics before my timer is up, I am going to deep-fry their spatial rings."
She turned away from the central astrolabe, dragging her boots across the polished obsidian floor, and collapsed onto a plush silk divan tucked away in a dimly lit alcove near the heavy brass entrance doors.
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