Walker Of The Worlds-Chapter 2957: Defeated By A Name

By now, the excitement surrounding the tournament wasn’t just about merit points or even sect rewards.

It was about witnessing a legend in the making.

The entire sect had become a cauldron of anticipation. Even the elders had begun to drop hints and chuckles whenever someone asked about Lin Mu.

No one dared speak his name too loudly anymore.

Not because of fear—but out of reverence.

He had become a living mystery.

A whispered vow.

A blade yet unsheathed.

And everyone was waiting to see it drawn in full.

They didn’t have to wait long, since the day was just a few hours away.

The banners of the Xian Sword Sect fluttered in the morning wind, their embroidered sword crests gleaming under the rising sun.

The vast Sky Sever Arena located behind Mount Sky Sever, carved from white immortal stone, was filled to the brim. Hundreds of thousands of disciples, possibly even over a million, packed the viewing platforms and floating terraces that circled the coliseum in layered rings, their robes flapping like stormy waves.

Today was the beginning of the Sect Tournament, held only once every hundred years.

This was a grand event, a chance for disciples to showcase their strength, rise in rank, and even catch the eye of an Elder. For many, it was the most important day of their life.

But today... there was no laughter, no banter, no radiant pride in the gathered crowd.

Today, there was only anxiety.

The eyes of the sect were not watching the floating stages or the contestants. They were all scanning the crowds. Watching every person who walked in. Listening for a name.

A single name that had eclipsed all others.

Lin Mu.

No one had seen him arrive.

No one had seen him train.

No one had even seen him sign up.

And yet the fear that he would appear hung over the arena like a sword suspended by a fraying thread.

Even the normally exuberant disciples of the Dancing Mist Sword Pavilion were silent, clutching their blades with sweaty palms.

"Do you think he’s really going to fight?"

"...I don’t know."

"If he does, we’re all doomed."

"He’s already first on every ranking wall... what’s the point of even trying?"

"Maybe he’ll be in the exhibition rounds only? Please tell me he’ll be in the exhibition rounds..."

In the crowd, even Core Disciples—the geniuses who had never once known fear in the sect—looked tense. Senior Disciple Xu Yan had even brought a rare soul-nourishing pill to calm his nerves.

But even that didn’t help when the silence shattered.

With a ripple in the Qi and the trembling of air, the formation atop the center of the arena activated. A luminous bridge formed, leading from a side platform to the main stage, its edges decorated with runes that shimmered like falling stars.

From the far side of the floating stairs emerged an old man clad in ceremonial purple and white robes.

The crowd instantly fell silent.

The Grand Elder had arrived.

He walked with simple steps, but each one echoed across the sky as if mountains moved with him. His long silver beard trailed slightly behind, and his sword—which no one had ever seen drawn in the last few generations—rested quietly at his back like a slumbering dragon.

He stood before the gathered masses and swept his gaze across the sea of cultivators.

"My disciples," he said, voice calm yet resonant, "today we open the gates to our most sacred tradition. The Xian Sword Sect has long been the blade that cleaves the heavens and the edge that resists calamity. Let this tournament remind you of your purpose. Let it sharpen your will. Let it—"

But no one was really listening.

Their hearts pounded.

They were only waiting for one sentence.

Would he say it?

Would he announce...?

Then it came.

The Grand Elder paused, eyes glimmering.

"...and this year," he said, voice suddenly heavy, "we have a special participant joining you all."

A pin could have dropped in the arena and been heard clearly.

The air was so tense it might as well have turned solid.

He looked at the crowd, and then—without fanfare—spoke:

"Lin Mu."

The name echoed like thunder.

For half a second, the arena was paralyzed.

Then—

"WHAT?!"

"HE’S ACTUALLY PARTICIPATING?!"

"No no no no no—"

"He’ll slaughter us!"

"He’s not a disciple—he’s a demon sent to ruin our confidence!"

"I forfe—I’m forfeiting!"

"Me too!"

A hundred voices rose at once. Some cried out in disbelief, others in despair, and a few even shouted in outrage. Weapons clattered. A Core Disciple dropped his treasured sword in shock.

On a platform near the front, a disciple screamed, "This isn’t fair! He’s a monster!"

And then—

"SILENCE!"

The Grand Elder’s voice tore through the arena like a sword slash.

A storm of pressure rolled through the crowd as the old man’s calm expression turned into a glare, his gaze sharp enough to cut soul threads.

"You disgrace the sword with such cowardice," he said, voice now as cold as a glacier. "You claim to walk the path of the sword, yet you are already defeated before a single duel has begun."

Dozens of disciples flinched as if physically struck.

"Have you no spine?" he continued, fury burning beneath his words. "The sword is not only for those who win—it is for those who stand tall, blade in hand, regardless of odds! That you speak of surrender, of despair, over a name—a name!—shames every generation that built this sect!"

He pointed toward the heavens.

"Do you think your ancestors quivered like this when the sword demons of the Northern Abyss of the Farlands came? When the Heaven-Eating Beast clawed at our gates? When the Inverted Moon Sword Sect betrayed us and slaughtered a thousand of our kin?"

"Stand tall, or go home."

Dead silence.

His words, heavy with the weight of centuries, fell into every heart. His tongue was like a blade that carved out the shame within their hearts.

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