The Saiyan In The Cultivation World.

"Be reckless with my wheelchair again, and you will die," I said calmly, my voice cold as I glanced down at the stairs.

Moments earlier, he had slammed my wheelchair down too hard, nearly sending me tumbling off the edge. My gaze flicked back to him, sharp and unforgiving, as though daring him to test my patience again.

"S-sorry," he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. The lingering echoes of the illusions were still too overwhelming. Each imagined death had been excruciating, a vivid torment that left his nerves frayed.

Just because he was a demon didn't mean he was immune to the fear of death. And in that moment, standing in the shadow of Lianchen's killing intent, he felt closer to it than ever before.

He quickly hoisted the wheelchair and hurried up the stairs, his movements now precise and careful, driven by fear of my wrath. I paid him no further attention, turning my focus back to the history book in my hands. Its pages were overflowing with the intricate records of this world's past, drawing me in despite the surrounding chaos.

No one dared to attack me, not out of fear of my strength, but because of my reputation. As the Emperor's most beloved son, I was untouchable, and everyone knew it.

In no time, I was on the stage, positioned calmly at the center. I paid no attention to the chaos around me, my focus solely on the book in my hands.

The young man who had carried my wheelchair hovered nearby, unwilling to stray too far. He had silently taken it upon himself to act as my guard, though it was clear his presence wasn't born of loyalty, it was fear.

This created an awkward atmosphere on the stage. No one dared to start a fight, knowing that any skirmish might unintentionally drag me into the fray. The tension grew thick as the participants hesitated, their gazes flickering between each other and me, uncertain of how to proceed.

'Interesting…' I mused, flipping another page in my book. 'I wonder if the people of that era were stronger despite having lower cultivation. Did the roles switch over time?'

It reminded me of Earth, where humanity had turned toward science instead of pursuing physical strength. With cultivation levels so low, it seemed the world back then had a deeper understanding of the universe itself, which in turn led to a unique kind of strength.

'Could the immortal realm be following a similar pattern?' I wondered, my curiosity deepening. 'What's better? To purely focus on cultivation, or to walk the path of the Dao?'

Closing the book in my hands, I finally turned my attention to the stage and was immediately stunned by the sheer number of people crowded around. I scanned the scene for a moment, then let out a small sigh before raising my hand.

With a casual wave, sharp sword intent erupted from my body, slicing through the air like a tempest. In the blink of an eye, everyone, save for the young man still clutching my wheelchair, was sent flying off the stage. Their cries echoed briefly before being swallowed by the strange gravity below.

But my sword intent didn't stop there. It roared down the floating stairs like a relentless tide, effortlessly knocking back wave after wave of participants who dared to ascend. Cries of protest and panic echoed in the distance as they were sent tumbling, their hopes of reaching the stage dashed in an instant.

In the blink of an eye, the battlefield transformed. Only two people remained on the stage, myself and the young man dutifully holding my wheelchair. The stairs below were eerily empty, not a single soul daring to make another attempt.

I frowned, gritting my teeth as waves of searing pain coursed through my body. To put it simply, I was suffering from a backlash. The incomplete transformation had left me in this state, my body caught between its current limits and the overwhelming force it had tried to contain.

Had the transformation been allowed to finish, the damage wouldn't have been nearly as severe. But being forced out of it midway meant I was now healing from the injuries inflicted during the process, and it wasn't something I could shrug off easily.

In my past life, I had transformed many times. At most, each transformation lasted no more than two hours before exhaustion set in. Afterward, I would be left drained, my body requiring time to fully recover.

As for why the transformation last time hurt so much... well, that was simple. I was now a child, and my body hadn't yet reached its peak potential. On top of that, I had cultivated the Chaos Fiendgod Cultivation Art, a technique that pushed the limits of my physique and energy, making the process far more excruciating than it ever was before.

Anyway, back to the stage. Not much worth mentioning—people were shocked, as expected. Shocker. I ignored the gawking crowd and pulled out another book, settling into my reading.

***

"Is he... cheating?" someone muttered in disbelief, their voice tinged with shock. The scene before them was almost too absurd to comprehend—a mere six-year-old casually sending a group of Qi Refinement Realm cultivators flying with a single wave of his hand.

These weren't just any cultivators, either. They were the best of their generation, the brightest talents their powers had to offer. Yet, against him, none of them could even stand their ground.

"No, it's not cheating, his sword intent is just that powerful," someone said, their voice carrying a mix of awe and disbelief. Their gaze swept over the scattered participants, many of whom were only now beginning to recover from their injuries.

Although Lianchen hadn't intended to kill anyone and had merely sought to push them away, his sword intent had been too sharp, too overwhelming. It was no wonder the scene had unfolded as it did, leaving even the most talented cultivators humbled.

Many who had witnessed Lianchen's rapid mastery of Sword's Will were unsurprised by the scene before them. To them, this was simply another display of his extraordinary talent.

Whispers began to spread, with some even daring to call him the reincarnation of the Heaven Splitting Sword Deity. Such comparisons were no small thing, the deity was a hero in their hearts, a figure of legend. Yet, in Lianchen, they saw glimpses of that same boundless potential, and the idea of such a parallel seemed almost natural.

'Such wild Sword Intent… but no control,' Chu Feng thought, narrowly dodging a blow aimed at his face. His gaze shifted back to Lianchen, who sat calmly reading his book as if the chaos around him didn't exist. 'His sword cuts whether he wills it or not. A self-taught genius…'

Chu Feng's eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. For a fleeting moment during Lianchen's earlier move, he thought he had glimpsed something, pain, etched briefly across the prince's face. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, leaving Chu Feng questioning whether it had been real at all.