Samsara Tower: Only I Know the Plot!

”Friend,” Zohyan said, still wary, ”you mean you came here specifically to find me?”

”That’s right.” Fenric’s tone was calm. ”I have a matter worth discussing with the pavilion master.”

”Oh?” Zohyan raised a brow, then gave a courteous smile. ”In that case, please, let’s move to my office and talk.”

Fenric nodded. This crowded training hall, full of curious students, was hardly the place for private discussion.

Together, they went upstairs to Zohyan’s office.

The students left behind looked dumbfounded.

They had been waiting eagerly for a duel between the pavilion master and the mysterious powerhouse—only for both men to walk away without even crossing fists.

”What the hell? They just left?”

”Seriously? I was dying to see the fight!”

”Talk about anticlimactic…”

”Bah, boring!”

”But come on—if the two of them did fight, who do you think would win?”

”Obviously the master! He’s a verified Grade Six martial artist, just one step away from grandmaster level. That kid’s strong, sure, but he’s too young to beat the master.”

”Yeah, I agree.”

—---

Upstairs – Zohyan’s Office

The spacious office was tidy, decorated with scrolls of calligraphy and weapons hung on the walls.

Zohyan personally invited Fenric to sit, then began brewing tea. His attitude was respectful—Fenric’s strength was not something to be underestimated.

”Please, young friend,” Zohyan said warmly, handing him a cup. ”This is a special tea from the peak of Kunshan. It nourishes the liver and clears the eyes. Very rare—you won’t find it easily.”

”Thank you.”

Fenric accepted and took a sip.

He had drunk Tranquility Tea within the Samsara Space before—its lingering fragrance and effects were unparalleled. Compared to that, even the rarest worldly tea was nothing.

Still, he offered a polite smile. ”Good tea.”

He set the cup down after a few sips.

Zohyan chuckled, not minding the perfunctory compliment, and leaned forward.

”I still don’t know your surname, little friend?”

”My humble surname is Kline,” Fenric replied casually. ”Fenric Kline.”

Zohyan repeated the name softly, searching his memory for any prominent figures by that surname. None came to mind.

Puzzled, he probed further.

”Fenric, to have such skill at such a young age… you must have been guided by a famous teacher?”

Fenric saw through the test at once and answered with an indifferent tone.

”Nothing like that. My so-called ’three-legged cat kung fu’ was taught by my father. Perhaps you’ve heard of him—he once ran a martial hall nearby. The Iron Cloth Fist Hall on XX Street. That was my father’s place.”

”Oh?”

Zohyan was taken aback, then recalled.

The Iron Cloth Hall—just a small, third-rate martial hall down the street. Its master had been a mediocre practitioner of external hardening techniques.

Rumor had it the man was killed by an enemy about half a year ago.

Who would have thought such a man could raise such an exceptional son?

Thinking it over, Zohyan found it more believable.

On the way here, he’d heard the challenger had a body almost impervious to blades, impervious to force. Clearly, this was the legacy of a family known for horizontal hardening arts.

Perhaps, after his father’s death, the boy had trained with single-minded determination, refining his body to such a monstrous level in only six months.

In just a moment, Zohyan’s mind had already pieced together a story of his own: A young man, seeking revenge for his father, pushing himself to master his family’s techniques.

”So that’s how it is… I’ve been disrespectful to young friend Fenric without realizing your background.”

Zohyan cupped his hands politely, then shifted the conversation.

”By the way, earlier you mentioned wanting to discuss something with me. May I ask what that matter is?”

Though his voice was calm, Zohyan felt a trace of unease.

Could this boy suspect me of being his father’s killer?

He had nothing to fear from a junior, but attracting unnecessary enemies was always troublesome.

Fortunately, Fenric’s next words eased his concerns.

”I want to make a deal with Master Zohyan.”

”Oh?” Zohyan raised a brow. ”And what sort of deal might that be?”

Fenric leaned back slightly, his voice steady.

”I heard Master Zohyan holds a quota for the Martial Arts Conference.”

”...”

The Martial Arts Conference was not something just anyone could enter.

The government had long implemented a quota system: only those officially recommended by certified martial artists could compete. The coveted spots were mostly in the hands of martial halls or registered fighters with government ties.

Naturally, this led to corruption.

Quotas were often handed to relatives or allies, while talented outsiders were excluded—or even deliberately suppressed.

To counter this, the Martial Arts Association introduced a reform: the quota would be directly tied to the recommender’s own evaluation and privileges.

In other words, if the chosen participant performed poorly and was eliminated early, the recommender would face penalties. Not just monetary fines, but also the revocation of various benefits—special resources, influence, and standing.

For martial artists, such a fall from grace was worse than any fine.

On the other hand, if their candidate performed exceptionally—especially if they placed highly—then the recommender would also be rewarded, rising in prestige and gaining further advantages.

Shared glory, shared downfall.

Zohyan nodded slowly. ”Yes, as an officially registered martial artist, I do hold a recommendation spot.”

Fenric’s lips curved into a faint smile.

”Then here’s my proposal: Master Zohyan, grant me your recommendation and let me enter the Martial Arts Conference. In return, when I win the championship, I assure you—the rewards and benefits that come your way will be far from small.”

Zohyan couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly.

Win the championship? This boy really dares to say it so casually…

To claim victory at the Martial Arts Conference was no trivial boast. Every champion in history had been an extraordinary monster, the kind of once-in-a-generation talent that left their peers in awe.

Yet this youngster, after exchanging only a few blows, thought himself capable of seizing the crown as if it were guaranteed.

Does he think the world will bow just because he’s mastered a few tricks?

Of course, Zohyan didn’t dare say such blunt words aloud. Offending a promising youth was never wise.

Instead, he gave a polite shake of his head.

”Fenric, I must apologize. You’ve come a step too late. The quota I hold has already been allocated.”

His refusal was tactful, but firm.