Four years passed.
They did not pass gently.
They were years carved by discipline, repetition, and blood-sweat resolve—years in which Kaizen Zaiton vanished from the sight of the world and reemerged as something sharpened beyond recognition.
At the heart of it all was the Big Bang Fist.
In its raw form, the technique was destruction incarnate—an explosion of force that shattered everything in its path, including the user if wielded carelessly. Most cultivators would have stopped there, satisfied with overwhelming power.
Kaizen did not.
"Power that explodes is wasteful," he murmured one night, standing alone in the abyssal quarry beneath the island. "Power that holds… rules."
For years, he practiced compression instead of release.
He learned to condense the Big Bang Fist until its detonation point trembled like a star on the verge of collapse—then refused to let it explode. His bones cracked and healed. His meridians tore and reforged themselves wider, tougher, more obedient.
At the same time, he refined his Secret Spear Voltron Technique—the art of extension, focus, and piercing intent. Where the fist was chaos, the spear was order.
One night, as rain hammered the stone and lightning split the sky, the two techniques finally aligned.
Kaizen extended his spear—not outward, but inward.
He compressed the Big Bang Fist into the spear's core.
The air froze.
Mana screamed.
The ground beneath him did not shatter—it yielded.
The spear in his hands was no longer a construct of qi alone. It felt absolute. Dense. Immutable. As though the concept of "breaking" had been erased from its existence.
Kaizen opened his eyes, pupils reflecting a condensed star of light.
"Indestructible Big Spear," he whispered.
When he thrust forward, there was no explosion.
There was no sound.
The mountain wall a kilometer away simply… vanished. Not shattered. Not cracked.
Erased in a perfectly circular void.
Kaizen exhaled slowly, a thin line of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
Then he laughed.
While Kaizen trained, the Zaiton family prepared.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
Under his guidance, the sect abandoned outdated mainland imitation methods and instead focused on precision cultivation—control, compression, technique mastery. Their lower mana density became an advantage: Zaiton disciples learned to fight with less and achieve more.
Four years transformed the island.
Smithies burned day and night, forging ships reinforced with formation arrays and mana-stabilized hulls capable of crossing dragon-controlled seas. Merchant vessels doubled as warships. Warships carried vaults disguised as cargo holds.
The docks expanded.
Hidden trade routes formed.
Neutral contracts were signed with orcs, fairies, and even rogue giant clans.
And within the sect—
There were no weak disciples.
Not a single one.
They were not the most powerful by realm—but each Zaiton cultivator fought like someone who had clawed their strength from scarcity itself. Their foundations were unshakable. Their teamwork flawless.
Arron Zaiton watched the training fields one evening, fists clenched behind his back.
"Four years ago," he said quietly, "we were surviving."
Kaizen stood beside him, gaze steady. "Now we're investing."
The Book of All Knowledge became Kaizen's deadliest weapon.
Not techniques.
Not cultivation.
Information.
Every participant of the upcoming Tournament of Power was recorded within its pages—names, bloodlines, preferred techniques, rivalries, psychological flaws, hidden injuries, cursed artifacts, forbidden dependencies.
Kaizen read them all.
The dragon prodigy whose bloodline overheated under prolonged combat.
The elf champion who panicked when separated from her spirit familiar.
The orc warrior-king's son who would never retreat—no matter the cost.
The Chaos Abyss agent who relied on a soul anchor that shattered under harmonic resonance.
Kaizen closed the book one night, a slow smile forming.
"They'll call it gambling," he murmured. "They won't realize it's harvesting."
The Tournament of Power was more than combat—it was a market.
Bets layered atop bets. Sects wagering territories. Clans staking artifacts. Factions gambling on pride and reputation.
Kaizen intended to rob them blind.
Not with cheating.
With certainty.
Every match outcome calculated.
Every upset engineered.
Every "miracle victory" monetized.
Gold, spirit stones, artifacts, contracts—by the end of the tournament, wealth would not flow to the Zaitons.
It would flow through them.
"And when they realize too late," Kaizen whispered, eyes glinting, "they'll already depend on us."
On the final day, the fleet stood ready.
Great ships lined the harbor—black hulls etched with silver formations, banners snapping in the sea wind. Disciples stood in disciplined ranks, armor polished, eyes sharp.
Ahead lay the Dragon Continent.
The most dangerous landmass in the known world.
A place ruled by dominance, pride, and flame.
Arron stepped forward, voice carrying across the docks. "This voyage marks the end of isolation. From this moment on, the Zaiton name will no longer be whispered—it will be weighed."
Kaizen moved to the prow of the flagship.
Behind him stood four years of preparation.
Before him lay a world convinced it was untouchable.
He rested a hand on his spear, feeling the indestructible core hum in quiet anticipation.
"The Tournament of Power," he said softly, "is not where we prove our strength."
The ships began to move.
"It's where the world proves how easy it is to take from those who think they own everything."
As the fleet sailed toward the Dragon Continent, the sea parted calmly before them—unaware that it carried not just warriors and merchants…
…but the beginning of world domination.