I Can Only Cultivate In A Game-Chapter 144: The Disciplinary Hall

"It's about control. About form. About not dying like an idiot."

He stopped abruptly and turned.

"Watch."

With a single smooth motion, he drew one of his swords and delivered three swings in succession. They weren't flashy. They didn't shake the earth. But each swing was fast, precise, and left no opening to exploit.

"You see that? No wasted motion. No wide arcs. Most of you swing your weapons like you're swatting flies with boulders. Wide swings are easier to dodge, easier to punish."

He waved for them to begin mimicking.

Victor took his stance, adjusted the weight in his legs and thought of Lingyun while trying to apply what he'd just seen.

As expected, Garran immediately began moving through the ranks, correcting stances, shouting observations, and barking orders.

"Too wide. Again."

"Your shoulder's dropping too much."

"You think you're in a stage play? This is a battlefield."

However, when he reached Victor, he paused.

Victor had just executed a smooth diagonal slash that ended with a low sweep and backward pivot, maintaining balance and guard.

"Hm," Garran nodded slightly.

"Yours looked wide too at first glance," he added with a loud voice enough for others to hear. "But that's because you're too fast. Which is fine. But the rest of you? You're not him. You slow down, you expose yourselves. You swing wide, you die."

A few students looked toward Victor with surprise. He ignored them.

"Here's another issue," Garran continued. "The moment most of you reduce your swing width, you lose power. You're not used to generating force from precision. You rely on raw muscle and angle. That's a mistake."

He walked to the front again and raised a hand. A metal training dummy rose from the ground.

"I'll teach you a technique. It's called Recoil Compensation Strike. Focused on short-range bursts of strength and blade alignment. You use your own muscle recoil to redirect force into the next strike, keeping compact form and constant guard."

He demonstrated slowly: a short vertical slash followed by a backward press and another horizontal swing. Then repeated it faster. Then again, faster.

The dummy rocked with each impact, but Garran never lost his center.

"You'll need this. Especially when your skills are cooling down."

Students began practicing. Some caught on quickly. Others stumbled, confused by the need to balance strength with restraint.

Victor got the feel of it quickly due to muscle memory from his time in Ascendant Realms kicking in. He could feel how the flow of motion benefited from the precision.

Instructor Garran glanced at him once more.

"Good. Keep at it. We continue next session."

After the lecture ended, Victor left the field tired but satisfied. He returned to his room, stretched, and took a light nap to recharge.

Nightfall came quickly within the Academy. The artificial sky dimmed into hues of violet and deep blue as the glowing ceiling of the dome mimicked constellations.

Victor sat in bed, waiting.

Kairo hadn't returned. Victor had no idea where his roommate wandered off to at night, but he didn't question it.

He was only worried because he'd prefer to only enter Ascendant Realms when Kairo was fast asleep.

He proceeded to pull the blinds and pull out his gaming gaming gear.

The helmet made a low buzz as it booted up, linked directly to Ascendant Realms.

Victor covered himself with a blanket and put the helmet on his head.

[Logging in... Welcome to Ascendant Realms]

He felt his body phase, felt his soul stretch and transfer.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back.

The familiar scent of pine and incense greeted him. His personal quarters in the Violet Spring Sect had not changed.

The core disciple-tier room glowed with ambient qi, the shelves were lined with manuals and materials and his sword was resting against the rack.

Victor rose to his feet.

The moment he stepped toward the door, a soft breeze swept under it. A single piece of parchment slipped into the room.

He bent down and picked it up.

Disciplinary Hall Notice:

Fang Chen, you are hereby summoned to the Violet Spring Sect Disciplinary Hall for review. Failure to attend within the next two hours will result in automatic judgment. Report promptly.

Victor realised that he had spent around fifteen hours outside the game which meant three days had passed in Ascendant Realms. The time had come.

He placed the letter down, fastened his sword to his waist and exited the room.

...

...

Soon Victor arrived at the Disciplinary Hall. As he passed through its arched gate, the hall echoed with the low murmurs of disciples and elders alike.

The high-vaulted ceiling carried every whisper to every corner, and the pressure in the air was suffocating.

Victor stepped forward under the scrutiny of a dozen robed figures—elders of the Violet Spring Sect. Seated in two arcs around the hall, they looked down upon him with expressions ranging from curious to downright disdainful.

Around the perimeter stood more than thirty inner court disciples with their arms crossed.

Among them were two particularly bandaged figures—Zhan Kui, the silver-haired one now missing an arm, and Huo Lian, the bald brute who still bore bruises and broken ribs.

Victor stood calmly in the center with his arms behind his back.

The proceedings began quickly.

"Fang Chen," one of the Disciplinary Committee Elders called with a judgmental tone. "Your actions in the Murktree Forest have drawn serious accusations. You are a guest in our sect, not a disciple, yet you assaulted two inner court disciples, leaving one maimed. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Victor took a breath, then raised his eyes.

"I was on a sect-sanctioned mission. One that was sabotaged by those very disciples you now defend. They followed me, ruined the quest, and then ambushed me despite my attempt to leave without conflict."

"Lies!" Zhan Kui roared while clenching his one remaining hand into a fist.

"You speak as though you belong here!" Huo Lian added with a tone of bitterness.

The surrounding disciples muttered in agreement while several threw glares at Victor.

Another elder with a crooked nose and narrow eyes spoke up. "Why should someone not of our sect take on our missions in the first place? What right do you have to enjoy the privileges of a core disciple without shedding a single drop of sweat for the sect?"

The murmurs grew louder.

"Our inner court disciples work day and night to rise in ranks, and then this outsider waltzes in and receives the highest treatment!"

"And then he dares to strike down his betters!"

Victor lifted his chin. "I defended myself. And if they weren't so eager to throw their weight around, they wouldn't be in that condition."

"Enough!" a voice boomed.

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It was elder Mo.

The aged cultivator stepped forward from the circle of elders and his presence immediately demanded silence.

Elder Mo was obviously not an ordinary elder in this sect.

"This matter has already been explained to the sect master," Elder Mo said. "Fang Chen's inclusion and special status were granted at the request of the City Lord himself."

The hall fell quiet.

Victor watched as the expressions around him changed. Mention of the City Lord was enough to snuff out most protests—for now.

But the silence didn't last long.

Another elder with a ring of white hair around his bald crown, stepped forward.

"We respect the City Lord," the man stated, "but even he must respect the customs of this sect. And allowing a non-disciple to cause such harm to our own cannot be left unanswered."

He turned toward Victor.

"We will offer you an opportunity. The name of your accomplice—the cultivator who aided you in fighting our disciples."

Victor's eyes narrowed.

"Give us that name," the elder continued, "and we will consider this matter closed. You will walk free."

The hall rippled with tension.

Victor remained silent.

"Well?" another elder pressed. "Surely a cultivator willing to battle by your side has no fear of being known. Unless, of course, you're protecting him because you know what we'd do."

Victor knew exactly what they'd do.

KingCamper was a player. A loud-mouthed, petal-wielding, jolly-hearted player. And if they tied him to Victor, the entire sect would place a target on his back. Any time he returned to the city, he'd be hunted. Harassed. Maybe worse.

There was a pause, before the same elder added, "But understand this—someone must pay for what happened. If this matter goes unpunished, our sect will be seen as weak. We will lose face among the others. That is something we cannot allow."

Victor clenched his fists. So that was it. They didn't care about right or wrong—they just needed a scapegoat to maintain their image.

They were willing to let him be if he just gave them a name so they could put all the blame on KingCamper.

"No," Victor finally said. "I won't give his name."

The elders exchanged glances.

"You refuse to cooperate," the sharp-nosed elder said with disdain. "Then you will be punished. Severely."