Read The Almighty Dominance Novel (Alexander Leonhart and Sophia Lancaster) by Sunshine Updated 2025 -26 - The Almighty Dominance Chapter 571

Alex had been enjoying his life in the kitchen.

At some point, he stopped worrying about what his future might look like. He stopped thinking about trials, rankings, and status. Most of his days were spent eating and cultivating alongside his Elder Brothers.

They refined Food Pills and cultivation pills, laughed loudly, and ate until they could barely stand. It was simple. Steady.

Life was good.

As the months passed, bits of gossip drifted into the kitchen like smoke from the outer courtyards. News about the Wudang Sect traveled fast—even to the servants’ quarters.

Piece by piece, Alex learned how everything worked.

The disciples were divided into three ranks: Core Sect, Inner Sect, and Outer Sect. Servants like him lived at the bottom, cooking, cleaning, running errands. But there was one narrow path upward.

Any servant who reached the fifth level of Chi Condensation—who could truly sense the dantian, draw energy from the air, and gather Chi into their body—could apply for the Outer Sect trial.

Only by becoming an Outer Sect disciple could someone truly claim to belong to Wudang.

Until then, they were just labor.

Trouble arrived on an otherwise ordinary morning.

Eight Fatty was supposed to head down the mountain to buy supplies. Instead, he was doubled over, clutching his stomach and cursing yesterday’s overcooked mushrooms.

He waved a greasy hand. “Alex!”

Alex looked up from the herbs he was sorting.

The other Fatty Brothers were already gone—some reporting their work, others delivering Food Pills. For once, the kitchen was quiet.

Which meant only one thing.

He was the only one available.

He hesitated.

A memory flashed through his mind—Wang Junhao. The humiliation. The danger. The harsh lesson that outside the kitchen, swords and fists moved faster than words.

But there was no refusing. Supplies had to be bought. The kitchen couldn’t function without ingredients.

He stepped closer. “Brother Eight… do we have any weapons?”

Eight Fatty burst out laughing, then groaned as his stomach protested. “Weapons? This is a kitchen! You can find every kind of knife here!”

Alex turned to look at the rows of blades—cleavers, boning knives, long slicing knives. Sharp. Heavy. Deadly.

And that was exactly the problem.

If he stabbed someone—even by accident—the consequences would be catastrophic. A kitchen servant killing someone? That would crush him.

No. Too risky.

Instead, he grabbed the largest iron wok. Thick. Heavy. Impossible to slice with. If he swung it, it would hurt—but it wouldn’t cut someone open.

Then he paused, thinking further.

He picked up a round soup pot and flipped it upside down onto his head.

It sat there like a ridiculous helmet.

Ugly. Embarrassing.

But practical.

If someone aimed for his skull, at least they wouldn’t split it in one strike.

With a wok in one hand and a pot on his head, Alex looked like a walking kitchen accident.

But he felt safer.

He adjusted the pot, tightened his grip on the wok, and left the kitchen. Then he began the descent down the mountain.

The limestone paths of the Wudang Sect stretched pale and smooth beneath his feet, cutting through lush green hills. Elegant pavilions rose on either side. Courtyards bloomed with trimmed trees and carved stone lanterns.

As he walked—wok resting against his shoulder, pot gleaming in the sunlight—he drew attention from the servants along the path.

They stared.

Not openly. Not boldly.

But from the corners of their eyes.

Their gazes slid over the pot helmet, the oversized wok, his stiff, determined stride.

Some looked confused.

Some amused.

Alex kept walking.

Ridiculous or not, he was prepared.

A few female Outer Sect disciples stood near the path. The moment they saw the iron wok and the upside-down soup pot, they burst into laughter. They covered their mouths, but it didn’t help. Their laughter rang out like silver bells—bright, impossible to ignore.

Heat crept up Alex’s neck. His face flushed.

He didn’t slow down.

He didn’t care what they thought.

He wasn’t interested in impressing anyone. He wanted one thing—survival. A quiet life. No enemies. No trouble.

If looking ridiculous kept him alive, he would gladly look ridiculous.

By the time he reached the central marketplace, the area was packed.

This was the busiest spot near the servants’ district. Stalls lined the open square where servants bought and sold supplies.

Occasionally, Outer Sect disciples passed through to browse—or show off. Off to one side stood a massive open arena, flat and wide, built for one purpose: fighting. Anyone who wanted to prove themselves could step inside.

Today, something was happening.

Clusters of servants rushed in the same direction, eyes bright, steps quick. More joined them, pushing forward like a pack chasing thrown meat.

Excitement crackled in the air.

Curious, Alex grabbed the sleeve of a scrawny servant sprinting past.

“Brother,” he asked evenly, “what’s going on? Why is everyone running?”

The young man spun around, irritation flashing—until he noticed the iron wok and pot helmet.

His expression changed instantly.

Envy replaced anger.

“You’re from the kitchen?” he blurted, eyes flicking to the wok. “Must be nice. So lucky…”

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Give me some Food Pills, and I’ll tell you.”

Alex didn’t argue.

He took out a small bottle, poured three Food Pills into his palm, and dropped them into the young man’s hand.

The servant’s face lit up as if he’d been handed gold. He bowed quickly. “Elder Brother! You should see this. There are two factions in the Outer Sect—the Dragon and the White Tiger. They’ve hated each other for years. Always fighting, always competing.”

He glanced around to make sure no one was listening too closely.

“Today, each side brought ten people. Ten versus ten.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed slightly.

The servant’s excitement grew. “Most of them are at the seventh to ninth level of Chi Condensation. This is huge. If we watch carefully, we might learn something. Maybe even gain some enlightenment.”

Without waiting, he grabbed Alex’s arm.

“Come on! We’ll miss it!”

Alex stumbled as he was pulled forward, the iron wok clanking against his leg, the soup pot wobbling on his head.

He didn’t resist.

The crowd carried them toward the arena.

When they arrived, Alex finally saw it clearly.

The open ground was enormous—at least four times the size of a football field. The earth had been flattened and hardened by countless battles. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the gathering crowd.

Across the field stood ten stone platforms.

Each was waist-high, carved from thick gray slabs. Around every platform, dense rings of people had formed—servants packed along the outer edges, Outer Sect disciples at the front in bright, ornate robes. Fine embroidery shimmered on their sleeves, hidden talismans glinting beneath the fabric.

They looked powerful.

Dangerous.

Every platform hosted a one-on-one duel.

Ten arenas.

Ten fights.

Dragon versus White Tiger.

Alex stepped closer to the nearest platform.

Two young men stood on the stone, sleeves snapping in the wind as they clashed. Each strike shook the platform. Every collision boomed across the field.

A faint glow surrounded them.

Magical items.

Protective charms flickered like thin layers of light over their bodies. Spiritual energy rippled with every movement.

Then Alex saw it.

Their swords left their hands.

The blades rose into the air and began to fly.

They sliced through the sky with sharp whistles, streaking with light as if alive. They darted, twisted, and struck from impossible angles—controlled entirely by the cultivators’ will.

Alex inhaled sharply.

He had once manipulated a sword in a similar way. But watching this—the precision, the speed, the lethal control—was something else entirely.

They were talented. Incredibly so.

“Maybe I need to learn this too,” he muttered.

His fingers brushed the back of his neck.

“Gaia,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the platform. “Record everything. Their martial arts. Every movement. Every technique.”

Data streamed silently through his vision.

For a while, Alex forgot everything else.

He moved from platform to platform, absorbing every exchange.

Every slash. Every step. Every shift of spiritual energy.

Gaia recorded it all.

What shocked him most was that none of them were holding back.

This wasn’t sparring.

Killing intent rolled off them like smoke from a battlefield.

Within minutes, blood splattered across stone. Blades pierced flesh. Bones cracked. One wrong move—and it was over.

On one platform, a sword tore through a man’s shoulder, nearly severing his arm.

On another, a blade drove straight through someone’s chest. The wounded didn’t scream for long.

Of the ten fights, six had already ended.

Two were dead.

Four had lost limbs.

Severed arms and shattered legs lay beside the platforms, soaking the ground red.

Alex’s stomach tightened.

This was his first time witnessing cultivators fight with real killing intent. It wasn’t the elegant duels of noble immortals soaring through clouds.

This was brutal.

Savage.

They struck to maim. They struck to kill. No hesitation. No mercy.

“Xia cultivators train with real swords,” Alex murmured. “And real death.”

Clarity hit him.

The outside world wasn’t forgiving.

One mistake cost blood. Sometimes a life.

He swallowed hard.

He still needed to find his way back to Estoria—back to his real life, the world he truly belonged to. That was the goal.

Not glory. Not reputation. Not proving himself in some blood-soaked arena.

There was no reason to show off.

No reason to gamble his life for pride.

If he wanted to leave this place in one piece, survival was all that mattered.

The kitchen suddenly felt like the safest place in the entire sect.

Hot stoves. Greasy floors. Loud, gluttonous Elder Brothers.

Safe.

He tightened his grip on the iron wok and edged away from the arena.

He had seen enough.

He needed to get back.

But before he could slip into the crowd, a voice sliced through the noise.

“You bastard, Number Nine!”

Alex froze.

The crowd shifted.

“Get on the platform!” the voice roared. “Fight me to the death!”

Alex turned.

Wang Junhao was charging straight at him.

His face twisted with rage, eyes burning with hatred. An iron sword floated beside him, glinting with cold light.

The aura around it was sharp—far beyond the first level of Chi Condensation.

The sword moved like it had its own will.

Before Alex could react, it shot forward.

Clang!

The blade slammed into the soup pot on his head. The impact rang like a struck bell. The pot flew off. The sword wobbled and dropped.

Alex’s head spun. His vision blurred.

For a split second, all he heard was ringing.

He’s going to kill me.

The thought hit like ice water.

Without hesitation, Alex turned and ran.

“Murder! Murder!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

His voice tore across the arena.

Servants froze. Outer Sect disciples turned in shock. Even the duels faltered as fighters glanced toward the chaos.

The scream was so raw, so panicked, it sounded like someone had already been gutted.

Even Wang Junhao hesitated for a heartbeat.

He hadn’t meant to kill Alex just then. He’d only knocked off the pot—to shock him, to force him onto the platform.

In the sect, killing outside the arena was forbidden. A life-and-death duel required both parties to sign an agreement before stepping onto a platform. Killing someone in the open courtyard meant severe punishment.

And yet Alex was screaming like he’d been stabbed ten times.

Wang Junhao ground his teeth so hard his gums ached.

“Number Nine!” he roared, chasing him. “You know how to fight! Why are you running? Face me like a man! Get on the platform! Today, either you die or I die!”

The crowd—already intoxicated by blood—began chanting.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

They wanted more.

They wanted another death.

“The hell with fighting!” Alex shouted as he sprinted, clutching the iron wok. “If I knew how to fight, would I be running, you idiot? Murder! Murder!”

His voice rose higher, nearly hysterical.

He ran like a panicked rabbit—awkward, frantic, desperate.

The crowd roared with laughter and excitement.

Before he could escape, several Outer Sect disciples stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

Their expressions were cold.

“If you are part of Wudang,” one said sternly, authority ringing in his voice, “and if you call yourself a man, you do not run from a challenge.”

Another crossed his arms. “Better to die on the platform than disgrace yourself running away. Get up there. Fight for your name.”

Alex shook his head violently.

“No!”

One disciple stepped closer, eyes hard as stone.

“You either step onto that platform,” he said flatly, voice cold as iron, “or we kill you right here.”

His gaze cut through Alex without mercy.

“There is no place in Wudang for cowards.”

Alex stood frozen, heart pounding, the iron wok trembling in his grip, surrounded by a crowd hungry for blood.

And suddenly, the kitchen felt very far away.