Read The Almighty Dominance Novel (Alexander Leonhart and Sophia Lancaster) by Sunshine Updated 2025 -26 - The Almighty Dominance Chapter 573

The Almighty Dominance Chapter 573

Hearing that, Alex broke into a wide grin.

A thunderous voice tore through the courtyard.

“Who the hell thinks they can mess with our Number Nine?”

Heads snapped toward the sound. Eight massive figures shoved through the crowd—the Fatty brothers. Huge frames. Heavy footsteps. Faces blazing with fury.

They marched straight to Alex and closed ranks around him, sealing him off from the world.

The outer disciples from the Tiger Group and the Dragon Group froze when they saw who it was.

One of them sneered. “You oversized pigs. We’re about to teach this kitchen servant a lesson, and you dare stand in our way? You got a death wish?”

The First Fatty stepped forward, his belly jiggling with each step, eyes burning cold.

“He’s our brother,” he said flatly. “Touch him, and next time you eat, you might find my special ingredient mixed into your food pill.”

A wave of disgust swept through the crowd. Faces twisted. A few people gagged.

Everyone knew the kitchen staff prepared the food pills. If they wanted to slip something in, no one would notice. And once you swallowed it, it was too late.

“You’re asking for it!” the outer disciple roared.

Steel flashed as he drew his sword in one smooth motion, the blade glinting in the sun.

The First Fatty didn’t budge. He stepped forward again, fists clenched, jaw tight. The other seven moved with him, forming a wall of flesh and loyalty.

“We’re ready to die for our Number Nine!” they shouted in unison.

The air turned heavy. Killing intent flooded the courtyard.

“Wait, brothers,” Alex said suddenly.

“Don’t stop us, Nine,” the Third Fatty said, his voice low and steady. “We live together. We die together. If you fall, we fall.”

“Yeah!” the others echoed, eyes blazing. They looked ready to rip someone apart.

“Please,” Alex said firmly. “Listen to me. I’m serious.”

The Fatty brothers hesitated, then turned toward him.

Alex glanced at the outer disciples before leaning in close.

“Form a ring.”

No questions asked. They immediately huddled together, blocking him from view.

The outer disciples frowned. “What are they doing?”

Inside the circle, urgent whispers rose.

“Are you serious?” one Fatty blurted out.

“Shhh! Keep it down,” Alex hissed.

More whispers. Low. Intense. Focused.

The outer disciples grew impatient.

“You idiots done yet?” someone shouted.

Finally, the Fatty brothers broke the huddle.

A moment ago, their faces had been twisted with rage.

Now?

They were smiling.

Wide. Bright. Almost cheerful.

A chill rippled through the crowd.

Alex stepped onto the empty platform.

The courtyard fell silent.

The eight Fatty brothers moved with surprising coordination. Each claimed a side of the platform like guards taking their posts. One by one, they laid out large cloths at the center, smoothing them flat with both hands.

It looked less like a battlefield—

And more like a betting table.

The fattest of them stepped forward and roared, his voice booming across the courtyard.

“We’re from the kitchen! We don’t care if you’re Dragon or Tiger. Mess with us, and we’ll fry you, boil you, and eat you!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

A kitchen servant challenging outer disciples?

It had never happened before.

Not here. Not in the Wudang Sect.

“Our Number Nine is our brother,” another Fatty bellowed. “He’ll duel all of you to the death. One by one. Dragon or Tiger, we don’t care. He’ll take you down one at a time!”

Murmurs exploded across the courtyard.

The First Fatty jabbed a thick finger at the cloth.

“Listen up! If you think our Number Nine will lose, bet against him!”

He pointed again.

“Put your wager right here. If our brother loses, we’ll pay you back ten times!”

He lifted his chin.

“No. Twenty times!”

The courtyard went dead quiet.

Had these kitchen servants lost their minds?

How could a servant possibly beat an outer disciple?

Most outer disciples were already at the Fifth to Eighth Level of Qi Condensation. They were real cultivators—trained, battle-tested.

A servant, at best, might reach the Third Level of Qi Condensation. That was the ceiling. Everyone knew it.

The gap wasn’t small.

It was a cliff.

In cultivation, a difference of two or three levels could mean life or death.

One disciple suddenly stepped forward and tossed something onto the cloth.

“I bet the servant dies,” he said sharply.

It wasn’t gold or silver.

It was a spirit stone.

In the sect—and among cultivators everywhere—money meant nothing. Gold was useless. Silver worthless.

Only spirit stones mattered.

They looked like chunks of emerald, faintly glowing green. Over countless years, they absorbed the essence of heaven and earth, storing pure spiritual energy inside. Cultivators could draw that energy directly into their bodies.

It was power.

It was life.

More disciples stepped up.

“I’ll bet my food pills,” another said, tossing down a small pouch.

Each month, outer disciples received about thirty food pills—condensed nutrients infused with spiritual essence. They fueled cultivation and had become a form of currency within the sect.

“My sword!”

“My rare herbs!”

“My ring!”

The crowd surged forward, shoving and elbowing to place their bets. The pile on the cloth grew—spirit stones, weapons, herbs, pills, personal treasures.

To them, it was easy money.

A kitchen servant versus an outer disciple?

The servant had a thousand percent chance of dying.

“I’ll go first,” a Tiger Group disciple declared confidently, stepping forward.

“Hold it,” the First Fatty said, raising a thick hand. “You want to fight our Number Nine? Then you bet something.”

The Tiger disciple hesitated.

Before he could answer, a Dragon Group disciple leapt onto the platform, brushing past him without a glance.

“I’ll bet my sword,” the Dragon disciple said calmly. “If you win, you take it. If I win, you pay me twenty times its value.”

“Deal,” the First Fatty replied instantly.

The Tiger disciple’s face darkened. “I was first!”

“You talk too much,” the Dragon disciple said lazily. “Wait your turn.”

“What turn?” the Tiger disciple snapped. “You’ll kill him in one strike. There won’t be another chance.”

The Dragon disciple laughed, sharp and mocking, and turned to Alex.

“You,” he said, pointing his sword. “Kneel. Beg. I might spare you. I could even bring you into our group.”

Alex lifted his iron wok.

The black metal caught the light. In his hand, it looked ridiculous—like a cook who’d wandered into the wrong arena.

“If you can beat me,” Alex said calmly, “sure. But I don’t kneel to people weaker than me.”

The insult landed hard.

“How dare you!” the Dragon disciple roared.

He fully drew his sword and charged, spiritual energy surging around him. His steps were fast. Precise. Trained. The blade cut toward Alex’s throat.

Everyone held their breath.

This was it.

The servant would die.

But in the blink of an eye, Alex shifted one step to the right.

Just one.

Simple. Clean. Effortless.

The sword sliced through empty air.

At the same time, Alex swung his iron wok.

No flashy technique. No dramatic aura.

Just a solid, brutal swing.

The Dragon disciple’s forward momentum carried him straight into it.

Clang.

The sound rang across the courtyard like a struck bell.

The iron wok slammed into the disciple’s head with terrifying force.

His eyes rolled back.

His body went limp.

He hit the ground like a sack of grain—out cold in a single strike.

The courtyard fell into stunned silence.

No one understood what they had just seen.

One move.

One swing.

An outer disciple was down.

“Did he just… run his face into the wok?”

“Yeah… it looked like he smashed himself into it.”

Whispers spread fast.

From where they stood, it really did look that way. Alex had swung toward the exact spot where the disciple’s head was about to be.

Like two speeding carriages colliding head-on.

The disciple charged.

Alex adjusted.

Impact was inevitable.

An outer disciple from the Dragon Group—knocked unconscious by a kitchen servant with a cooking utensil.

“Thank you, thank you,” Alex said cheerfully, as if he’d just received a gift instead of winning a duel. “You let me win.”

He bent down, picked up the fallen disciple’s sword, and casually tossed it to the Eighth Fatty.

“Hold this for me.”

The Sixth Fatty climbed onto the platform, grabbed the unconscious disciple by the collar, and dragged him across the wood like a sack of rice. Without ceremony, he heaved him off the platform and tossed him aside.

“Next,” Alex said, twirling the iron wok.

The Tiger Group disciples burst out laughing, pointing at the Dragon Group.

“Your outer disciple lost to a servant!”

“What kind of trash are you sending out?”

The Dragon Group’s faces darkened with humiliation.

A Tiger Group outer disciple stepped onto the platform, expression cold and controlled.

“You can have my sword if you win,” he said evenly. “But unfortunately for you, I’ll be taking your head.”

His voice was calm, but the killing intent around him was razor sharp.

Below the platform, the Fatty brothers shouted again.

“Anyone who lost before can bet again!”

“If our Number Nine loses this time, you win everything back!”

“Bet one, get twenty! Second chance!”

The crowd stirred.

Many who had lost their first bets were furious—at the fallen Dragon disciple, at themselves. Their pride was bruised. Their spirit stones gone.

If they wanted it back, they had to bet again.

And bet bigger.

The cloth filled once more—more spirit stones, more food pills, more valuables.

The Fatty brothers were grinning ear to ear. The first round alone had been a massive haul.

The First Fatty looked up at the platform and waved his hand.

“You may begin.”

The Tiger disciple lunged instantly, sword flashing.

“You’re dead this time,” he snarled.

The crowd leaned forward.

Steel sliced through the air.

And then—

Clang.

The unmistakable sound of iron striking flesh echoed through the courtyard again.

The iron wok had found another face.