Dimensional Storekeeper

Chapter 220: Dark Horse of the Tournament

Eyes glowing, wind surging, the background queuing up a tragic childhood memory. The kind of moment where the sky cracks open, monologues begin, and the universe starts passing out plot armor by the fistful.

Ten episodes of yelling. Three emotional flashbacks. One ultimate move, fully charged.

All of it denied.

Ji Yunzhi ended the episode before the opening theme could even finish.

No build-up. No second act. No miracle comeback.

Game. Over.

Dou Xinshi stood frozen, cue stick still in hand, expression blank.

Almost robotically, he walked up in a daze.

He approached the table not as a man defeated, but as a pilgrim returning to a sacred altar. This store was his temple.

This table, his battlefield.

And it had already been wiped clean.

His eyes scanned the green felt with quiet horror. All of Ji Yunzhi’s balls were gone. Every single one had been pocketed.

He cratched his eyes.

Looked again.

Still gone.

This wasn’t a match. This was a one-man execution.

A quiet, ruthless strike that left no trace, no mercy, and not even a sliver of hope behind.

His knees buckled slightly. For a moment, he looked like he might scream, flip the table, or drop to the floor and beg the system for a rematch.

But no.

This was sacred ground.

So instead, Dou Xinshi slowly lowered himself to his knees. Silent. Reverent. As if mourning the loss of something spiritual.

One hand pressed to the smooth tile.

His heart? Shattered.

His pride? Gone.

Across the table, Ji Yunzhi hadn’t moved.

No smirk. No flex. Just that same calm, unbothered face he wore when he walked in.

That made it worse.

Dou Xinshi looked at him.

Was this really the same person who once missed three shots in a row just trying to hit the white ball?

Was that all a bluff?

Or was this a disguised weapon sent by the heavens to humble him?

Either way, the truth stood there, impossible to ignore.

He never stood a chance.

Not even long enough to swing his sword or summon a single monologue.

But the real truth?

Ji Yunzhi hadn’t faked anything just to throw people off.

He was simply adapting.

That first game everyone kept whispering about? It wasn’t some master plan to look weak. He was just testing the waters.

The rogue alchemist didn’t walk into the store expecting to master a game of physics and angles on the spot.

That wasn’t how he operated. He needed data. Observation. Field experience.

So he missed on purpose.

A few cue ball taps that barely moved, a few scratches that looked embarrassing, and one pitiful shot that made a ball spin in place instead of rolling forward. It wasn’t him being clueless.

It was him learning.

In alchemy, you don’t throw your ingredients into the furnace and pray for an elixir. You test the temperature.

You check how each material reacts to flame, time, and air. You ruin ten pills to get one good batch.

You stir, refine, adjust, and fail until it works.

This was no different.

Ji Yunzhi had used that first match to feel the weight of the stick in his hand, to measure how much qi-enhanced strength would ruin the aim.

To figure out how much pressure bent the angle, how friction changed when the tip was chalked or dry. Even his failed shots were tests.

He had also heard, courtesy of some overly chatty cultivators in the store aisle, that customers could only play once per day.

So he made it last.

The longer the game, the more practice he could squeeze out of his allotted round. He treated it exactly like refining a complex pill formula.

Each miss, each mistake, each awkward shot was just part of his refinement cycle.

So when the tournament started?

He was ready.

Not a bluff.

Not a trick.

Just a man who used every inch of failure to build a foundation. Then climbed on it without fanfare and tore through the first round with precision.

The kind of precision that didn’t need flashing lights or smug declarations.

Only silence.

And crushed dreams.

With Ji Yunzhi’s unexpected performance, the room’s mood changed.

A new dark horse had entered the race.

People had come in expecting names like Elder Bai Qingshui, Sect Master Jiang Xianwei, or maybe even Old Tiger Zhao to dominate the tournament. But now, there was a new name whispered among the potential champions.

No one could say exactly how good Ji Yunzhi really was. It was only one game, after all.

However, it was more than enough to bump him into the ranks of the monsters.

Someone who could finish the entire game in a single turn wasn’t just lucky. That was skill. And dangerous.

The tournament marched on.

Princess Yunlan Qingyi and Hua Feixue, despite knowing the inevitable, still walked toward their matches with faint, foolish hopes glowing in their hearts.

Maybe a miracle.

But no.

Miracle denied.

Both were gracefully, yet firmly, eliminated.

They returned to their seats with matching empty faces and defeated souls. Hua Feixue muttered something about writing a formal petition to heaven. Yunlan Qingyi just stared into air.

The first round ended.

And with that, the second round swept in like a tide, thinning the players down until the quarterfinals began.

Now was the time for real skill to shine.

The monsters revealed themselves.

There was even a banger of a match early on – Lin Yijun versus Elder Bai Qingshui!

Lin fought well. Sharp eyes, steady hands, not a trace of hesitation. But Elder Bai played with one hand in his sleeve and an expression that looked seconds away from snoring.

Still, the old man’s ball control and placement were cleaner than a freshly forged blade. The match ended with a narrow win, but a win nonetheless.

Elsewhere, Ji Yunzhi’s next opponent was none other than Emperor Yunlan Haorang.

Many were excited to see this. Surely the emperor, someone of immense power and status, would put up a fight.

He did not.

On Ji Yunzhi’s second turn, it happened again.

Another clean sweep.

Another brutal shutout.

Emperor Yunlan Haorang didn’t even get a chance to touch the cue stick again.

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