The underground palace stretched beneath the Eastern Wilderness, vast and silent as a forgotten tomb. Its grand hall, carved from stone older than memory, loomed with ancient weight.
At the chamber's heart stood the sacred tree, a mystery of twisted branches and crimson leaves. They glowed with an otherworldly light, as if kindled by the souls of the departed. Thick, sinuous roots wove through cracked tiles, pulsing faintly with a rhythm that hinted at ancient power—a relic from an era when gods walked the earth.
Elder Wei of the Yuanshi Gate Sect stood before the sacred tree, his gray robes stirring in the damp air. His scarred hands, hardened by decades of cultivation and battle, clenched into fists beneath his sleeves.
His weathered face twisted into a snarl, his voice sharp with venom honed by years of authority. "Qin Ting!" he roared, the name bitter on his tongue. "The Yuanshi Gate Sect is a holy land of the Eastern Wilderness, a pillar of virtue forged in the blood and sacrifice of countless heroes! How dare you spit upon our honor with your insolence?"
Across the chamber, Qin Ting stood calm, bathed in flickering torchlight that cast long shadows on the walls. His sharp features—high cheekbones and a jaw like polished obsidian—were softened only by a faint, mocking smile.
His sapphire eyes glinted with cold, sardonic light, sharper than any blade, daring the elder to act. He tilted his head, a predator's gesture. His purple robes fluttered as if touched by an unseen breeze, the air around him humming with latent power, violet lightning arcing between his fingertips like restless serpents.
'He mocks me,' Wei Zhong seethed, his chest heaving with ragged breaths that mirrored his rising rage. 'This whelp—this upstart boy—dares to stand alone against Yuanshi and grin as though we're ants beneath his heel!'
Hatred surged within the elder, threatening to overwhelm him. 'If only I could rush forward and tear him apart!' he seethed, each breath a struggle to contain his fury.
Yet reality restrained him. His cultivation lingered in the Divine Spirit Realm, far from surpassing Yan Han's—and even Yan Han had been obliterated by Qin Ting. The fool's broken corpse now lay as a grim reminder, a stark testament to Qin Ting's relentless power.
The bitter truth cut deeper than pride. With a final, resentful glance at the sacred tree—its glow a mocking reminder of what they risked losing—he snarled, his voice echoing through the hall. "Don't think this ends here, Qin Ting! Every insult you've carved into our flesh, every drop of blood you've spilled—we'll repay it a hundredfold!"
His robes billowed as he leapt into the air, soaring toward the distant side halls. His disciples followed in a ragged procession, their once-proud strides replaced by the slumped shoulders of defeat, their ornate armor clinking softly with each step.
From the chamber's edges, a rough crowd of rogue cultivators and lesser sect members watched with barely concealed glee. Their faces, weathered by the Eastern Wilderness's harsh wilds, glowed with the grim satisfaction of the downtrodden. The Yuanshi Gate Sect's arrogance had long poisoned the region.
Earlier, the sect had unleashed their Yuanshi Formation, a towering construct of golden energy that swept the battlefield like a divine scythe. Its radiant tendrils consumed friend and foe alike, rogue cultivators falling in droves, their screams swallowed by the wind. Even those with no quarrel against Yuanshi perished, mere pawns in the sect's ruthless quest for dominance.
Now, as the disciples retreated, the crowd's whispers grew into a wave of vindication.
"Serves them right!" a grizzled man rasped, his voice rough from years of ashwine. "Finally, someone's cut those pompous bastards down to size!" a woman hissed, her scarred lips curling into a smirk. The air buzzed with their satisfaction, a chorus of the forsaken relishing the mighty's fall.
Qin Ting ignored their murmurs, his presence a storm in itself. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, purple lightning weaving a crackling halo around him. His robes fluttered as he glided forward, weightless as a specter, tendrils of thunder stretching to form a shimmering field across the chamber.
Where he passed, warriors from rival sects, clad in splendid armor, plummeted from the air, their bodies charred by his aura's searing touch. Swords and spears clattered to the stone, melted into slag by his power's heat, their wielders reduced to ash before they could scream.
In this subterranean abyss, Qin Ting was a god among men.
The rogue cultivators scrambled back, boots scraping the uneven floor, parting before him like a sea before a storm. A path opened to the sacred tree, its red leaves rustling with a faint, melodic chime that seemed to whisper his name.
'Those who yield may live,' he mused, a quiet certainty settling in his thoughts. 'Those who resist shall die.'
His gaze swept the crowd, cold and unyielding, as if piercing through flesh to the marrow beneath.
A grizzled cultivator, his face half-hidden by a tattered cloak, muttered, "Is this the might of a peerless genius?" His voice trembled with awe, tinged with a faint thread of dread.
As Qin Ting neared the sacred tree, its glow pulsed brighter. The disciples of the great holy lands—Chaosheng, Xingyue, and the Ancient Sanctum—could no longer suppress their wounded pride. It flared like a dying ember reignited, spurring them into desperate action.
The Chaosheng Sect's silver-robed disciples formed a tight phalanx, their movements honed by years of discipline. At their forefront stood Liang Bo, a stern-faced True Disciple.
"Together, now!" he barked, his voice a sharp command. "Summon the Peak of Eternity!"
Their spiritual energy merged, a torrent of power shaping a colossal sacred weapon—a living mountain pulsing with verdant life. Trees sprouted from its slopes, jagged rocks gleaming like fangs as it surged through the air, crashing toward Qin Ting with the force of a falling sky, intent on crushing him.
From the Xingyue Sect stepped Fu Mingzhu, her lithe frame draped in robes that shimmered like moonlit water. Almond hair framed a face lit with a coy, teasing smile. "Astral Blade!" she called, her voice lilting with deceptive sweetness.
A blade of starlight streaked forth, radiant and ethereal, its edges rippling with celestial power. It sliced toward Qin Ting with force enough to rend the palace, trailing motes of light that sparkled like fallen stars.
Zhou Qian of the Ancient Sanctum roared, his body swelling into a towering giant that dominated the battlefield. Crimson runes glowed across his skin, pulsing like the heartbeat of a demon god awakened. Behind him, his fellow disciples, faces pale with strain, channeled their spiritual energy into his form, their breaths ragged as they fueled his transformation.
"Crush him!" one shouted, sweat dripping from his brow. With a stride that shook the earth, the giant lunged, his massive hand clawing toward Qin Ting, fingers tipped with claws of molten gold that sizzled against the stone.
Nearby, a wiry disciple of the Qianyuan Sect shifted nervously, his eyes darting between the chaos and Mu Qingyi. "Senior Sister Mu, should we join them?" he whispered, voice taut with urgency. "If we don't act, the sacred tree will fall into his hands!"
Mu Qingyi stood apart, her crimson robes pristine amid the dust and blood. Her gaze rested on Qin Ting, calm and unreadable, like a still lake concealing vast depths.
After a moment, she shook her head, her voice soft but firm. "If they can't stop Young Master Qin Ting, our strength won't tip the scales. And if they do, we'd only fight them next. Better to wait."
The disciple exhaled sharply, stepping back with a reluctant nod. 'She's right,' he thought, 'but it bothers me to stand idle.'
Only Mu Qingyi felt the heavy weight of her restraint—'He's someone we cannot afford to provoke.'
The combined assault of the three holy lands roared forth, a tempest of power that shook the palace to its core. Cracks raced across the walls, dust falling from the ceiling as the air thrummed with raw, destructive force.
Qin Ting's laughter rang out, sharp and fearless, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Is this the best the vaunted holy lands can offer?" he mocked, his voice laced with contempt. With a casual flick of his right hand, he pointed upward. A sigil flared on the ceiling, unleashing a sword of searing purple that blazed with brilliance.
It spiraled downward like a newborn sun, bathing the hall in blinding light and casting jagged shadows. The blade met the Peak of Eternity head-on, slicing through rock and earth with a thunderous crack. The mountain shattered into countless fragments, the Chaosheng disciples screaming as the backlash consumed them, leaving a sword-shaped crater scorched into the floor.
Qin Ting's left hand rose with languid grace, closing around the Astral Blade as it streaked toward him. "Pretty, but useless. Much like yourself," he murmured, his tone tinged with boredom.
With a faint squeeze between two fingers, the starry weapon crumbled, scattering into shimmering motes of light that drifted away like dying embers.
Fu Mingzhu's smile faltered, then vanished, her widened eyes betraying shock as her pride shattered.
With a wave of his hand, Qin Ting summoned a divine art. The ground split beneath him, and thousands of emerald vines erupted, each thick as a warrior's arm and bristling with dagger-like thorns. They tore through the stone like silk, surging toward Fu Mingzhu with relentless hunger.
She stumbled back, her energy drained, her coy mask gone. "No—help me!" she cried, her voice raw with terror as her Xingyue comrades rushed forward. Their swords and techniques flashed, slashing at the vines, but the tendrils regrew faster than they could cut, shrugging off blows like a beast swatting flies.
The vines seized Fu Mingzhu in an instant, coiling around her limbs and throat. Her screams rang out, shrill and desperate, as they tightened, tearing her apart in a grotesque spray of blood and bone.
Her comrades froze, then collapsed to their knees, weapons clattering to the ground. "Senior Sister!" one sobbed, his hands clawing at the tiles as if he could pull her back from death.
Qin Ting chuckled, a low, dark sound, and turned to Zhou Qian's towering form. "A big target makes an easy mark," he mused aloud.
A single energy palm, wreathed in purple light, thrust out with devastating force. The giant's chest caved in, flesh and blood rupturing as Zhou Qian was flung backward. His true body crashed among the Ancient Sanctum disciples, stirring a cloud of dust.
He lay still, unconscious, as his comrades scrambled to his side, shouting, "Brother Zhou! Stay with us!"
But Qin Ting's mercy was absent. With a flick of his wrist, the blood-soaked vines surged toward Zhou Qian. "Finish him off," he commanded, his voice cold as the abyss.
The thorny tendrils pierced the fallen disciple relentlessly, shredding flesh and bone until his innards spilled across the floor in a crimson tide. The Ancient Sanctum disciples wailed, helpless as their prodigy was reduced to a mangled ruin, their hands trembling in the air.
With another flick, the vines retreated, slithering back into the earth with a wet, guttural hiss. The carnage left behind was a brutal testament—a field of blood and despair that silenced the chamber.
In moments, Qin Ting had shattered the united might of three holy lands, as if strolling through a garden, plucking victory with the ease of a child gathering petals.
'Their grand designs crumble so easily,' he mused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 'It's almost a pity.'
Silence fell, broken only by the distant drip of water from the ceiling. The crowd stared at Qin Ting, stunned, as if the world had paused to witness his ascent.
Liang Bo, Fu Mingzhu, and Zhou Qian were no ordinary disciples—each a titan under forty, masters of the Divine Spirit Realm, wielding divine arts that had toppled lesser legends. They had swallowed their pride to unite against him, their combined might a force to shake the heavens.
Yet they fell before his solitary power, a chasm between them vast enough to drown hope itself.
A rogue cultivator, his face etched by years of strife, murmured, "The greatest of our generation… A blessing to behold, a curse to defy." His voice trembled with awe and despair, a prayer whispered into the void.
Qin Ting's gaze drifted to the sacred tree, its glow pulsing faintly as if in response to his presence. He moved forward, the lightning around him crackling louder, a storm ready to break. The crowd held its breath.
In the shadows, Mu Qingyi watched, her calm facade revealing nothing. Yet, within her mind, a warning stirred: 'This is only the beginning. What will happen once we come across the heavenly treasure?'