At the valley's edge, an hour had slipped by unnoticed when Qin Ting descended from the heavens, his arrival a thunderclap that silenced the murmurs below. The assembled disciples, elders, and Death Guards parted like a tide before him, their whispers rising and falling like prey fleeing a predator's shadow. Eyes gleamed with awe and dread, yet none dared voice questions about where he had been in that lost hour.
The wind carried blood and ash—a sharp, metallic tang that lingered in the air, a silent testament to the carnage he'd unleashed hours earlier. Mu Qingyi stood apart, her slender form braced against the gusts, a fragile figure overshadowed by his towering will. Exhaustion hollowed her face, sorrow sharpening every line as if carved by a cruel hand.
Ye Qiu's death gnawed at her—a raw, jagged wound, torn wider by Qin Ting's merciless poise and her final strike. She'd known Ye Qiu for years, their bond forged in shared struggles, yet now it lay shattered, buried beneath the valley's bloodstained earth. Lan Xiu's murder at Ye Qiu's hands still haunted her, a cold specter that sharpened her silence, and today's brutality had only deepened its sting.
She edged closer to Qin Ting, her shoes scraping the jagged stone, each step a cautious tread before the predator looming ahead. "Senior Brother Qin," she murmured, her voice a thin, trembling wisp, threaded with practiced hesitation, "did it… did it really have to end like this?" Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyes shimmering with fragile regret—a calculated plea to soften his resolve.
Qin Ting turned, his stare slicing through hers, cold and unyielding, a blade dismissing a trembling hand. His voice rumbled low and smooth, each word a polished stone dropped without care. "Ye Qiu sealed his own fate, Junior Sister Mu. Your doubts change nothing." His lips twitched into a faint, scornful curve, masked as inevitability. "You held the sword. Accept it and move on—or your sect will see you as weak."
'Like I do...' he thought, irritation flickering beneath his composed exterior.
The words fell like an executioner's axe, severing any threads of comfort. Then, with a faint quirk of his lips, he mused, 'Poor Ye Qiu never saw it coming,' his dark jest cutting deeper than steel, revealing a man whose polished veneer hid a taste for wicked sharpness.
Mu Qingyi flinched, her body tensing as unease crashed over her. 'I'm not repulsed,' she thought, 'but why does this hit me so hard?' A flicker of sadness for Ye Qiu's fate tugged at her chest, sharp and unexpected. 'Is that wrong?' she asked herself, the question looping in her mind.
Qin Ting's voice echoed in her memory—his offhand remark about her naivety—and she wondered if he'd seen something she hadn't. Her lips parted, a breath escaping as if to speak, only to clamp shut, trapping the words within.
A shuddering breath broke free as grief pressed down, relentless as a storm-swept tide. "I know," she murmured, her voice nearly lost to the wind's howl. "But knowing doesn't make it any easier." She hesitated, a weary bird caught in a tempest, then turned, trudging toward Backridge City with faltering steps, like a fading echo.
The Qianyuan Sect disciples' murmurs trailed her, a ripple of voices weaving through the shadows—whispers of Ye Qiu and his victims avenged, their relief a quiet hymn.
The hidden valley stretched around Qin Ting, a canvas of his creation—blood pooling in dark, twisted patterns across the earth, congealing under a sky choked with clouds. The air thickened with death's scent: iron, rot, and the bite of spent energy.
Elders in gray robes moved through the wreckage, their chants a low hum as they scraped shallow graves from the dirt, hands steady but eyes averted from the tall, composed figure overseeing it all.
Survivors stumbled among the fallen, hollow-eyed, clutching broken swords and tattered banners—the last gasps of lives he'd deemed expendable. Qin Ting's gaze swept the scene, his tall frame an unyielding pillar amid the chaos.
'Fools,' he thought, a flicker of disdain curling within him as he watched an elder of the Chaosheng Sect pause over a disciple's corpse, an expendable pawn who'd outlived his purpose.
With a slight tilt of his head, Qin Ting fixed his sapphire gaze on the elder, its piercing depths commanding the air. The elder faltered, shrinking back as if struck, and Qin Ting's lips curved—a fleeting, cold smile—as the man's resolve crumbled like ash under that unrelenting stare.
Above, the Lian Yun Mountains loomed, their mist-shrouded peaks bearing witness to his flawless victory. Tension coiled around him, a suffocating shroud that bent the air, leaving the valley breathless in his wake.
'Let them mourn their dead,' he mused, his mind already weaving through the next move, the next prey. 'Their blood will continue to mark my rise, step by step.'
The wind howled, but it yielded to him—Qin Ting, the predator who turned slaughter into scripture, each step a testament to a throne forged in blood and shadow. In time, this broken region would stand as his monument, its tale carried for centuries.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
In Backridge City, the Xuantian Sect's fortified palace towered over the sprawling streets like a brooding titan, its jagged stone and creeping shadow a monolith of power. The rune-carved walls pulsed with an eerie crimson glow, as if the ancient inscriptions drank the dying light of dusk bleeding into the horizon—a smear of amber and violet staining the sky.
Yet, beneath this imposing presence, the city was mending itself after the chaos of Ye Qiu's rampage of kidnappings and murder. The air, once heavy with fear, charred incense, and the tang of iron, now carried hints of renewal—the earthy aroma of fresh herbs from reopened markets and the soft clink of rebuilding efforts.
The sect's unyielding dominion still weighed on the streets, but the clamor of merchants and the shuffle of revitalized feet rose again, no longer a muted hum but a steady pulse of life reclaiming its rhythm.
Deep within the palace's lavish core, Qin Ting reclined on an ornate throne of blackened wood, its surface polished to a glassy sheen. Silver serpents writhed along its arms, their coils glinting like bared fangs under the flickering torchlight that danced across the walls, casting jagged shadows that seemed to slither and hiss.
A cup of jasmine tea rested in his grip, its delicate porcelain warm against his calloused fingers, steam rising in lazy tendrils that perfumed the air with floral sweetness he barely noticed.
The maid who'd brought it—a fragile girl with eyes wide and darting like a cornered deer's—had stood transfixed for a moment, caught between terror and enchantment. Qin Ting's beauty, an otherworldly allure woven into the sharp lines of his face and the commanding aura pulsing from him, held her spellbound, her breath shallow as if snared by ancient magic.
But fear, cold and primal, clawed to the surface, overpowering the trance. She retreated, her bare feet a muted scamper against the cold stone, head bowed in reverence, not daring to meet his piercing eyes, her departure swallowed by the hall's vast gloom.
Now, only Elder Liu remained, a solitary figure in the cavernous shadows.
The elder sat tall on a sturdy wooden chair, its dark grain worn smooth by time, his posture unyielding despite his advanced years. Elder Liu was striking—broad shoulders squared with vitality that defied the deep lines etched into his weathered face, each crease a map of battles endured.
Once ravaged by injuries from Ye Qiu and Jiang Zhongbai, he had emerged whole, his swift recovery a testament to the costly medicinal pills granted by Qin Ting. His body stood as a monument to resilience, sinew and muscle taut beneath coarse robes.
His silver-streaked hair gleamed faintly in the torchlight, framing a jaw set like forged steel, and his hands rested calmly on the armrests, steady and scarred, a silent chronicle of his enduring vigor.
Qin Ting sipped his tea, the warmth sinking into his throat like a fleeting conquest, a trivial comfort against the cold fire simmering in his chest.
Jiang Zhongbai, that small-minded fool with his petty schemes and brittle pride, was carrion now, his bones bleaching in the wilderness, a smudge erased from Qin Ting's ascent. The Holy Son's mantle hovered within reach, its weight a tantalizing whisper, the Xuantian Sect bending to his will like brittle stalks before a gale.
But Ye Qiu's obliteration? That was the true fire in Qin Ting's soul, a fierce rush that ignited his every breath. Since transmigrating into this world, Ye Qiu had been a gnawing thorn—a Child of Destiny whose every smug step mocked Qin Ting's dominion, his golden fortune a taunting gleam.
Now, that thorn was ground to dust beneath Qin Ting's heel, his luck siphoned into Qin Ting's own, a torrent of power surging through him like wildfire. At 100 Fortune Points, his fate burned like a sun swallowing the void, its radiance searing away all doubt.
A low rumble stirred in Qin Ting's chest, a primal growl echoing through the shadowed hall, resonating with satisfaction rooted in absolute dominance. His eyes narrowed into dark, glinting slits, a savage gleam flaring briefly as torchlight flickered across his chiseled features.
A faint ripple coursed through the air—an elusive whisper of fate brushing his senses. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to a distant call, and a slow, predatory grin curled his lips. 'Ah… another Child of Destiny awakens,' he mused, the thought slicing through his mind like a honed blade grazing taut flesh.
The sensation was faint but unmistakable, a precise tool of foresight granted by his swelling Fortune Points. He relished it, this cold ripple of prescience signaling the emergence of another fool destined to test his dominion. 'Let them scramble from their filthy pits, clawing for relevance. I shattered Ye Qiu when my strength was a mere spark—child's play, a fleeting amusement.'
His grin stretched wider, a hunter calculating the kill. 'Now? They'll strangle on their own delusions, throats raw and desperate, long before they dare to meet my gaze.'
Qin Ting's eyes drifted downward, locking onto Elder Liu with the chilling precision of a falcon sizing up its quarry, the air between them coiling tight with the promise of ruin.
The elder met it unflinchingly, his robust frame steady as granite, his breath even and deep, a seasoned warrior tempered by decades of blood and loyalty. He'd been a vital shield in the underground palace—his body a wall that absorbed blows meant for Qin Ting, guarding the Earth Emperor's Mysterious Flame with his life. Loyalty like his was useful, striking true when wielded by a master's hand.
Qin Ting reclined with effortless dominion, his posture poised yet radiating unassailable authority. His voice, rich and resonant, sliced through the chamber's stillness.
"Elder Liu," he intoned, the name falling with measured grace, each syllable a subtle barb cloaked in refinement, "you cast yourself headlong into that sordid affair within the underground palace…"
"You bore the brunt of the conspirators' attack—offered up your wretched existence that I might remain unsullied. A shrewd gambit, was it not? A silent wager that your sole purpose lies in expending yourself for my cause."
His lips curved into a faint smile—less warmth than derisive amusement—as he tilted the teacup, watching the leaves whirl in a fragile dance, ensnared by his will.
"I find a certain worth in that—a vassal who comprehends their place as fodder for my designs. It is, after all, the smallest tribute you could render unto me."
The elder drew himself up, his frame taut with pride, his voice rolling forth like a drumbeat—firm, clear, and unyielding. "Young Master," he said, his tone a pillar of iron resolve, unshaken by the acid in Qin Ting's words.
His eyes, sharp as honed steel, glinted in the dim light, locking onto Qin Ting with fierce, unspoken devotion. No offense clouded his gaze; instead, a fierce joy flared within it, as if Qin Ting's cold dissection of his sacrifice were a crown laid upon his head.
Qin Ting's smirk widened, a cruel edge to it as he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a silken taunt. "How long have you been tied to this dreary kennel, anyway? Sniffing around this muck heap like some mangy cur?"
The words dripped with idle amusement, a king prodding a loyal hound for sport. "Fifty years, Young Master," Elder Liu answered, his voice steady and resonant, pride thrumming beneath it like a taut bowstring. His gaze held firm, a spark of delight dancing in his eyes—not resentment, but a hound's thrill at being noticed by the hand that holds the leash.
"Fifty years?" Qin Ting murmured, his tone a velvet blade, soft but cutting. It carried the cruel indulgence of a monarch toying with a pet. "Half a century, buried in this pit, guarding phantoms while lesser men wither. Loyal, I'll give you that—still wagging your tail when the Qin Family beckons, even after all the groveling."
He let the silence unfurl, a leash loosened to savor the tension. The elder remained unflinching, his stance steady, yet the air grew taut under Qin Ting's effortless supremacy. Elder Liu dipped his head, a crisp motion of restrained pride, his gaze flaring with a loyalty so intense it seemed to warm the cold stone around them.
"I exist for your will, Young Master!" he declared, his voice a low, resonant growl—a vow etched in steel, vibrating through the air with quiet ferocity. To him, Qin Ting's scorn was no insult; it was a salute, a confirmation of his purpose, and his chest swelled with the honor of it.
Qin Ting flicked his wrist, a dismissive gesture as sharp as a whipcrack, and drawled, "The Law Enforcement Court is short an elder since that little… mishap. You'll fill the position—don't disappoint me." His tone was flat, bored, as if tossing a scrap to a starving dog, no hint of reward—just an order from on high, a master expecting obedience.
Elder Liu's face ignited with a fierce, grateful fire, his eyes blazing as he sank to one knee, his fist striking the stone with a muted thud—an offering of absolute fealty.
"Young Master! My strength, my soul—yours to command! From this breath onward, I shall be your shield and spear!" His voice boomed, a thunderous pledge that rolled through the chamber, crashing against the rune-carved walls and lingering like a war cry.
To him, this was no slight—it was exaltation, the joy of a tool sharpened for its master's hand. Qin Ting eased back, legs crossing with languid grace, the cup balanced on his knee like a scepter, its faint warmth a trivial afterthought. His smile unfurled—a slow, razor-thin curve, the barest hint of teeth gleaming with cruel promise, a predator savoring his dominion.
'A loyal force,' he thought, the words coiling in his mind like smoke, 'bound by my chain, eager to bleed.' Elder Liu was a weapon, a dull blade honed only by Qin Ting's will, and the board was his alone—every piece bending, breaking, to the cadence of his sneer.
His tall frame loomed, a pillar of unshakable arrogance, the air thickening with a tension that choked all who dared breathe near him. His lips curled faintly, a shadow of sadistic delight, as he pictured the next Protagonist to cross him—their eyes wide with terror, their screams a tribute to his reign.
This game was his, and he'd carve his throne from their corpses, brick by bloody brick, until the heavens themselves groveled at his feet.