Qin Ting stayed his hand, withholding a final strike after his initial blow left Elder Zhang gravely wounded. The elder lay sprawled across the cracked stone floor, his once-imposing figure reduced to a crumpled heap. As Sect Elder—and specifically the Elder of Discipline—Zhang held a title of weight.
To end his life would cross a brazen line, even for Qin Ting's audacity. Fearless of repercussions, he still preferred to avoid the tangled web of sect politics that would ensue.
The damage, however, was done. Qin Ting's Divine Raging Thunder Secret Technique had ravaged Elder Zhang's internal meridians, leaving them in tatters. Faint flickers of lightning lingered in the air, a testament to the strike's ferocity. Whether the old man could cling to life, let alone restore his shattered cultivation, was a gamble against fate—one Qin Ting had no interest in betting on.
'Who holds more value?' Qin Ting mused. 'A broken old man with no future, or an eighteen-year-old prodigy already in the Divine Spirit Realm? The answer's clear.' Confidence surged within him, reinforcing his sense of untouchability. The sect would protect him; he was certain.
He glanced sidelong at the fallen elder, weighing the aftermath. Even if Elder Zhang miraculously mended his Dao Foundation—a feat Qin Ting deemed improbable—his days as Elder of Discipline were over. Stripped of his title, his influence would crumble.
A man like Zhang, who had trampled countless others during his tenure, would face a host of enemies eager to settle old scores. Qin Ting's lips curved into a faint smirk. Some might even act just to curry favor with him.
Elder Zhang, sprawled in the dirt, seemed to grasp this grim reality. His face, pale as a shroud, bore the weight of defeat. Blood dribbled from his lips with each ragged cough, staining the ground. Too weak to rise, he waved a trembling hand, summoning disciples to hoist him up alongside the unconscious Song Changge. Their faces blank, they carried him toward the medical ward in heavy silence, as if escorting a man already resigned to his grave.
The onlookers watched, their gazes cold and unyielding. No one spared pity for the disheveled figure carted away in disgrace. The crowd had seen Elder Zhang's earlier provocations against Qin Ting—his petty schemes and overt hostility.
His fall now felt fitting, almost poetic. Among the spectators, a few elders and disciples who had chafed under Zhang's iron rule exchanged furtive glances, their minds alight with possibilities. Revenge, once a distant dream, now seemed within reach.
A sharp jolt surged through Qin Ting's mind, electric and clear, followed by a flat, mechanical voice—the unmistakable tone of the system.
[Host behavior detected: Crippled a fellow True Disciple and a Sect Elder. Reward: 25,000 Villain Points for villainous conduct, as deemed by the system.]
Exhilaration washed over Qin Ting, his lips twitching into a faint, incredulous grin. He hadn't expected such a windfall from a single act. True, he had reasons for leaving Song Changge and Elder Zhang broken in his wake, but the system cared nothing for justifications. To it, maiming a senior brother and an elder was peak villainy—and highly profitable.
'This is too perfect,' he thought, delight bubbling within. 'I settle scores and get showered with Villain Points. Why would I stop?'
As Qin Ting savored the moment, the crowd's murmurs grew louder. Disciples and onlookers pressed closer, their voices a chorus of awe and reverence. They bowed low, eyes gleaming with admiration. Whispers rippled through the throng—many declared the title of Holy Son of the Xuantian Sect belonged to Qin Ting alone.
Even the typically reserved elders now wore broad, approving smiles, their flattery lauding his talent while hinting that the sect's future rested on his shoulders.
Qin Ting met their adulation with a confident, radiant smile, tinged with an effortless supremacy that set him apart. He laughed lightly, trading jests with the crowd, his poise unshakable, as if he were a deity gracing mortals with his presence. The disciples soaked it in, their reverence near fanaticism. To them, standing in his shadow was a privilege to recount for years.
The spell broke as a few True Disciples approached, their steps measured. Sensing the shift, the crowd dispersed with tactful bows, retreating into the distance. Luo Yuan's laughter rolled through the crisp mountain air, hearty and unrestrained, mirroring his larger-than-life presence. "Junior Brother Qin, you've truly outdone yourself this time! After today, I'm thoroughly convinced of your prowess!"
Beside him, Feng Qianhan's lips curved into a fragile smile that crumbled before it could warm his cold, shadowed eyes. To the observant, the tension in his face was clear—his features taut, as if an invisible thread strained to hold his mask in place.
'How could this have happened?' he brooded, thoughts churning like a trapped tempest. 'Song Changge—that spineless fool—folded like paper. And Elder Zhang? Even he couldn't withstand Qin Ting's might.' Disbelief gnawed at him, shadowed by a dread he refused to name.
Feng Qianhan held no loyalty to Jiang Zhongbai, but he'd taken quiet pleasure in watching the man's schemes target Qin Ting. Now, that satisfaction had soured into bitter defeat. Worse, his prized secret treasure—the Swords of Heaven Formation—had been lost to Luo Yuan in a wager he'd been certain he'd win. The memory sank into his chest like a dagger, twisting deeper with each recollection.
Zhou Pingyue, a True Disciple, broke the silence with a laugh that sparkled like sunlight on water, cutting through the tension with playful ease. "Of course Senior Brother Luo's convinced—he's walking away with Senior Brother Feng's Swords of Heaven Formation, after all!"
"Oh?" Qin Ting's voice carried intrigue as he turned to Feng Qianhan, his blue eyes glinting like a blade catching the sun.
Feng Qianhan summoned another smile, rigid and awkward, like a poorly fitted mask. "It's merely an added flourish," he said, his tone light but strained. "A small token to celebrate our Junior Brother's triumph…"
'That meddling little—must Zhou Pingyue always meddle?' he fumed inwardly, temper flaring in silence.
Qin Ting's lips tilted into a sly, knowing grin, his voice smooth yet threaded with amusement. "Senior Brother Feng wagered the Swords of Heaven Formation, did he? Now I'm curious—what did Senior Brother Luo offer to match such a stake?"
Luo Yuan tilted his head, an enigmatic smile dancing across his rugged features. "Just a curiosity from a secret realm years back," he said with a dismissive wave. "The Seven-Colored Glass Flower."
Qin Ting's brow lifted in quiet astonishment. The Seven-Colored Glass Flower was no mere trinket—it was a legendary spiritual medicine, its iridescent petals rumored to hold extraordinary properties. Its value surpassed even the Swords of Heaven Formation, a fact no one missed.
"With an item that rare, I'd be half-mad to demand it in a bet," Qin Ting remarked, his cunning smirk widening as he leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief.
Zhou Pingyue's laughter bubbled up again, bright and unrestrained, slicing through the tension like a bell in a storm. "Senior Brother Feng must've thought the same—he insisted on the Seven-Colored Glass Flower as his prize. Could it be Senior Brother Feng's breakthrough to the Divine Platform Realm is closer than we thought?"
Feng Qianhan's jaw tightened, a subtle ripple beneath his composed mask. 'She's too sharp for her own good,' he mused bitterly, a quiet storm brewing in his chest as he cursed Zhou Pingyue's knack for cutting through his defenses.
His gaze darted to her, a flash of anger in his dark eyes. Zhou Pingyue had chosen today to bare her claws, aiming her barbs at him. 'Enjoy your little victory,' he thought, lips twitching faintly. 'I'll repay this tenfold when the time comes.'
Qin Ting's eyes shimmered with mischief, his lips curving into a melodic laugh. "It seems Senior Brother Feng holds quite a fondness for Senior Brother Luo," he said, his tone teasing. "One might think Hidden Sword Peak has forged some… unexpected alliances with Senior Brother Feng's circle. Truly, a bond others might envy."
Luo Yuan's smile faltered briefly, his thoughts catching on Qin Ting's words. 'What game is he playing?' he wondered, his gaze drifting to Feng Qianhan with probing depth.
Then, brushing aside the shadow, he let his smile return. "Junior Brother Qin jests," he replied smoothly, his voice warm. "Hidden Sword Peak is my domain. If anyone there were tangled with a rival Peak, I'd know before whispers reached the wind."
Qin Ting offered a faint, knowing smile, his silence louder than words. He let the matter drop, but the seed was planted. The air between Luo Yuan and Feng Qianhan thickened with unspoken tension—a rift now simmering beneath the surface.
Feng Qianhan's expression darkened, his features hardening into a brittle mask. Forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he inclined his head stiffly. "I've matters to attend to," he said, his voice clipped. With a sharp turn, his robes billowed like a storm cloud as he swept away, leaving a chill behind.
As the scene settled, the system's crisp, mechanical voice chimed in Qin Ting's mind: [Host detected instigating discord between fellow sect members, a clear act of villainy. Reward: 5,000 Villain Points.]
A sly smirk curled Qin Ting's lips, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. 'Just as I predicted!' he mused, thoughts cloaked in triumph.
The system, cold and impartial, cared little for intentions. Whether driven by malice or cunning, actions marked as villainy earned Villain Points. A soft voice broke his reverie. Li Junning, a True Disciple who had stayed silent until now, spoke with a gentle timbre. Her beauty was striking—delicate yet commanding, rivaling or perhaps surpassing Zhou Pingyue's allure.
"If I may ask… What was that final technique Junior Brother Qin used against Elder Zhang?" she asked, her tone genuinely curious. "Junning has never seen such a move—it didn't seem to belong to the Xuantian Sect's divine arts."
Qin Ting turned to her, his smile warm yet laced with deftly masked pride. "Oh, that's just a humble divine art of my own making," he replied, his voice smooth as polished jade. "A variation inspired by a technique my lord father once crafted."
The words carried a modesty that might have rung hollow from another, but from Qin Ting, they felt fitting—his charisma making even false humility captivating. He tilted his head, his gaze locking with hers.
"If Senior Sister doesn't mind, I'd be delighted to visit your Pavilion of Delicacy and demonstrate it for you." His tone was velvet, each syllable measured, as he extended a hand with effortless grace.
Li Junning's eyes flickered with intrigue. She nodded faintly, her delicate fingers brushing his as she accepted. "Thank you, Junior Brother," she said softly, her voice warm. "I'll trouble you this time."