The courtyard had long since fallen into silence, save for the faint howling of spiritual wind still swirling in chaotic ripples around Meng Hao. Blood stained the white stone ground in vivid streaks, the remnants of those who had dared to mock, threaten, and underestimate him.
His robes fluttered faintly in the breeze as he turned his cold gaze toward the two remaining cultivators—Su Mei and Wang Mei—the so-called geniuses of their sects, once proud and untouchable, now trembling before a power they couldn't defy.
Meng Hao's voice cut through the silence like a cold knife. "Do you want to say anything else?"
His tone was calm—too calm. It wasn't the calm of mercy, but the stillness before an execution. That terrible quiet that came when fate had already been decided.
Su Mei's lips quivered. Her knees were bloodied from kneeling too long under the pressure of his aura, her pride long shattered. But her mouth stayed shut. There was no salvation in words anymore.
