Sun Xiaolan felt Liu Zhongnan's gaze crawl over her skin like leprous fingers. The Violet Thunder Sect heir lounged obscenely across Yun Manor's silk-upholstered sofa, his porcine eyes dissecting her curves through the woolen coat. When his tongue flicked across wine-stained lips, she gripped Zhao Rui's arm hard enough to leave crescent moon indents in his sleeve.
翻译
"Master Yun," Liu drawled, ignoring the murderous glares from Yun clansmen, "must I remind you how many factories burned last month? My patience—"
"Your patience?" Zhao Rui's voice cut through the tension like a blade through rice paper. All eyes snapped to the youth who'd been silently observing. Dust motes hung frozen in afternoon light slanting through lattice windows.
Liu Zhongnan's jowls quivered. "Who let this stray dog speak? I'll—"
The air crackled.
Before anyone blinked, Liu Zhongnan's 280-pound body levitated as if hooked by invisible wires. Zhao Rui's fist met his face with a wet crunch—nose cartilage disintegrating, teeth scattering like ivory dice across marble floors. The heir's scream curdled blood.
"Xiao Rui..." Sun Xiaolan's whisper died as she saw his eyes—no longer the gentle youth from her memories, but ancient glaciers reflecting eons of slaughter.
Chaos erupted.
Elder Jingyang's teacup shattered against the floor. The 400-year-old Longhu Mountain cultivator rose, his azure Daoist robes billowing with gathered qi. "Insolent whelp! You dare—"
Dun Che yawned.
The movement seemed casual, but cultivators in the room felt spacetime ripple. Jingyang's prized Soul-Severing Sword froze mid-thrust, its glowing edge centimeters from Zhao Rui's throat. Thick fingers wrapped around the blade.
"Pretty toothpick," the hulking demon rumbled. His biceps flexed—celestial steel screeched then snapped like dry kindling.
Jingyang's scream wasn't human when Dun Che's counterpunch connected. Ribs powdered. The Daoist crashed through six reinforced concrete walls before embedding in a garden rockery, his blood painting cherry blossoms crimson.
Silence thicker than funeral shrouds blanketed the hall. Liu Zhongnan's whimpers became the only sound.
"Y-you..." Jingyang spat out a molar, recognition dawning through pain-hazed eyes. "The ones who slew Huayang Zhenjun!"
Zhao Rui stepped over a groaning bodyguard. His boot heels clicked rhythmically against the ruined floor. "Tell me, Daoist Jingyang—does Longhu Mountain teach its dogs to sniff out mortal women now?"
The fallen cultivator scrabbled backward, robes tangling in broken furniture. "Mercy! I beg you! The Violet Thunder Sect forced—"
"Lies have short legs," Dun Che growled. A flick of his wrist sent Liu Zhongnan crashing into his ancestor. The two aristocrats collapsed in a whimpering heap.
Zhao Rui knelt, fingers brushing Jingyang's sweat-slicked forehead. The Daoist whimpered as spiritual energy probed his core. "Three broken meridians. Forty-seven shattered bones. You'll live—if I allow it."
Sun Xiaolan watched from the doorway, nausea rising. This wasn't the boy who'd shared stolen mangoes with her under summer rains. This was a war god wearing familiar skin.
"Xiao Lan." Zhao Rui's voice softened as he turned. In that moment, the killer vanished, replaced by the youth who'd memorized her laugh. "These vermin won't trouble Yun Manor again."
As if summoned, distant thunder rumbled. Through shattered walls, dark clouds churned above Dong'an—not natural weather, but the gathering aura of approaching cultivators.
Dun Che sniffed the charged air and grinned, fangs glinting. "Seems someone's calling the pack."
Zhao Rui helped Yun Xiong to his feet. The patriarch's hands trembled, not from fear but rage long suppressed. "They took Yun Fei three days ago. Demanded our ancestral seal as ransom."
In the garden, Jingyang coughed blood. "Fools... The Violet Thunder Sect has seven Nascent Soul elders coming. You're dead men!"
Lightning split the sky.
Zhao Rui's laughter echoed through the broken manor—a sound that made even Dun Che's hackles rise. "Seven? Hardly worth the warmup."
He turned to Sun Xiaolan, eyes blazing with celestial fire. "Wait here with Master Yun. This won't take long."
As the first ice pellets of a qinglong storm began falling, two figures strode into the tempest. Behind them, Sun Xiaolan clutched her jade pendant—a childhood gift from Zhao Rui, now pulsing with protective energies.
Somewhere in the maelstrom, swords sang their death chants.