Backridge City lay shrouded in an uneasy stillness, its ancient stone walls steeped in a silence that pulsed with life, as if the air itself held its breath. Since Qin Ting had shattered the Yuanshi Gate Sect's pride, the city's factions—once alive with schemes and rivalries—had withdrawn, their ambitions snuffed out like embers beneath a heavy veil of ash.
Qin Ting's indomitable presence loomed over the city like a tempest bound in human form, casting a shadow so vast that petty intrigues withered in its gloom. His name alone carried a weight that silenced dissent and stilled ambition, a force of nature disguised as a man. To cultivators and common folk alike, he was both marvel and menace—an enigma whose every action sent ripples through their world.
In his private chamber atop the Xuantian Sect's resplendent palace, Qin Ting stood motionless, his imposing silhouette framed against the ethereal glow of a hovering system interface, shimmering like captured starlight.
His eyes, sharp as tempered steel forged in countless trials, exuded an aura both regal and perilous—a young lord on the brink of something vast and unfathomable, his presence a silent promise of power yet to be unleashed.
It had begun with a single, disdainful gesture, etched into Backridge City's history with indelible clarity. Yan Han, the vaunted True Disciple of the Yuanshi Gate Sect—a prodigy cloaked in the sect's storied prestige—had fallen beneath Qin Ting's effortless flick of a finger.
The act was so swift, so precise, it seemed almost casual, a fleeting whim rather than a calculated blow. Yet its impact was cataclysmic. The Yuanshi disciples crumpled to their knees in broken gasps, their defiance shattered, their voices choked by the weight of public humiliation.
In that moment, the system within Qin Ting's consciousness stirred, its judgment cold and absolute: his actions epitomized the quintessential villain, a masterstroke of cruelty and control. Its reward was extravagant—100,000 Villain Points, a bounty that gleamed in his mind like priceless jade.
'One hundred thousand,' Qin Ting mused, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, ephemeral as a shadow on a still pond.
His razor-sharp intellect unraveled the system's logic with the precision of a blade parting silk. 'To crush their spirit so thoroughly—it's not just power, but artistry perfected.' The thought lingered, a quiet satisfaction threading through his veins as he savored the elegance of his triumph.
The Yuanshi Gate Sect was no trivial foe. In the vast Eastern Wilderness, it stood as a revered bastion of cultivation, its name whispered in awe by those seeking the Dao's mysteries. Its legacy was a tapestry of centuries-old discipline and triumph.
On the surface, Qin Ting had merely toyed with its disciples, a predator batting at trembling prey. But the ripples of his act plunged deeper, a stone cast into still waters that shattered the sect's fragile ascent with unrelenting force. By forcing their submission so publicly, he had ground their prestige into dust, leaving only whispers of ruin and disgrace.
He and Yan Han were equals in title—True Disciples, each having clawed through blood and sacrifice to reach the Divine Spirit Realm, where mortality's limits frayed and the divine glimmered within reach. Yet, in that fleeting confrontation, the chasm between them was laid bare, a gulf so vast it defied comprehension.
The Yuanshi Gate's True Disciple, once a beacon of promise, had groveled before Xuantian's—an image seared into onlookers' minds, unerasable by time or excuses. Across the Eastern Wilderness, Qin Ting's name would rise on tides of awe and legend, while Yan Han's sank beneath derision, a cautionary tale for the ambitious.
'They're both True Disciples, aren't they?' he imagined whispers threading through bustling marketplaces and shadowed taverns. 'So why does Xuantian's champion crush Yuanshi's with such effortless grace?' The question would fester, gnawing at the foundations of Yuanshi's reputation.
For the Yuanshi Gate Sect, this was no mere setback—it was a wound to their soul. A faction clawing for prominence in a land of ancient titans, they could ill afford such disgrace, a stain that dulled their once-bright future.
Meanwhile, the Xuantian Sect's legend swelled, its name gilded anew. 'An ancient sanctuary of cultivation,' the people would proclaim, voices thick with reverence, 'its legacy unbroken across eons, its might unrivaled in majesty.' The contrast was stark—one sect's ascent, another's descent into obscurity.
The system's voice cut through Qin Ting's reverie, crisp and mechanical: [The Host's accumulated Villain Points have surpassed 100,000. A draw of the Wheel of Fate has been awarded. Would you like to proceed with the draw now?]
A spark of curiosity flared in Qin Ting's chest, his pulse quickening with rare anticipation. His last encounter with the Wheel of Fate had teased glimpses of unimaginable power, and now it beckoned again, promising secrets yet unveiled.
"Draw it now," he commanded, his voice low and resolute, as if the chamber's walls trembled in obedience.
The air shimmered, parting to reveal a spectral wheel aglow with otherworldly hues—crimson like spilled blood, gold like molten sunlight, indigo that swallowed light. Its pointer whirled with frenetic energy, skimming runes that pulsed with life. Time stretched, each revolution a heartbeat in the silence, until the wheel slowed, halting with a soft chime of finality.
[Congratulations to the Host for obtaining the epic item: Veiled Scroll Guard.] The system's voice carried a weight that settled over him like a mantle.
Qin Ting's brows lifted, intrigue flickering across his impassive features. 'Veiled Scroll Guard?' The name stirred his curiosity, a riddle begging to be unraveled. He summoned the system's description, his gaze narrowing as he absorbed the details with a hawk's intensity.
The Veiled Scroll Guard was no mere trinket—it was a talisman of staggering potency, able to shield its master from a single lethal strike, even one unleashed by an Illusory God Realm cultivator. His breath caught, a rare tremor of excitement coursing through him.
This was more than a treasure; it was a second life, a bulwark against oblivion. In a world where death lurked in every shadow, such a gift was priceless—a defiance of fate's whims.
Protective artifacts were rare in the Eastern Wilderness, relics forged in forgotten eras, their power often brittle. The finest might deflect a Divine Palace Realm blow, a feat worthy of song. But to withstand an Illusory God cultivator's wrath—a being who could sunder mountains? That was myth, whispered only in reverent tones. And now it rested in his hands, an unassuming slip of paper that belied its power to rewrite destiny.
As a True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect and scion of the Qin Family, Qin Ting was no stranger to wonders. His chambers housed blades that sang with killing intent, talismans that wove destruction. But they were tools of conquest. The Veiled Scroll Guard filled a void he hadn't fully acknowledged—a promise of endurance amidst the chaos he courted.
He was on the verge of exploring the system's offers further when a soft voice drifted past the door, insistent as a whispered secret. "Junior Brother Qin, may I enter?"
Qin Ting's gaze shifted to the window. Beyond the carved jade frame, the sky was a velvety abyss, strewn with stars like fragile shards of light. Zhou Pingyue's arrival at this hour was unexpected, a thread of curiosity slipping through his disciplined thoughts.
"Senior Sister Zhou, please enter," he replied, his voice steady, carrying quiet authority.
The door parted with a silken whisper, and Zhou Pingyue stepped inside, her poised figure framed by the flickering glow of lanterns. Her pale lotus silk robes shimmered, embroidery catching the light as she moved with grace that belied her strength.
A gentle smile curved her lips, warm yet tinged with something unreadable. "Junior Brother, still awake at this late hour?"
Qin Ting met her gaze, his faint smile enigmatic, revealing nothing. "The night offers clarity the day obscures with noise," he said, deftly sidestepping her question. "Senior Sister, it's late. What brings you here?"
Zhou Pingyue's smile widened slightly, her tone playfully coy. "I wouldn't call it advice—merely a desire to discuss matters of the Dao with you."
His eyes flickered with interest, a subtle curve deepening on his lips. "I'd be delighted," he said, gesturing to the low table where a jade teapot steamed, its fragrance curling into the air.
That night, bathed in the amber glow of lamplight, they spoke of the Dao—its currents, contradictions, and elusive truths. Zhou Pingyue was ensnared, each of Qin Ting's remarks a blade that cleaved her assumptions, unveiling profound insights. When she spoke of a divine technique, his critique was sharp yet poised, dissecting flaws with a calligrapher's elegance.
What stunned her was his ability to refine it. After a brief pause, his gaze distant as if peering into the Dao itself, he offered a suggestion—a precise adjustment that transformed the technique. In her mind, she traced its radiant shape, its power surging, weaknesses crumbling until it shone near-perfect.
'He's a prodigy,' she thought, stealing a glance as shadows danced across his chiseled features, sharpening his intense eyes. 'But there's something more—an edge, wild and untamed, held by fragile reins.'
Her fascination swelled, a relentless tide she couldn't stem. No man had stirred her soul like this, and the realization unsettled her.
As hours slipped away, Qin Ting leaned back, his voice resonant. "The Dao is a mirror, Senior Sister. It reflects what we dare to see—and what we fear to confront."
Zhou Pingyue's breath hitched, her eyes locking with his. For an instant, she glimpsed beneath his calm—a hunger, a darkness mirroring the abyss she sought to master.