Chapter 20 - Art of Domination
Backridge City lay cloaked in an uneasy stillness, its ancient stone walls steeped in a silence that felt alive, as though the very air held its breath. Ever since Qin Ting had shattered the pride of the Yuanshi Gate Sect, the city's myriad factions—once buzzing with schemes and rivalries—had retreated into themselves, their ambitions snuffed out like embers beneath a heavy shroud of ash.
The presence of a figure as indomitable as Qin Ting loomed over the city like an unyielding tempest bound within human flesh, casting a shadow so vast and oppressive that petty intrigues withered in its gloom, unable to take root.
His name alone carried a gravity that silenced dissent and stilled ambition, a force of nature masquerading as a man. To the cultivators and common folk alike, he was both a marvel and a menace—an enigma whose every action rippled through the fabric of their world.
Within the expanse of his private chamber perched atop the Xuantian Sect's resplendent palace, Qin Ting stood motionless, his imposing silhouette framed against the ethereal glow of a hovering system interface that shimmered like a fragment of captured starlight.
His eyes, sharp and unyielding as tempered steel forged in the fires of countless trials. He exuded an aura both regal and perilous—a young lord teetering on the precipice of something vast and unfathomable, his presence a silent promise of power yet to be fully unleashed.
It had all begun with a single, disdainful gesture, a moment etched into the annals of Backridge City's history with indelible clarity. Yan Han, the vaunted True Disciple of the Yuanshi Gate Sect—an arrogant prodigy cloaked in the sect's storied prestige—had fallen beneath Qin Ting's effortless flick of a finger.
The act had been so swift, so precise, that it seemed almost casual, a fleeting whim rather than a calculated blow. Yet its impact was cataclysmic. The proud disciples of Yuanshi had crumpled to their knees in a chorus of broken gasps, their defiance reduced to smithereens, their voices choked into silence by the crushing weight of their public humiliation.
In that singular moment, the system embedded within Qin Ting's consciousness had stirred, its judgment delivered in a tone as cold and absolute as the void: his actions epitomized the quintessential villain, a masterstroke of cruelty and control. And its reward had been nothing short of extravagant—100,000 Villain Points, a bounty that gleamed in his mind like a hoard of priceless jade.
'One hundred thousand,' Qin Ting mused, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his lips, as ephemeral as a shadow dancing on the surface of a still pond. His mind, a labyrinth of razor-sharp intellect, unraveled the system's enigmatic logic with the precision of a blade parting the finest silk.
'To crush their spirit so thoroughly—it's not merely power, but artistry honed to perfection.' The thought lingered, a quiet satisfaction threading through his veins, as he contemplated the elegance of his triumph.
The Yuanshi Gate Sect was no trifling adversary to be dismissed with a wave of the hand. In the vast, untamed expanse of the Eastern Wilderness, it stood as a revered bastion of cultivation. Its name was spoken in hushed tones of reverence by those who sought enlightenment through the boundless mysteries of the Dao, its legacy a tapestry woven with centuries of discipline and triumph.
On the surface, Qin Ting had merely toyed with a handful of its disciples, a predator idly batting at trembling prey before losing interest. But the ripples of his act plunged far deeper than the eye could see, a stone cast into still waters that shattered the sect's fragile ascent with unrelenting force.
By forcing their submission in such a public and undeniable manner, he had ground their burgeoning prestige into the dirt, leaving nothing behind but faint whispers of ruin and disgrace echoing through the wind.
He and Yan Han were equals in title—True Disciples, each having clawed their way through blood and sacrifice to reach the Divine Spirit Realm, a stage where the frail limits of mortality began to fray and the divine shimmered tantalizingly within reach.
Yet, in that fleeting confrontation, the chasm between them had been laid bare for all to witness, a gulf so wide it defied comprehension. The True Disciple of the Yuanshi Gate Sect, once a beacon of promise, had groveled before the True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect—an image seared into the minds of onlookers like a brand, unerasable by the passage of time or the flimsy excuses of the defeated.
Across the boundless reaches of the Eastern Wilderness, Qin Ting's name would rise on swelling tides of awe and whispered legend, while Yan Han's would sink beneath a relentless chorus of derision and mockery, a cautionary tale for the ambitious.
'They're both True Disciples, aren't they?' he imagined the murmurs threading through the bustling marketplaces of dusty towns and the shadowed taverns nestled in forgotten valleys.
'So why does Xuantian's champion crush Yuanshi's with such effortless grace?' The question would linger like a splinter embedded in the minds of cultivators and commoners alike, festering into doubt that gnawed at the foundations of Yuanshi's reputation.
For the Yuanshi Gate Sect, this was no mere setback to be brushed aside with time and platitudes—it was a wound to the very soul of their institution. A faction clawing desperately for prominence in a land ruled by ancient titans and storied lineages, they could ill afford such a public disgrace, a humiliation that stained their banners and dulled their once-bright future.
Meanwhile, the Xuantian Sect's legend swelled with renewed vigor, its name gilded anew in the eyes of the masses. 'An ancient sanctuary of cultivation,' the people would proclaim, their voices thick with reverence and pride, 'its legacy unbroken across hundreds of thousands of years, its might truly unrivaled in its majesty and grandeur.' The contrast was stark, a tale of one sect's ascent and another's quiet descent into obscurity.
The system's voice sliced through the reverie of Qin Ting's thoughts, crisp and mechanical, devoid of warmth or inflection: [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 a rare surge of anticipation. His last encounter with the Wheel of Fate had teased him with tantalizing glimpses of power beyond imagining—rewards that danced at the edges of possibility—and now it beckoned once more, promising secrets yet unveiled.
"Draw it now," he said, his voice a low command, resonant with unshakable certainty, as though the very walls of the chamber trembled in obedience.
Before him, the air shimmered and parted, giving way to a spectral wheel aglow with otherworldly hues—crimson that burned like spilled blood, gold that gleamed like molten sunlight, and deepest indigo that swallowed light into its depths. Its pointer whirled with a frenetic, almost chaotic energy, skimming across a constellation of rewards etched in runes that pulsed faintly, as if imbued with a life of their own.
Time stretched thin, each revolution a heartbeat echoing in the silence, until at last the wheel slowed, its momentum bleeding away until the chime of its halt rang soft and clear, a note of finality.
[Congratulations to the Host for obtaining the epic item: Veiled Scroll Guard.] The system's voice intoned the reward with its usual dispassion, yet the words carried a weight that settled over him like a mantle.
Qin Ting's brows lifted slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his otherwise impassive features. 'Veiled Scroll Guard?' The name alone stirred his curiosity, a tantalizing riddle begging to be unraveled. He summoned the system's description with a fleeting thought, his gaze narrowing as he drank in the details with the intensity of a hawk sighting prey.
The Veiled Scroll Guard was no mere trinket to be tossed aside or overlooked—it was a talisman of staggering potency, a relic imbued with the power to shield its master from a single lethal strike, even one unleashed with the full, cataclysmic might of an Illusory God Realm cultivator.
His breath caught for an instant, a rare tremor of excitement threading through his veins like wildfire. This was more than a treasure; it was a second life, a bulwark against the jaws of oblivion itself. In a world where death lurked in every shadow, where betrayal and ambition sharpened every blade, such a gift was beyond price—a defiance of fate's cruel whims.
Protective artifacts were not unknown in the Eastern Wilderness, but they were coveted rarities—relics forged in forgotten eras by hands long turned to dust, their power often brittle and fleeting, crumbling under the strain of true adversity.
The finest among them might deflect a blow from a Divine Palace Realm expert, a feat worthy of song, but to withstand the apocalyptic wrath of an Illusory God cultivator—a being whose might could sunder mountains and boil rivers dry? That was the stuff of myth, a whisper from the farthest edges of legend, spoken only in reverent tones by those who dared to dream of such power.
And now it rested in his hands, an unassuming slip of paper that belied its ability to defy reason and rewrite destiny.
As a True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect and the scion of the illustrious Qin Family, Qin Ting was no stranger to wonders that dazzled the eye and stirred the soul. His chambers housed an arsenal of artifacts—blades that sang with killing intent as they cleaved the air, talismans that wove destruction into the very fabric of existence—but they were tools of conquest, instruments of his will to dominate and subdue.
The Veiled Scroll Guard filled a void he hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment, a quiet promise of endurance amidst the chaos he so willingly courted with every step he took.
He stood on the verge of plunging deeper into the system's offers, his mind already tracing the possibilities, when a voice sliced through the chamber's stillness. Soft yet insistent, it drifted past the door like a breeze laden with whispered secrets. "Junior Brother Qin, may I enter?"
Qin Ting's gaze shifted to the window. Beyond the intricately carved jade frame, the sky had thickened into a lush, velvety abyss, strewn with stars—fragile shards of fractured light glimmering faintly against the endless void.
Zhou Pingyue's arrival at this late hour was unforeseen, a delicate thread of curiosity slipping through the weave of his disciplined thoughts. "Senior Sister Zhou, please enter," he replied, his voice steady and composed, its resonant tone carrying just far enough to greet her with quiet authority.
The door parted with a soft, silken whisper, and Zhou Pingyue stepped into the chamber, her poised figure framed by the wavering, flickering glow of hanging lanterns. Her robes of pale lotus silk shimmered faintly, the delicate embroidery catching the light in fleeting glints as she moved with a grace that belied her formidable strength.
A gentle smile curved her lips, warm yet tinged with something subtle and unreadable. "Junior Brother, still awake at this late hour?"
Qin Ting met her gaze unflinchingly, his own smile faint and enigmatic, a carefully crafted mask that revealed nothing of his inner workings. "The night offers a piercing clarity that the day often obscures with its noise," he replied, deftly sidestepping her question with a smooth deflection. "Senior Sister, it's late. What brings you here so unexpectedly?"
Zhou Pingyue's smile widened ever so slightly, though her tone remained light, almost playfully coy. "I wouldn't call it advice—merely a humble desire to discuss some intricate matters of the Dao with you."
His eyes flickered with a spark of keen interest, a subtle curve deepening on his lips. "I'd be delighted," he said, gesturing with a refined motion to the low table where a jade teapot steamed faintly, its aromatic fragrance curling lazily into the still air.
That night, they sat bathed in the soft, warm amber glow of lamplight, the world beyond reduced to a distant, muffled hum.
Their conversation wove through the mysteries of the Dao—its swirling currents, its beguiling contradictions, its elusive, shimmering truths. Zhou Pingyue found herself utterly ensnared, each of Qin Ting's offhand remarks a honed blade that cleaved through her assumptions, unveiling insights so profound they stole her breath and left her momentarily stunned.
When she ventured to speak of a divine technique, seeking his perspective, his response was a marvel of precision—his critique sharp yet poised, dissecting its flaws with the elegance of a master calligrapher brushing ink across silk.
What left her reeling was his uncanny ability to refine it. After a brief, thoughtful pause, his gaze distant as though peering into the very fabric of the Dao itself, he would offer a suggestion—a single adjustment so exact and brilliant it transformed the technique before her eyes.
In her mind, she traced its new, radiant shape, feeling its power surge like a flood, its weaknesses crumbling until it shone with a near-perfection that dazzled her senses.
'He's a prodigy,' she thought, stealing a sidelong glance at him as the night deepened around them. Shadows danced across his striking features, sharpening the chiseled angles of his jaw, the burning intensity of his eyes.
'But there's something more—an edge, wild and untamed, held in check by fragile reins.' Her fascination with him swelled, a quiet, relentless tide she couldn't stem. No other man had ever stirred her soul like this, and the realization unsettled her, a faint tremor rippling beneath her composed exterior.
As the hours slipped silently away, Qin Ting leaned back slightly, his voice low and resonant, carrying a weight that lingered in the air. "The Dao is a mirror, Senior Sister. It reflects what we dare to see—and what we fear to confront within ourselves."
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Zhou Pingyue's breath hitched, her eyes locking with his in a charged moment. For a fleeting instant, she glimpsed something beneath his serene calm—a hunger, a darkness that mirrored the vast abyss she sought to master.