Qin Ting stood resolute at the center of the Battle Stage, an unshakable pillar amid the swirling chaos. His face, calm as a still lake, radiated a profound indifference, almost divine—as if a god or demon had descended from celestial heights to walk among mortals. His eyes gleamed with a cold, fathomless light, like twin stars untouched by the surrounding tumult.
With a subtle flick of his right hand, he shaped the world to his will. Above, the sky trembled and darkened, the bright day giving way to an endless expanse of velvet night in an instant. From that artificial twilight, a crescent moon rose—a silvery arc, vast and dreamlike, its glow bathing the stands in ethereal light. It felt both distant and intimate, a celestial whisper that stirred the souls of all who gazed upon it.
His fingers curled as if to pluck the lunar orb from the heavens, and the air quivered in response. High above, a spectral arm unfurled across the sky—a colossal, alabaster limb of incomprehensible scale. The crowd's breath caught as the titanic hand reached upward, its silhouette stark against the star-dappled void. It was a vision that gripped the heart, a marvel that held the spirit captive.
Radiant and boundless, the hand spanned the sky in a heartbeat, its fingers grazing the moon's edge with a tenderness that belied its immensity. Then, with graceful ease, it closed around the crescent, cradling it like a fragile gem in a giant's palm. The moon hung captive, its luminous glow a prize claimed by mortal might.
A chorus of shouts erupted from the stands, voices trembling with awe. "The Hand that Embraces the Moon!" a disciple cried, his words nearly drowned by the swelling uproar. "It's no myth—Senior Brother Qin has truly ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm!"
Guided by the phantom hand, the captured moon began its descent, drifting earthward with serene, almost hypnotic slowness. The onlookers watched, spellbound, as it glided down, a celestial wonder brought low. Then its pace quickened, the crescent growing larger, its light sharpening into a blade of inevitability aimed at the stage below.
Song Changge stood frozen, his wide eyes locked on the approaching orb. With each passing second, it loomed larger, its brilliance consuming the horizon until it filled his world—an unstoppable force bearing down with relentless intent.
Fear clawed at his chest, a cold, suffocating tide that extinguished every spark of resistance. His hands twitched, fumbling for a defense, but no technique emerged; his spirit buckled under the crushing weight of Qin Ting's dominion.
'He's going to crush me,' Song Changge thought, his teeth grinding as panic surged through his veins like wildfire. 'I can't stop this—no skill, no weapon, nothing!'
He swallowed hard, his pride waging a desperate battle against the primal urge to survive. To yield would cast his honor into the dirt, stripping him of all standing within the Xuantian Sect. His master's favor would turn to ash, his name reduced to a sneered footnote among his peers. Yet as the moon hurtled closer, its searing glare scorching his vision, the choice became clear: disgrace or oblivion.
"I—" His voice scraped free, a ragged whisper trembling on the edge of collapse, as if the weight of his defeat had stolen his breath.
Qin Ting's eyes flashed, narrowing into a sneer sharper than any blade. Surrender? Now? Far too late. His gaze crackled with intent, a storm given form, and the air atop the Battle Stage thickened into an icy, unyielding shroud. Song Changge's next words died in his throat, choked by an invisible force that pinned him like prey beneath a predator's talon.
He stood paralyzed, staring upward as the moon swelled in the night sky—a silver specter blooming with ominous elegance. Despair flooded his chest, a dark current drowning pride and reason alike. Fear gnawed at his marrow, regret a bitter tang on his tongue. 'Why did I challenge him?' he wondered, his mind spiraling into the abyss of his own recklessness. 'What madness drove me to cross Qin Ting?'
For years, Qin Ting had ruled the Xuantian Sect like a shadow sovereign, his will an unspoken law among the True Disciples. One by one, they had bowed before him—Feng Qianhan's icy resolve melting into silence, even the elusive Senior Brother Jiang steering clear of his path.
Only Song Changge had dared to oppose him, driven by a reckless fervor he could no longer name. 'I thought I could topple him,' he lamented inwardly, 'but I've only carved my own grave.'
At that moment, a voice shattered the stillness—Elder Zhang, the stern enforcer of the sect's laws, who had observed the duel in stoic silence until now. "Enough!" he roared, his command a thunderclap steeped in authority. "Song Changge has yielded. This ends here!"
Qin Ting's lips twisted into a cold smirk. Yielded? The word rang hollow against the elder's earlier inaction. When Song Changge's Array Diagram Sacred Weapon had cornered Qin Ting, teetering on the brink of triumph, Elder Zhang had remained silent. Now, with victory secured and Song Changge broken, he sought to intervene?
'Hypocrite,' Qin Ting thought, his contempt a smoldering ember. 'You'll not steal this from me.'
Far from relenting, his spiritual power surged—an unseen torrent that seized the moon's radiant phantom above. Its glow blazed brighter, accelerating with ferocious intent, a celestial hammer poised to crush the broken figure below. The Battle Stage quaked, the air crackling with the promise of ruin.
Elder Zhang's eyes widened, a flicker of shock piercing his stern composure. He had assumed his decree would quell the tempest, not fuel it. Qin Ting's resolve was clear: not just to win, but to erase Song Changge from existence.
Within, Elder Zhang cursed his own bias toward Jiang Zhongbai. Throughout the duel, he'd kept a wary eye on Song Changge, knowing the youth fought under Jiang's banner. Yet he hadn't anticipated such utter defeat.
Song Changge had reached the Divine Spirit Realm—a rare feat—and wielded a sacred weapon forged of celestial essence. Still, he'd crumbled before Qin Ting's might. Worse, Elder Zhang had underestimated the prodigy's genius. At eighteen, Qin Ting had stormed into the Divine Spirit Realm, his talent a blazing force that defied the heavens.
Now, he stood motionless, eyes fixed on the battlefield as the luminous crescent plummeted, its silver sheen cloaking the scene in an otherworldly veil. Time slipped away like sand—if he didn't act, disaster would strike.
His voice boomed across the arena, sharp with command and edged with urgency. "How dare you! Would you slay a fellow disciple before the sect's very eyes?"
With a swift motion, Elder Zhang flung his hands skyward. The air thrummed as twin spectral hands materialized above—massive, translucent, and radiating power. Known as the Heavenly Support Hands, this divine art was his crowning achievement, honed over decades.
He urged them upward, willing them to catch the moon and halt its devastating fall.
But reality defied him. The colossal hands met the moon's radiance—and faltered. For a fleeting moment, the lunar orb hung suspended, its brilliance mocking his effort. Then cracks splintered across his sacred technique, the Heavenly Support Hands shattering into a cascade of flickering runes and fading whispers of the Dao, lost to the wind.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, the air thick with stunned disbelief. Elder Zhang was no novice; he had honed his power in the Divine Spirit Realm over decades, his name a pillar of strength among the sect's elders. Yet now he stood humbled, his vaunted might crumbling before Qin Ting's relentless onslaught. The truth struck like a thunderclap—his storied skill couldn't even slow the young man's advance.
The disciples in the stands gazed upward, transfixed, their eyes wide with reverence. To them, Qin Ting was no mere prodigy; he was a deity among mortals, his presence commanding awe. The young women, in particular, stared with unguarded admiration, their gazes alight with wonder. Qin Ting hailed from a prestigious lineage, his bloodline steeped in renown, and now he stood as a paragon of heaven-defying talent. How could anyone not be captivated?
High above, the night sky unfurled its vast canopy, presided over by a luminous moon that hung like a silver sovereign. Its ethereal light spilled downward, pooling in a radiant halo atop Song Changge's head, bathing him in an otherworldly glow. For a moment, that brilliance seemed to crush the last embers of his dwindling spirit, snuffing out the flicker of hope he'd clung to.
Yet the illusion shattered as Elder Zhang's towering silhouette emerged, a sudden anchor amidst the storm. His presence alone pulled Song Changge back from the precipice, a lifeline cast into the void.
A feral spark flared in Song Changge's eyes—wild, desperate, an ember roaring to life against the tide of defeat. 'I won't fall here,' he vowed silently, teeth gritted as he summoned his cultivation technique. Power surged within him, a torrent of will and defiance, though it flickered weakly against the overwhelming force bearing down.
High above, Elder Zhang thrust a hand skyward, his fingers tracing arcane patterns. A shimmering cascade of energy erupted from his palm, forming a colossal, radiant hand that blazed upward—a defiant shield against the moon's unrelenting glare.
But the moment that radiant palm grazed the moonlight, it unraveled—fraying into delicate tendrils of light that dissipated like embers on a dying wind. Song Changge had no time to brace himself. The moon's unyielding glow swallowed him whole, its crushing weight descending with merciless precision.
Beneath the onslaught, the Battle Stage trembled, then buckled, the force of the impact carving a jagged crater into the earth.
This was no ordinary arena. Forged from enigmatic spirit stone quarried from outer space, the Battle Stage was renowned for its near-indestructible resilience. Yet Qin Ting, wielding the divine art known as Hand That Embraces the Moon, had shattered it with effortless grace. The raw power of that strike pulsed through the air, a resounding echo of his unmatched supremacy.
A soft breeze stirred the haze of dust as the moon's brilliance faded, its silver light bleeding into the night until only shadows remained. At the crater's heart, Song Changge lay motionless—his fate a fragile thread, suspended between life and death.
Qin Ting surveyed the devastation below, his chiseled features cold and unyielding, not a flicker of concern in his piercing gaze. 'As I thought,' he mused silently, 'Elder Zhang's meddling granted him a fleeting stay of execution. I couldn't end him outright.'
Still, the result satisfied him. Song Changge's body might cling to life, but his spirit lay in ruins—his Dao Foundation shattered beyond repair. His journey as a cultivator had crumbled to dust, leaving a broken husk of unfulfilled promise. To Qin Ting, he was already a footnote, unworthy of further thought.
Elder Zhang's face twisted, fury and disbelief warring across his weathered features, his eyes darkening with each moment. He had intervened personally, staking his own pride to shield his disciple, only to watch the disaster unfold.
His stare fixed on Qin Ting, a venomous undercurrent simmering beneath his composure. "Qin Ting!" he snarled, his voice a guttural roar laced with outrage. "You dare strike down a fellow True Disciple before the entire sect? You'll face the Law Enforcement Court for this—follow me, now!"
A faint, mocking smile curved Qin Ting's lips, his demeanor unruffled, his words sharp with a razor's edge. "Elder Zhang, has time dulled your wit?" he replied, his tone deceptively light yet laced with steel. "Senior Brother Song issued the challenge himself. The terms were clear: victory or defeat, we each bear the consequences. Even the Xuantian Sect honors such rites. His ruin was his own doing—his weakness speaks for itself."
The smile faded, his expression icing over as his voice dipped into a frigid sneer. "As for hauling me to your Law Enforcement Court? Tell me, Elder—do you truly possess the authority to command me?"