Nestled within Qin Ting's opulent private palace, a realm of splendor unfolded like a tapestry woven from gold and twilight. Delicate, perfumed steam rose in wispy tendrils from an immense hot bath, its crystalline surface shimmering under the warm glow of golden lanterns suspended like captive stars from the vaulted ceiling.
The chamber stood as a testament to divine craftsmanship. Towering statues of mythical beasts, carved from polished obsidian, loomed as silent sentinels, their eyes glinting with frozen menace. Beside them, jade-carved lotuses bloomed with such intricate detail that their petals seemed to quiver with life, kissed by an ethereal breeze.
The air thrummed faintly with spiritual energy, a soft hymn of power woven into the stones, as if the palace itself knelt to its master's will.
At the heart of the bath reclined Qin Ting, his imposing frame half-submerged in the steaming water—a predator at ease, cloaked in the guise of calm. Ten maids, draped in flowing silk robes that gleamed like liquid moonlight, moved with the grace of a choreographed dance. Their slender hands worked in harmony, kneading his broad shoulders, tracing his pale skin with oils that shimmered like molten amber, and presenting gilded trays laden with vibrant spirit fruits and wine.
His raven-black hair clung to his brow in damp, unruly strands, framing a face etched with sharp, unyielding lines. His eyes fluttered shut, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in his otherwise impenetrable dominance. The duel with Song Changge and Elder Zhang had been a fleeting exertion, a spark of defiance crushed beneath his heel. Now, he savored the silence of triumph, enveloped in luxurious tranquility.
Beside him stood Nie You, his steadfast vassal, a figure forged from shadow and loyalty. His dark robes hung with quiet dignity, and his voice sliced through the stillness, steady as a honed blade, as he delivered news of Qin Ting's elusive prey: the Child of Destiny.
"Several days ago, the Lian Yun Mountain Range quaked with omens—blinding arcs of light tore across the sky, and the earth trembled as if stirred by unseen forces, heralding a rare treasure's awakening. The great sects unleashed their disciples to pursue the mystery. Our agent spotted Ye Qiu among them. By your command, Young Master, we trailed from a distance, reporting back without stirring suspicion."
A faint, dangerous smile curled Qin Ting's lips, his silent nod acknowledging the words. 'A phenomenon of heaven and earth,' he mused, the thought settling like a blade finding its sheath.
Such events were no trifles—treasures born of the world's primal essence, whether a sacred weapon forged in celestial flame or an elixir distilled from starlight, held power to reshape destinies, topple dynasties, and birth legends.
Even the Xuantian Sect, a titan of the cultivation world, would covet such a prize. Sending disciples into the untamed wilds was a calculated move: a bid to seize the bounty and a crucible to forge the young in fire and blood.
Nie You hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his stern features before he continued. "Ye Qiu travels not alone, however. Mu Qingyi, daughter of the Qianyuan Sect's Master, accompanies him."
Qin Ting's eyes snapped open, narrowing to slits of icy, glittering blue. Mu Qingyi?
The name conjured an image of ethereal splendor—Mu Qingyi, sole daughter of Mu Fang, the Qianyuan Sect's resolute sovereign. At seventeen, she had ascended to the Divine Wheel Realm, her cultivation a radiant beacon outshining her peers, a testament to her lineage.
She was the sect's peerless jewel, her divine arts a blend of grace and devastation—each movement a dancer's flourish, each strike a tempest unleashed. Yet her beauty cemented her legend: a visage of alabaster serenity, eyes like twilight stars, and a presence so luminous she'd been crowned 'Goddess Mu,' an untouchable vision haunting the dreams of the Eastern Wilderness's young cultivators.
A low, mocking chuckle rasped from Qin Ting's chest, laced with scorn. 'The Child of Destiny wears his title well,' he thought, savoring the bitter irony. 'If memory serves, Ye Qiu once spat in the Qianyuan Sect's face before all eyes—an insult that should've carved his grave.'
For any other, such defiance would have brought swift annihilation—blood spilled, bones ground to dust. Yet Ye Qiu not only stood unscathed but had won the Sect Master's daughter as his ally. That kind of fortune was a treasure beyond measure, a flame that stoked Qin Ting's greed even as he sneered at its bearer.
'If I could rip that luck from his wretched hide,' he mused, his gaze flashing with dark, ravenous ambition, 'and fuse it with my Villain System's power, who could stand in my way?' The thought blazed within him, a smoldering ember flaring into a wildfire of hunger for absolute dominion.
He sank deeper into the bath, steam weaving a veil around his furrowed brow, concealing the storm brewing in his mind. The Lian Yun Mountain Range called, a perilous stage unfit for lesser hands. Ye Qiu's reckless bravado—the hallmark of a Child of Destiny—demanded Qin Ting's own blade, his own judgment.
Song Changge and his ilk were ants crushed beneath his stride, Jiang Zhongbai a fleeting pest destined to fade in winter's grip. But Ye Qiu? Ye Qiu was a cockroach—stubborn, unkillable, forged in the tired tropes Qin Ting recalled from novels of a past life long discarded. No matter how fiercely fate struck, the Child of Destiny always clawed back to the light.
His voice cut through the haze, cold and commanding as a drawn sword. "What moves has our Xuantian Sect made?"
Nie You straightened, his tone crisp as frost on stone. "The expedition team's candidates are chosen, but the leader remains undecided. Most True Disciples are occupied elsewhere, and Song Changge was their spearhead—until…" A wry, knowing grin split his lips. "Young Master left him a broken corpse. He's no contender now, for this or any breath beyond."
Qin Ting tilted his head, the faint ripple of water echoing his quiet approval. Such celestial omens typically drew a sect's rising talent, guided by a prodigy's steady hand to ensure victory. But with the Xuantian Sect's True Disciples tied up in distant matters and Song Changge reduced to a shattered relic, their options dwindled. An elder could lead, lending seasoned guidance, but the sect's pride would suffer—a wound that might embolden lesser factions to strike, mistaking caution for weakness.
Resolve hardened in Qin Ting's chest, forged like steel in the fires of his will. Rising from the bath, water streamed from his towering frame in glistening torrents, revealing a figure of raw power. The maids drew back, their gazes dropping in silent awe as the air thickened with his presence. "Inform the elders that I'll lead the Lian Yun expedition myself."
Nie You sank into a deep bow, his voice a solemn vow resonating through the chamber. "By your will, my lord."
The opulent bath chamber fell silent as Nie You withdrew, his dark robes fading into the shadowed corridors beyond. The maids followed, a procession of silken figures dismissed with a flick of Qin Ting's hand after completing their duties—drying his sculpted frame with soft linens and draping him in a robe of shimmering purple that clung like a second skin.
Now alone, Qin Ting stood amid the lingering steam, the golden lanterns casting a warm glow across the jade lotuses and obsidian beasts flanking the room. With a slow, deliberate exhale, he turned his focus inward, summoning the Villain System with a single, resolute thought. Ye Qiu loomed on the horizon, a persistent thorn in his ambitions, and Qin Ting meant to be armed for the reckoning.
A translucent panel flickered into existence before his eyes, its surface alive with arcane runes and glowing text that pulsed with faint malice. His sharp gaze settled on the tally of his Villain Points, the currency of his malice—35,000 points gleamed in the ethereal light.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he traced their origins: 5,000 points for unraveling Ye Qiu's past, 25,000 for crushing Song Changge and Elder Zhang in a single, brutal stroke, and another 5,000 for sowing discord between Luo Yuan and Feng Qianhan, a rift still festering. Each victory had bolstered his reserves, and now the system's shop beckoned—a trove of power ripe for the taking.
'Let's see what I can claim,' he mused, his eyes narrowing with predatory intent as he scanned the panel.
The first item flared into view: [Dragonspine Sword, top-grade spiritual weapon. Unsheathed, its blade gleams like a precipice peering into the abyss—ethereal, profound, a dragon's soul coiled within its steel. Cost: 29,000 Villain Points.]
Qin Ting's brow arched, a spark of intrigue stirring within. The description evoked a weapon of mystique and menace, its edge sharp enough to cleave both flesh and spirit—a treasure that could etch a cultivator's name into history for those clawing through the Divine Wheel Realm. But Qin Ting had surpassed that stage, his ascent to the Divine Spirit Realm rendering it a mere trinket.
'A mere trinket,' he thought, dismissing it with a faint scoff. 'Perhaps a toy for a loyal dog later.' He waved the notion aside, the panel shifting under his gaze.
The next prize quickened his pulse: [Golden Armor of Arcane Metal, a defensive marvel forged to withstand a full strike from a Divine Palace Realm master. Cost: 240,000 Villain Points.]
His breath caught, eyes glinting with raw avarice. This was no trivial relic—it was a bulwark, a shield against fate's tempests. The Purple Star Robe draping his frame was fine, its threads woven with defensive charms, but it paled beside the Golden Armor's promise. A single blow from a Divine Palace master could shatter mountains, yet this vowed to hold firm.
'A trump card for the decisive hour,' he thought, envisioning himself unscathed amid a battlefield's ruin. But the cost—240,000 points—loomed like a taunt, far beyond his reach. His jaw tightened, frustration simmering beneath his icy calm. 'Not ruthless enough yet,' he grumbled inwardly, the system's silence spurring his hunger.
The panel flickered again, revealing lesser wares. [Concentration Pill, imbued with a calming essence to steady the mind. Cost: 6,000 Villain Points.]
'Useless,' he decided, dismissing it without a glance. His will was iron; he needed no such crutches.
[Fire Cloud Fruit, a blazing delicacy that amplifies one's fire affinity upon consumption. Cost: 15,000 Villain Points.] Another rejection. His path bowed to no single element—fire held no sway over his grand design.
The dim glow of the system shop's interface flickered before Qin Ting, its endless offerings taunting him like a cruel jest. His 35,000 Villain Points weighed on him—too few to claim the treasures that set his blood aflame, yet too precious to squander on lesser trinkets.
Frustration gnawed at his patience, sharp and relentless. He leaned against the shadowed stone wall, the cool silk of his robe brushing his skin like a whisper, and scanned the glowing text with a scowl.
Then, a single line caught his gaze, sharp as a blade glinting in moonlight. His breath hitched. [Random Spirit Beast Egg: a sealed orb of potential. Upon hatching, it yields a Spirit Beast of unpredictable lineage. Cost: 30,000 Villain Points.]
The world stilled. Slowly, a grin crept across Qin Ting's lips—wicked, unrestrained, promising chaos. A gamble. A reckless toss of fate's dice, shrouded in mystery. The idea sank its claws into him, tugging at the twin threads of curiosity and greed woven into his soul. His fingers twitched, itching to seize the unknown.
'A Random Spirit Beast Egg?' His thoughts raced with the precision of a tactician storming a fortress. Possibilities unfurled like a scroll of forbidden lore, each vision more intoxicating than the last. What if fortune favored him?
He could see it—a phoenix rising in a torrent of flame, its crimson and amber feathers scorching the sky; a dragon, its midnight scales glinting like obsidian, its roar a hymn of ruin; or perhaps a qilin, cloaked in mist and thunder, its presence a testament to his growing dominion.
'One high-tier companion would shift any battle's tide,' he mused, his pulse surging beneath his composure. He envisioned armies crumbling under his new ally's weight, their banners trampled as he carved his name deeper into the world's bones.
His grin widened, eyes glinting with unmasked hunger. Thirty thousand points was a steep price, a fortune carved from his hard-won spoils, but for a prize that could redefine his path? It was a wager worth every drop of blood.
Yet doubt slithered in, curling around his thoughts like smoke. What if fate mocked him? What if the egg hatched not glory, but a pitiful wretch—a trembling whelp with watery eyes or a mangy mutt too frail to snarl?