Ling Feng's group appeared high above a grave valley on Necropolis' outskirts.
The Necropolis was already a scar on the Nether Border—a place where the dead bought and sold, where ghost tribes bargained with resentful souls and strange merchants. But this valley was a scar within that scar.
Below them, the land had caved in into a vast basin. Broken stone steles jutted out at crooked angles, half-buried tombstones leaned like drunken sentries, and shattered grave mounds spilled old bones and corroded grave goods. Nether qi churned like a grey tide, rolling in waves that never broke. Bone lanterns hung from crooked poles, and the ghost flames inside shook wildly from the shockwaves of clashing dao.
The battlefield boiled.
On one side, white shadows danced.
Figures in pale armor and ghost-cloth cloaks moved through a battered formation. Each one trailed a strange, shimmering silhouette underfoot—not black, but pale, a white outline burned into the ground like frost. In the Sacred Nether World, there were many ghost tribes whose bodies defied the usual rules of light, but only one whose shadows glowed white instead of dark.
Snow-Shadow Tribe.
At their center stood a woman in simple white.
No ornate bone ornaments, no gaudy ghost pearls. Just soft, clean robes, long hair tied back with a single jade clasp. Her face was like late autumn snow—calm, clear, with a trace of melancholy at the corners of her eyes that never quite dispersed.
Around her, the white shadows of her tribe intertwined, forming a half-circle of lunar frost.
Qiurong Wanxue.
Her aura didn't roar or blaze. It flowed—cold and steady, like winter wind sweeping across endless tomb plains. Behind her, a pale crescent of dao light hovered faintly, its glow wrapping around the Snow-Shadow elites closest to her, shoring up their weakening defenses. The crescent pulsed in rhythm with the white shadows, reinforcing them with a refined, lunar chill that had once shocked even the Nether Border.
Beside her, Peng Zhuang roared hoarsely.
Cracks spiderwebbed across his ghostly armor, and his white shadow flickered with every breath. The heavy bone halberd in his hands still moved with his old, brutish ferocity; every sweep shattered several incoming ghost blades and smashed a few enemies aside. But his breathing had turned rough, his ghostly blood already staining his lips.
Behind them, Snow-Shadow disciples bled freely, white shadows trembling, some already dim. Several grave mounds had collapsed under the fighting, fissures spreading like spiderwebs through the valley floor.
Opposite them—lunar radiance and oppressive clouds pressed down like a second sky.
A young man in exquisite, moon-white robes floated above a line of ghost elites. His brows were thin and long, his eyes narrow, his lips thin—an elegant aristocrat's face twisted faintly by arrogance. Behind him, a silver moon hung in the air, its cold light pouring down like liquid mercury, suppressing the entire space around Snow-Shadow's formation.
Yin Moon Prince.
On the other side, sitting atop a rolling bank of black mist, another young lord looked down like a king inspecting livestock. His armor was dark as ink, his long hair bound with a bone clasp, the air around him thick with suffocating pressure. Wherever his black clouds rolled, tombstones groaned and cracked, and grave mounds sank deeper into the ground.
Black Cloud Young Lord.
The ghost elites under the two young lords surged forward like alternating tides—Yin Moon cultivators bathed in lunar dao, bone artifacts blazing silver, and Black Cloud warriors whose bodies were half-shadow, half-smoke, their blows heavy and suffocating.
Snow-Shadow was being pushed back step by step.
Qiurong Wanxue could feel her formation fraying. Her crescent of dao light bore the brunt of the pressure; cracks had begun to spread along its curve like thin fractures in cold porcelain.
Above, Ling Feng watched quietly.
"…Tsk." Chen Baojiao tilted her head, crimson lips curling in a half-smile. "They're stubborn."
Ling Feng's gaze swept the battlefield once.
He didn't just look at dao light and energy flow; his eyes traced the rhythm of formations, the subtle shift of morale, the tremble of shoulders, the angle of steles that could be used as cover or as weapons. He took in shattered tombs and watching bone lanterns, the way Nether qi thickened most around a half-collapsed grave mound to the left.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Mm," he murmured. "Stubborn's good."
Below, the Yin Moon Prince lazily curled his fingers.
Threads of moonlight tightened like silver chains. Several Snow-Shadow disciples were forced to one knee, their white shadows nailed to the ground by oppressive lunar beams. Their bodies trembled as if they were pinned to cold stone under a winter moon.
His voice spread clearly across the valley, carried by dao resonance.
"Qiurong Wanxue," he said, tone dripping with contempt. "You are still as ungrateful as ever."
His eyes swept over her with open displeasure.
"My Yin Moon Tribe extended a hand," he continued slowly. "We offered you a path. As long as you submitted, as long as your Snow-Shadow knelt, order could be maintained. The chaos at Crossing City's outskirts would end. Yet you stubbornly refuse. You would rather let your tribe be ground beneath others' feet than bow your head once?"
The moon behind him flared. Silver light intensified until even Nether qi froze, and the valley's temperature seemed to plummet.
"Tell me," he added softly, "is this foolishness… or betrayal?"
Qiurong Wanxue's pupils shrank slightly, but her expression remained calm.
She tightened her grip on the long bone blade in her hand. Her white shadow underfoot steadied, the pale crescent behind her brightening a fraction.
"If submission is the price of your so-called 'order,'" she replied, voice cool as winter frost, "then my Snow-Shadow doesn't need your order."
Peng Zhuang spat blood, then laughed harshly.
"Our tribe has guarded these graves for generations!" his roar shook between broken steles. "We will not let Yin Moon plant its filthy banner here!"
The Black Cloud Young Lord snorted from atop his rolling bank of darkness.
"A small clan clinging to graves," he said lazily. "You dress it up with pretty words, but in the end, you're just dogs guarding tombstones. Once the graves change owners, what are you worth?"
He leaned forward slightly, amusement flashing in his eyes.
"Qiurong Wanxue, I'll give you a chance," he said. "Bring your tribe, kneel outside our Black Cloud ancestral graves for ten years, and perhaps we'll let you keep a sliver of land. Otherwise…" He tapped his foot once on the black cloud under him.
The oppressive qi thickened until the air felt like wet stone.
"…we'll erase these graves along with you."
The words fell like iron.
Snow-Shadow elites' faces twisted with anger. White shadows flared dangerously behind several of them, threatening to destabilize their already weakened formation.
Qiurong Wanxue's fingers tightened until her knuckles whitened.
Her dao heart was firm.
But reality… was cruel.
The combined pressure of Yin Moon's lunar dao and Black Cloud's oppressive clouds pressed down like two skies. Her crescent shield was already cracked; a few more decisive blows and their entire defensive net would collapse.
If that happened… this valley would become their tribe's burial ground.
She opened her mouth to answer—
Up above, Ling Feng chuckled.
"See that?" he said lightly. "Already trying to steal graves and people in one go. Efficient."
The women around him had been silent, observing.
Ling Feng glanced sideways at Chen Baojiao, smile turning crooked.
"Baojiao," he drawled, "you've been itching for a fight since day two. If I keep you leashed any longer, you're going to explode."
Her lips twitched despite herself.
"Whose fault is that?" she muttered. "You said we'd find someone interesting. Then you made me walk. And watch."
He laughed softly.
"Which is why," he said, nodding toward the valley, "I'm going to be a good Samaritan today."
Every girl around him made the same quiet sound.
A soft, disbelieving snort.
Bing Yuxia raised her fan, hiding her mouth, frost in her eyes and humor in their depths. "Good samaritan," she repeated, tone light. "And it just happens that the Snow-Shadow chief below is a beauty with a cold aura. Such coincidence."
Chi Xiaodie folded her arms, Lion's Roar blood simmering beneath her skin. "The moment you sensed them, your eyes lit up," she said flatly. "Don't act innocent."
Li Shangyuan's jade eyes bent in a slight, knowing smile, though she kept her silence.
Even Xu Pei's gentle expression held exasperation.
Su Yonghuang gave him a sideways look, her aura like a hidden sun wrapped in layers of restraint. "You stared a little longer than necessary," she said calmly.
Bai Jianzhen said nothing, but her hand had already drifted toward her sword when danger appeared. Now, her gaze swept between the valley and Ling Feng as if silently warning him: don't stir up too big a storm. Not yet.
Ling Feng clutched his chest dramatically.
"Everyone's so suspicious," he sighed. "I see a proud ghost beauty standing alone against two bullies, and my first thought is 'we should help.' That's all. Really."
Seven pairs of eyes answered him: liar.
He coughed, letting the excuse drop. His attention sharpened as he tilted his chin toward Chen Baojiao.
"Alright," he said, smile turning sharp. "You go first."
Her eyes brightened at once.
"Conditions?" she asked, already leaning forward.
"Yeah." He lazily pointed at the battlefield. "When you're done flattening the group under that moon prince and that young lord on his cloud, leave those two breathing."
He raised two fingers.
"Just barely."
Chen Baojiao raised a brow. "You want trash like that alive?"
"I have uses for them," Ling Feng said, his voice cooling. "Let them limp back home and bleat to their tribes. It'll save me some steps later."
Bing Yuxia's fan snapped shut.
"Of course," she said dryly. "You don't simply 'help.' You arrange storms."
Chen Baojiao snorted softly.
"You and your schemes," she muttered. "Fine. I'll hold back."
Her gaze dropped to Qiurong Wanxue's pale figure and then to the two ghost young lords who thought they held the valley in their palms. A fierce, savage smile curved her lips.
"Watch closely, Feng," she said.
Then she stepped forward into the air.
To those fighting below, the sky cracked.
Snow-Shadow and their enemies alike felt it: a sudden pressure pressing down from above. It wasn't heavy like Black Cloud's smothering qi, nor was it cold like Yin Moon's lunar light. It was wild and domineering, the kind of tyrannical might that made Nether qi itself boil.
Qiurong Wanxue's gaze snapped upward.
A figure shot down from the dim sky, crimson robes flowing, long hair whipping behind her like a banner soaked in blood. She didn't ride a treasure, didn't sit atop ghost flames or bone beasts; she simply descended, a streak of violent light falling straight into the heart of the battlefield.
For that instant, all the bone lanterns in the valley flickered violently, ghost flames shrinking as if afraid.
Yin Moon disciples and Black Cloud elites instinctively tried to withdraw, to form up their defenses.
They were a beat too slow.
Chen Baojiao lifted one hand.
No shouted name, no elaborate seals. Her fingers curled, and the world around her responded.
Violent Cloud Chant surged through her meridians, but its power didn't explode outward in reckless fury. It spun, compressed, layered itself into the Tyrannical Valley Immortal Springs deep within her body. Those springs—born to transform incoming might into her own violent force—rumbled like enraged dragons as they drank in the raging energy.
A storm condensed in her palm.
To the watching ghosts, it was as if a mountain-sized spring had appeared high above—the water not liquid, but a vertical whirlpool of pressure and ferocity. The clouds around it twisted and deformed, Nether qi spiraling toward that center.
She waved.
The spring fell.
'Boom!'
The valley shook to its foundations.
Black Cloud elites—warriors whose bodies were half-mist, half-ghost flesh—were smashed apart before they could properly circulate their dao. Their oppressive black mist was swallowed by the Tyrannical Springs' suction, compressed into a dense core, and then detonated as refined backlash somewhere deep inside Chen Baojiao's body, feeding her cultivation.
Yin Moon disciples raised bone treasures desperately. Silver lunar shields flared, beams of moonlight stabbing upward.
The descending storm of violent clouds crushed them like rotten bark. Moonlight splintered. Shields fractured. Bones turned to powder.
One wave.
Under the two young lords' banners, their followers ceased to exist.
The Yin Moon Prince's eyes went bloodshot.
"Presumptuous—!" he spat, lunar dao surging to its peak. The silver moon behind him blazed to an almost painful brightness, pouring down countless beams of light. Each beam condensed into a long spear of moonlight that rained toward Chen Baojiao like a storm of silver needles, each carrying Yin Moon's cold and relentless grand dao.
On the other side, the Black Cloud Young Lord's face twisted with killing intent. His black mist roiled and thickened, turning from clouds into something like a rolling ceiling.
"Cloud Oppression—Descend!"
The bank of black clouds exploded upward and outward.
In a breath, the entire sky above the valley became a world of cloud. Dao lines swam within that dark canopy, forming heavy chains that dropped down on everything below. The pressure was suffocating. Tombstones groaned loudly, several shattered outright. Graves collapsed, spilling ancient bones into the open.
Within that cloud world, movement became difficult. Even the Nether qi seemed chained. If an Enlightened Being stepped into such oppression, their dao would slow like syrup, their bodies dragged down like they were walking in wet iron.
Chen Baojiao didn't dodge.
She laughed.
The sound was bright and wild, cutting across the ghost tribes' killing intent.
"Not bad," she said. "For third-rate bullies."
Her feet touched a cracked tombstone.
The oppressive clouds slammed down. The lunar spears screamed through the air.
Chen Baojiao punched.
No dragon illusions. No phoenix cries. No grand phantom images of ancient tyrants.
Just a fist.
But behind that fist, eight Fate Palaces roared in unison, each one shining with terrifying clarity. Grand Dao Ancient Saint foundation surged, Tyrannical Springs erupted, and the Chaos Force Ling Feng had shared with her wove everything together into a single, ruthless point of power.
Red Chaos glimmered faintly along her bones.
Absolute Force.
The air shrieked.
Her punch collided with the descending cloud world and the avalanching storm of moonlight at the same instant.
The cloud oppression didn't resist for long. The overwhelming, concentrated impact tore through it; black mist shredded like old cloth. The oppressive dao lines within the clouds screamed, broke apart, and were dragged into her Tyrannical Springs to be ground down and reborn as her energy.
The moon above cracked.
Silver spears of moonlight disintegrated into drifting dust. The moon phantom behind the prince fractured like brittle porcelain. Shards of lunar dao scattered through the air, instantly devoured by the storm of violent force raging around Chen Baojiao's fist.
The punch didn't stop.
The backlash followed the broken dao lines upstream, along the link between attack and attacker.
The Black Cloud Young Lord felt his chest sink before the pain reached him.
He vomited ghostly blood as the force slammed into him. His armor folded inward, ribs snapping like dry branches. The bank of black cloud beneath his feet burst apart into ragged scraps of mist. His body flew backward like a stone from a catapult, smashed into a grave mound, and buried itself in shattered stone and ancient bones.
The Yin Moon Prince fared only slightly better.
As the impact ripped through his lunar dao, his elegant face twisted. Several meridians ruptured in his chest, and fine cracks raced across his sternum. His moon phantom flickered like a candle in wind, then dimmed to a pale ghost of its former brightness. He staggered backward in midair, coughing blood that glittered faintly with silver.
Only the layers of ancestral dao lines embedded in his Life Treasures saved his body from exploding outright. But his aura… was broken.
For a breath, the valley was quiet.
Too quiet.
Snow-Shadow elites froze where they stood, their white shadows wavering. Peng Zhuang's halberd halted mid-swing, his mouth slightly open.
Even the ghost winds seemed to forget to blow.
They had seen many strong cultivators. The Nether Border was no stranger to monsters.
But this—
A single human woman descended.
With one casual wave, she erased the elites under two ghost tribes.
With a single punch, she shattered the combined suppression of Yin Moon and Black Cloud and nearly crippled both young lords.
Qiurong Wanxue's heart thumped once, heavy enough to make her fingertips tingle.
This kind of power…
Just what kind of humans… are these?
The ghostly moonlight in her eyes fluctuated. Instinctively, she searched for the usual things: arrogance, greed, the cruel delight of a predator.
Instead, she saw a violent spring that didn't care about heaven or earth—and a pair of battle-bright eyes that sparkled with excitement more than malice.
Chen Baojiao turned, scanning the Snow-Shadow group.
Her gaze landed on Qiurong Wanxue.
For a brief moment, the ferocity in her eyes softened.
Under two ghost tribes' persecution, this woman had not bent. Even as the formation crumbled and the crescent shield cracked, her aura remained steady. She had not begged. She had not thrown anyone forward as a shield. She stood at the front.
No wonder he paid attention, Chen Baojiao thought.
A grin tugged at her mouth, showing a trace of wickedness. She tilted her head back toward the sky.
"Young Noble," she called, voice carrying cleanly across the shattered valley. "Stop hiding. Get down here already."
High above, Ling Feng stretched as if he'd just finished a decent show.
Bones popped lightly. Chaos Force hummed quietly in his body, the invisible sea of emerald light in his Inner Void pulsing in idle contentment.
"See?" he said. "Feel better now?"
Chen Baojiao snorted but didn't deny it. A faint flush stained her cheeks, eyes still bright from battle.
Ling Feng stepped forward.
Space folded.
He didn't descend quickly; he descended precisely. With each step, the distance between him and the valley simply stopped existing. The world quietly rearranged itself to meet him. The Nether qi parted, ghost winds stilled, and even the bone lanterns' flames leaned toward him as if sensing something outside their world's rules.
Around him, his women followed.
Su Yonghuang walked at his right, wrapped in a simple cloak that hid the terrifying solar dao coiled tightly within her. Even so, a faint warmth clung to her figure, almost sacrilegious in this land of graves—as if a hidden sun had stepped into the Nether.
Xu Pei walked with light, careful steps that contrasted with the razor-edged azure halberd aura circling her. Her gentle eyes did not change the fact that each of her breaths compressed violent power; the Nether qi near her flickered as if scorched.
Li Shangyuan moved like jade water, every line of her body smooth and composed. Her Pure Jade Physique made her aura beautifully clear, reflecting the world around her; even the grave mounds' chill seemed to flow along her presence without leaving a stain. Beside her, Bai Jianzhen's sword at her waist hummed quietly, a thin sharpness that seemed eager to cut even the Nether qi itself.
Bing Yuxia's steps were as light as falling snowflakes. Frost radiated faintly around her, Nether winds twining with her ice dao and creating a shimmering curtain of white mist wherever she passed. Chi Xiaodie strode with arms crossed, Lion's Roar blood simmering under her skin. She clicked her tongue softly at Ling Feng's antics, but her eyes were already measuring every threat in the valley.
Seven figures descended together.
To Snow-Shadow's eyes, it was as if an otherworldly group had come strolling across the Nether sky—a casual procession of beings whose existence twisted the land with every breath.
Qiurong Wanxue's pupils shrank once more.
For the first time, she truly saw him.
The man at their center looked… ordinary, at first glance.
His clothes were clean but not ostentatious. He didn't wear bone crowns or ghost pearls. His posture was relaxed, one hand tucked loosely in his sleeve, as if he were simply out for a walk instead of stepping onto a battlefield on the Sacred Nether World's border.
His face held warmth.
Not the polished false smile of a schemer, not the cold disdain of ancient ghosts, but a very human ease. Yet behind that ease, there was something else—an unfathomable depth that made even the Nether qi hesitate around him.
When his gaze fell on her, it wasn't invasive.
He just… smiled.
"Snow-Shadow's chief?" he asked conversationally, as if confirming a detail he already knew. "Qiurong Wanxue?"
His tone was casual, like asking the name of a neighbor.
Some of the tension in her shoulders melted, almost against her will.
"…Yes," she replied slowly. "This one is Snow-Shadow's Qiurong Wanxue."
Peng Zhuang shifted reflexively, halberd still raised, white shadow tense. The surviving Snow-Shadow elites stood behind their chief, eyes wary and complex. Were these humans saviors? Invaders? Something worse?
Humans, Peng Zhuang thought, throat dry. But humans at this level…
Ling Feng's mouth quirked.
"Nice to meet you," he said easily.
He didn't linger.
Instead, he turned.
His gaze fell on the two figures clinging to life—Yin Moon Prince and Black Cloud Young Lord.
They were sorry sights.
The prince's moon-white robes were soaked with silver-tinged blood. The fine silver threads sewn into his sleeves hung loose, several torn. The moon phantom behind him was little more than a faint disc, its light flickering on and off.
The Black Cloud Young Lord lay half-buried in rubble, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, armor caved inward. The dense cloud that had once supported him had thinned to a smear of smoke, barely keeping him aloft.
Their followers… had vanished.
They still tried to speak.
"You…!" Yin Moon Prince rasped, eyes burning with hatred and disbelief. "You dare—"
"Human!" the Black Cloud Young Lord choked, ghost blood leaking from his lips. "Do you know who we—"
Ling Feng stepped once.
He vanished from where he stood and appeared between them without any visible transition—no traces of divine bridges or ghost teleportation. One step, and the distance simply ceased to matter.
His foot came down.
Crack.
Bone shattered under his boot.
Yin Moon Prince's words broke into a strangled, breathless groan. His chest plate bent inward again, something in his ribcage snapping with another ugly crunch. Ling Feng shifted his weight just enough to pin him there in midair, casually, like stepping on a piece of trash that wouldn't stay still.
He tilted his head, looking down at the two young lords as if inspecting flawed goods at a market stall.
"You two will do nicely," he said.
His voice was very calm.
The calm of someone who had already killed True Gods and torn apart Ancient Kingdom armies, then gone home to joke about it with his women.
Behind him, Chen Baojiao tilted her head, watching with open interest. Su Yonghuang's gaze was deep and unreadable. Bing Yuxia's fingers tightened slightly on her cold treasure. Li Shangyuan's expression remained composed, but a faint light in her eyes showed amusement. Xu Pei worried her lower lip, half anxious, half trusting. Bai Jianzhen's sword intent settled, recognizing that for now, this was not her sword to swing. Chi Xiaodie exhaled through her nose, a small, fierce smile tugging at her lips.
Qiurong Wanxue watched quietly.
The ghost tribes had always considered themselves the sovereigns of the Sacred Nether World. Even humans who came here had to bow or bleed.
Yet this man stood atop a prince and a young lord as if stepping on loose stones.
Not arrogant bluster. Just… instinct.