"Brother, do you know that our patriarch is going to die soon?"
A youth with a flat nose whispered in a low voice, his eyes darting around nervously.
The sharp-front-toothed youth beside him snorted and stretched his legs lazily. "What does that have to do with us? Let him die or live; if we get our timely share of resources, all is good. Otherwise, I'll simply switch sects."
He said it arrogantly, loud enough for nearby disciples to hear.
Flat Nose grinned. "You're right, bro. Cultivators shouldn't bother with high-end values like integrity or loyalty. They're worth shit in the Devata Realm."
He said it as if he had uncovered some grand cosmic truth.
And the sad part? He wasn't alone in his thinking.
Most disciples of the Sun Sect shared the same sentiment — cold, practical, opportunistic. The Sun Sect was one of the oldest and most powerful sects in the entire Devata Realm, yet within its walls, loyalty had become a forgotten virtue.
Still, there was a minority — a small handful of disciples — who viewed such words as blasphemy. To them, abandoning the sect was betrayal, an act unworthy of true cultivators. They were mocked as old-fashioned fools clinging to dead ideals.
And then there were the fence-sitters — those who didn't care either way. They sat on the boundary, watching others fight, gossip, and scheme, amused by the chaos. They believed that neutrality was the highest wisdom — as long as they weren't the ones burning, they could watch the world turn to ashes with a smile.
If the disciples were rotten, one might at least expect the elders — the supposed pillars of wisdom — to be paragons of virtue.
But my friend, let me save you the disappointment.
The elders of the Sun Sect were even more scummy than their disciples. Their faces might have looked calm and sagely during morning sermons, but behind closed doors, they were busy calculating exactly how much profit they could make from the patriarch's death.
Several elders had already made secret deals with rival sects, preparing to defect the moment the patriarch's life ended. Their only condition? To provide regular updates on the patriarch's health in exchange for promises of power and wealth.
And of course, they agreed. Without hesitation. Without shame.
Now, you might be wondering how such a once-mighty sect had fallen so far.
Was it because the patriarch was a poor leader? Perhaps.Did he fail to foster unity? That too.Or was the sect rotten from the beginning, merely wearing a mask of glory until the cracks showed?
Congratulations — you'd be right on all counts, but only partially.
The real reason lay deeper — in the very fabric of the Devata Realm itself.
The Devata Realm, once the proud domain of enlightened beings, had long lost its moral compass. It was a world that worshipped strength above all else — where spirit stones replaced conscience, and status replaced empathy. The weak were trampled not just by the strong, but by those who simply could.
Integrity, compassion, honor — those were words carved into ancient walls but erased from living hearts.
The obsession with power had poisoned every corner of the realm.Sects waged endless wars for resources.Families sold their daughters for alliances.Even divine beasts were enslaved for vanity.
The very idea of being a "good person" had become laughable — a liability in a world where "money and might could buy anything."
And so, the Sun Sect — once revered as a beacon of justice — had become just another power-hungry, gold-chasing machine.
*****
Now, let's move our gaze to the heart of this collapsing empire — to the sect's central mountain, where the old patriarch sat alone.
The chamber was silent except for the creaking of a wooden chair.
An old man with a long silver beard sat upon a slowly swinging recliner. His skin was thin as parchment, veins visible beneath it. His body looked as if it could crumble to dust at any moment, yet his eyes still burned with intelligence and pride.
His back was straight, his expression calm — the poise of a man who had once commanded armies and shaped the destiny of sects. He gently tapped the armrest in a peculiar rhythm with his left hand while stroking his beard with the right.
He was deep in thought.
"Hmm…" he murmured, half to himself. "With this idea, I can finally start searching for my last successor. But if I execute my plan… I will die instantly, and all my work, everything I built, will go to waste. What should I do?"
His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of centuries.
After a long pause, he sighed. "But if I leave everything to these ungrateful bastards, my soul will never find peace. They'll strip the sect bare before my body even grows cold."
His gaze turned toward the window, where the last rays of sunlight fell upon the ancient symbol of the Sun Sect carved into stone. Once, that sigil had represented honor, enlightenment, and unity. Now it was little more than a hollow emblem — a brand for hypocrites.
The patriarch chuckled bitterly. "Integrity… loyalty… those words have become jokes in this realm."
Despite his flaws — his pride, his temper, his arrogance — one thing made him stand above all others: decisiveness.
Once he made a choice, even the heavens themselves couldn't sway him.
"Well," he muttered, his wrinkled lips curling into a faint smile. "It's decided then."
He closed his eyes and summoned the last of his spiritual power. A golden aura erupted around him, shaking the chamber. His divine sense spread across the entire sect like a sweeping storm, scanning every disciple, every elder, every secret room.
For a moment, his heart swelled with nostalgia — until he began hearing their voices.
"Finally, the old fossil is dying.""Good. Maybe we can finally sell the southern mines.""Do you think his treasures are hidden in the main hall?"
The patriarch's eyes snapped open, glowing with fury.
"These wretched bastards will never change."
He raised his hands, channeling every drop of energy left in his dying body. In the blink of an eye, thousands of glowing runes appeared around him, weaving themselves into a grand formation.
The Gentleman's System was born.
The moment it activated, it unleashed a blinding surge of light. Across the entire sect, chaos erupted. Spirit herbs wilted as they vanished into thin air. Treasure vaults were emptied in an instant. The once-lush medicine gardens turned barren.
Even the sacred spirit mines — the heart of the sect's economy — collapsed into hollow craters.
"What's happening?!""The spirit beasts are gone!""The alchemy halls — empty! Everything's gone!"
Elders panicked, their faces pale as their greed turned to horror.
Within seconds, everything — from spirit tools to ancient scrolls — was sucked into the void, disappearing into the mysterious system.
The patriarch leaned back in his chair, feeling his life force drain rapidly. But on his face was a peaceful smile — the kind of satisfaction only revenge could bring.
"Goodbye, suckers," he whispered. "You can only eat my shit from now on."
His laughter echoed through the chamber before fading into silence.
When the disciples finally entered the hall, all they found was an empty chair — and the faint golden glow of a strange metallic microchip hovering in midair.
The elders' eyes widened. "That's… what he created!"
But before they could grab it, the chip shimmered — and vanished into nothingness.
The Devata Realm shook that day.
When the news spread, every sect, clan, and mercenary guild went into frenzy.
A chip — a relic forged by the greatest expert of the realm — was now lost, hidden somewhere beyond reach. They said whoever found it could reshape the entire world. Power, knowledge, immortality — all locked within that single chip.
Search parties were formed. Armies were mobilized. Blood was spilled. The Sun Sect crumbled entirely, devoured by its enemies, leaving only ruins and rumors behind.
Five hundred years have passed since then.
The world has changed — empires have risen and fallen, new sects have replaced the old. But the legend of the micro chip still lingers like an echo in the wind.
Countless adventurers still dream of it as the holy grail of cultivation.
They imagine themselves rising to godhood, restoring justice, or ruling the realm with an iron fist.
But dreams are dreams, and reality is a cruel teacher.
For half a millennium, no one has found even the faintest trace of the micro chip.
Still, every generation, a few hopeful fools set out in search of it — chasing that long-lost dream like a lover who never returned.