"Then try it, Master. We'd rather leave in mercy—but we're leaving, whether you permit it or not."
They knew they couldn't kill her—not easily.
So they fled first, planning how they might…
If it ever came to that.
"All disciples and elders—hunt down Liáng Xu and Fei Yan. Show them no mercy.
Anyone who defies this order will be severely punished… or executed."
The sect erupted. Cultivators surged in pursuit, shadows and spirit weapons flashing across the sky.
Ren flew among them, silent, his gaze locked ahead.
They encircled the fugitives, primed for the killing blow—
—but before blades could fall, the heavens split.
A colossal hand descended from the sky, disrupting the battlefield like fate incarnate.
"How dare you break my decree?"
A voice answered, hard with authority.
"Lady Xuanhe, this doesn't concern you.
As Master of Yuēn Sīzhào, he authorised me to claim these two for the Blood Orchid Sect.
If you dare to stop me, know this—
I won't hesitate to kill you.
It would be a shame…
to end one of the Legendary Six—Mìngjiè Xiānlù."
"You dare threaten me?"
Lady Xunahe's voice rang like a temple bell cracking in a storm.
"I don't recognise your voice. But know this—no one speaks to me like that and walks away unmarked."
Two colossal figures descended.
One was Lady Xunahe herself—her robes flowing like heaven's decree, her eyes burning with sovereign fire.
The other emerged cloaked in shadow, formless yet vast, as if night itself had come to pass judgment.
They struck together.
Mountains split. Valleys howled.
Thunder crashed and storms raged across the sky—nature itself screaming at their power.
But just before annihilation swallowed the sect whole, a radiant barrier bloomed across the land.
It shimmered, golden and quiet, shielding all within its embrace.
Lady Xunahe's blessing.
Ren saw them—Liáng Xu and Fei Yan—retreating, fleeing across the shattered plains like ghosts from judgment.
He vanished into light.
Then reappeared.
Directly in front of them.
His blade rose, gleaming with intent.
He had given up on them.
Given up on mercy.
Given up on hesitation.
Ren struck.
Liáng Xu's head fell.
Then Fei Yan's.
No pause.
No doubt.
No forgiveness.
Moments later, a lone cultivator drifted into view, robes torn by wind and ash.
He witnessed the aftermath in silence.
Then turned skyward and vanished—
headed straight to Lady Yuèh.
He reported:
"Ren has executed Liáng Xu and Fei Yan."
Ren stood among the corpses, blade lowered, its edge still weeping red.
He flicked it clean with a gesture more bored than brutal.
His chuckle was quiet—dry as dust—echoing across the silent battlefield.
"What a pain," he muttered.
"There'll be another protagonist stepping in soon.
There always is.
Too many heroes. Too many villains.
And then the anti-ones—like those two."
His gaze lingered on Liáng Xu and Fei Yan, their eyes forever frozen in shock.
"This world…" he laughed again, bitter and unamused.
"Feels like every cultivation novel I've ever read—
The transcendent ones… and the ones that tried too hard."
No applause from the heavens.
No divine judgment.
Only clouds, drifting like half-written endings.
The god's voice thundered through the sky, ancient and venomous.
"How dare you, little worm? You defy a god?"
A colossal shadowed hand surged downward, aiming to crush Ren into the dust.
But he didn't flinch.
Lady Xunahe appeared between them—silent, radiant, her hand outstretched.
Her fingers grazed the incoming force.
A flash.
The god recoiled, driven back by her divine pressure, shadow splitting like smoke under sunlight.
The battle resumed. Lightning raged. Mountains trembled.
Ren turned amidst the chaos... and froze.
On the edge of the carnage, Mianmian stood over Liáng Xu and Fei Yan's bodies—defiling them in the most base, unapologetic way imaginable.
It was grotesque. Unfiltered. Unholy.
A desecration not just of flesh, but of legacy.
Ren said nothing. He simply watched—
as if even divine war paled beside the twisted mockery now taking root in the ashes.
Ren sprawled on the floor, sipping wine in slow silence.
Mianmian continued desecrating the bodies of Liáng Xu and Fei Yan, unrushed and unsparing.
Ren ate, watched, and said nothing.
When he finished, he stood.
His job was done.
He returned to his quarters, undressed without ritual, and collapsed into sleep so deep it swallowed memory.
Ren awoke to soft breath and silk against his shoulder.
Lady Xuanhe lay beside him, eyes half-lidded, not yet entirely in this moment, but watching.
When he moved to rise, she spoke—quietly, without accusation.
"The god fled. Took those two husks with him.
I let them go."
Ren stilled, the words settling like ash.
Lady Xuanhe did not explain further.
"They're bringing those two back," she said, voice steady.
"Yuēn Sīzhào requested it himself—wants them returned to his sect."
She paused.
"They must still be worth something."
Ren chuckled once, low and amused.
"Of course they are."
He didn't ask for details, didn't question motives.
It was predictable—blessed resurrections dressed as merit, disciples restored because someone powerful remembered their names.
"Let them crawl back in robes and titles.
I'll be here. Same as always."
Lady Xuanhe lowered her head onto Ren's chest, resting against the quiet strength beneath her palm. His heartbeat was slow, almost regal.
"You've done well," she murmured.
"Step 150… the cultivation peak most never reach. But not long from now, you'll push past Step 500—become a demigod.
And after that… Step 1000."
Her voice softened to silk.
"Then you'll breach the divine realm.
Ren didn't move. His breath remained steady.
Then he stood.
His gaze passed over Shen Wuyin—plain-faced, quiet-bodied, the kind no one would suspect. Yet something about his silence held weight.
Ren's attention drifted.
Lady Xuanhe was watching him. Her eyes followed the line of his movement, lingering with quiet interest.
Her robe, dishevelled from sleep, clung loosely to her frame. One shoulder bare. A glimpse of skin. The soft curve of a breast barely concealed, the silk barely holding.
Ren noticed. Briefly. Intact.
But he didn't stare. He didn't comment.
He just returned her look with one of his own.
Ren pulled his robe over his shoulders, the fabric settling against his skin as he tied his long, heavy hair into its customary low ponytail—tight and deliberate, a quiet nod to discipline more than vanity.
He heard her approach before he felt it.
Lady Xuanhe's presence pressed into his back like a tide—warm, insistent. Her breath skimmed his shoulder. The silk of her robe met the texture of his, barely separating them. He could feel her against him, every line, every question her body posed.
She said nothing.
But her silence struck deeper than speech.
Ren stayed still, the knot in his hair now a tether—not to his power, but to his restraint.
Lady Xuanhe's long, thick purple hair draped across one side of her face, like dusk brushing a secret sky. She smiled—not coy, but deliberate, teasing the silence between them with every breath and tilt.
Her body spoke in quiet provocation. She didn't hide the fact that she was testing him. After all, Ren had once admitted it—he found her beautiful. That truth now shimmered in the air between them, unspoken but undeniable.
She stepped closer.
Then she glanced down. And saw.
A grin flickered across her lips, wicked and amused. Her fingers moved toward his belt—not rashly, but with the slow confidence of one who knew exactly what she was doing.
But Ren moved faster.
Power rushed through the room like a tidal decree. One motion, one glance—and she was on the bed, held firm by energy that shimmered like starlight spun into thread.
She tried to move. Couldn't.
He didn't shout. He didn't scold.
He simply walked away, robe trailing, ponytail steady as a vow.
At the door, her laughter rang out—bright, defiant, melodic.
"I thought I was the tease," she said, laughing as though she'd found something far more interesting than victory.
Ren paused.
Lady Yueh was seated beneath a canopy of swaying branches, the notes of her instrument weaving into the wind. Nature bowed to her rhythm—petals drifting, birds silent, water still. It was a moment carved in serenity.
He looked away.
Ren walked the stone path toward Master Fairy Jin's quarters, his thoughts clouded not with desire,
As he reached the threshold of her chamber, he stopped. Her garments lay strewn across the floor—silk like moonlight, embroidered folds like echoes of movement. He stepped back.
Quietly, he shut the door and waited outside.
The sound of water murmured behind the walls—a shower, soft and rhythmic. Her scent, subtle and floral, found him. Not overpowering. Just present. Like memory. Like a warning.
Ren kept his eyes closed. He did not enter.
Fairy Jin stepped out, her presence wrapped in fresh silk and lingering perfume. Her hair shimmered, damp and wild, yet regal. She noticed Ren beneath the garden canopy, seated in stillness. Mianmian rested against his shoulder, asleep—a soft contrast to the solemn energy around him.
Her voice broke the moment:
"Why did you come for Shen Wuyin? Is there something you need?"
Ren rose slowly, careful not to disturb Mianmian curled against his shoulder. He stepped forward and presented a scroll bound in deep blue thread.
"These techniques," he said, offering them with both hands, "were both crafted for you. One honours your rhythm and grace—the other reflects your clarity in silence. You once told me that restraint is its form of power. I shaped these with that truth in mind. This is my gift… in gratitude for what you've given me."
Fairy Jin received the scroll without a word.
Her eyes stayed on Ren—measured, calm, quietly astonished.