The Infernal Hall trembled beneath her footsteps.
Now on level ground with her prey, Blood Serpent Empress · Mèi Xuán moved not like a sovereign—but like a seductress. Each step was deliberate, soft, and sinuous, the crimson silk of her living robe trailing behind her like flowing blood.
Eyes of molten gold and wine-red fixed upon one figure: Ling Xuanye.
He stood frozen, his sword still drawn, spiritual pressure coiled around his limbs like steel chains. His Qi surged within him, but it could not break free—not under her aura.
"You," she purred in a voice of honeyed smoke, "are far too handsome to be this quiet."
The tip of her finger, cold and unnervingly soft, pressed against his lips.
"I see the lie you wear… It's clever, but unworthy of you," she whispered. "A child playing mortal, yet your blade speaks of ancient storms… Your soul hums with the scent of gods long buried. Tell me—"
She leaned closer, brushing his cheek with her knuckles.
"—what divine artifact do you use to break my illusions? What spirit rests in your sea of conscience? And those thunderous strikes…" Her smile deepened. "I know them. From another era."
Xuanye's breath was steady, but the rage in his chest was coiling, rising.
Just as her hand reached his neck—
"Xuanye! Don't answer her!"
Su Feilí's voice cut the stillness like flame on paper.
The Empress's smile faded.
Her gaze flicked sideways, expression souring.
"You're quite loud… for a flame I didn't stoke."
With a flick of her finger, a red thread formed—narrow as a hair and faster than a thought.
Su Feilí was flung backward, her body crashing through a fallen demon's corpse. Blood sprayed from her mouth as her Qi sputtered in the air.
"Feilí!" Yue Chányīn cried.
Xuanye's hand twitched.
"You should not have done that," he said lowly.
"Why?" the Empress teased, brushing his jaw with her fingertip. "You care for her? Or… are you just soft for all who scream your name?"
He struck.
Or tried.
But his blade stopped midway—as if caught in invisible silk. The Empress chuckled.
"Oh, beautiful. You're fast. But not yet worthy."
As her hand reached for his chest—
A pulse of silver light split the air.
A flurry of robed cultivators in silver and navy descended from the broken ceiling. The elite disciples of Qingling Sect—sent by the Sect Master himself.
"Get your hands off the young master!"
A volley of spiritual attacks—swords, flames, even beams of talismanic light—tore toward her position.
She turned her head slightly.
They missed.
She exhaled. "This again?"
The air around her exploded.
She raised a single hand, her sleeves fluttering, and retaliated.
"红刃蚀心诀 · Crimson Fang of Heart-Erosion."
From her nails, five red streaks shot forward like threads of lightning, curving unnaturally.
Five elite disciples fell.
Their bodies crumpled before they even hit the ground, Qi extinguished, eyes blank.
Blood stained the floor anew.
The rest reeled back in horror.
"Formation—now!" the leader barked.
A dozen cultivators dropped to their knees and slammed their palms down. Golden light erupted, forming a barrier circle around the six core disciples—Xuanye, Feilí, Shui Lin, Yue Chányīn, Feng Ruo, and Huo Shan.
Within the golden shield, the air was breathable again.
Shui Lin ran to Feilí, lifting her up as she coughed more blood. "She'll live. But not like this again."
Xuanye gritted his teeth.
Outside the shield, chaos reigned.
The remaining Qingling elites formed an outer perimeter, unleashing waves of coordinated attacks—illusions, spears of light, beast summons. None struck true.
Mèi Xuán had stepped into war. And yet she danced.
Their strongest techniques scorched the air, but touched only mist.
"I warned your elders," she murmured, walking through the onslaught as if it were a gentle breeze. "But they never listen."
She pointed at one of the surviving disciples.
His body arched—then imploded, blood spraying into the formation's edge.
Inside, Xuanye's chest tightened.
"She's... toying with us," Feng Ruo muttered, eyes wide with disbelief.
"She's not trying to win," Yue Chányīn said coldly. "She's savoring."
Mèi Xuán now turned back toward the formation.
Her eyes glinted. "You're still watching me, little lord of Qingling."
Xuanye met her gaze. Unflinching.
With a lazy gesture, she extended her hand.
The barrier cracked.
A whirl of invisible force surged forward—like gravity in reverse, drawing the very breath from the room.
Xuanye's body lifted from the floor, dragged through the air as if caught by a string tied to his chest.
"No!" Shui Lin shouted.
"Xuanye!" Huo Shan roared.
The pressure was immense, ancient, unnatural. The barrier shattered behind him as he passed through.
Mèi Xuán caught him—one hand closing gently, mockingly, around his throat.
His blade dropped.
She drew him close, so close her breath kissed his ear.
"Your scent…" she whispered, inhaling softly. "It reminds me of divinity. Of betrayal. Of… ruin."
She traced a single finger from his brow to his lips.
"I think I'll keep you. Maybe I'll kill you. Maybe I'll wear your soul like perfume."
"Don't touch him!" Su Feilí cried from inside the formation, struggling to rise.
The Empress's smile twisted.
"Young master…" she murmured. "How sweet it sounds from their mouths. But only I will whisper it last."
Xuanye's eyes burned—not with fear, but fire.
Yet even he could not break her grip.
Not yet.
To be continued...