Villain: Manipulating the Heroines into hating the Protagonist

Chapter 902: Mystic Peak Sectʼs Movevments

The decision of the Elders, a grudging, fractured compromise born from a crucible of anger and political maneuvering, sent ripples of change throughout the entire Mystic Peak Sect. The usual serene, almost ethereal atmosphere of the mountain, a place of quiet contemplation and diligent cultivation, evaporated overnight. It was replaced by something harder, colder, and far more dangerous.

The air itself felt different. It was no longer scented with the delicate fragrance of high-altitude spirit herbs and the clean, crisp purity of the clouds. Now, it was thick with the metallic tang of freshly quenched steel, the acrid smoke from the ever-burning forges of the Artifact Pavilion, and the palpable, humming tension of thousands of cultivators preparing for battle.

The great martial squares, usually dotted with disciples practicing their individual sword forms in a display of solitary grace, were now vast, organized seas of grim, determined faces. Thousands of disciples, their robes a clear demarcation of their status—the simple grey of the outer sect, the deep green of the inner sect, the stark white of the core disciples—moved in synchronized waves. They drilled in squad-based formations, their movements sharp, efficient, and utterly devoid of their usual elegance. This was not the art of the duel; this was the brutal science of war.

”Vanguard Squad Seven! Your shield formation is a disgrace! Are you trying to invite the enemy to gut you? Again! From the top!” a grizzled, war-hardened Deacon roared, his voice, amplified by his Foundation Establishment Qi, echoing across the square like a thunderclap. He was a man with a face like a slab of granite and a long, jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, a memento from the last demonic tide. He, and others like him, veterans of true conflict, had been pulled from their quiet seclusion to forge this new generation of disciples into a proper army.

The atmosphere in the Armories and the Artifact Pavilion was even more frantic. The forges, great stone behemoths that looked like the roaring mouths of slumbering beasts, burned day and night, their fiery breath turning the night sky above the pavilion a permanent, hellish orange. The rhythmic, unending clang of enchanted hammers on glowing spirit steel was the new heartbeat of the sect, a constant, percussive reminder of the impending conflict.

Disciples and deacons rushed back and forth, their faces slick with sweat and soot. Racks upon racks of newly forged spirit swords, their blades gleaming with a cold, hungry light, were being distributed. Stacks of dark, sturdy-looking armor, etched with defensive runes, were being fitted. Crates of explosive talismans, healing pills, and Qi-replenishing elixirs were being loaded onto transport artifacts, ready to supply the front lines.

The target of this immense, churning war machine was no secret. On every martial square, in every briefing hall, large tactical maps, woven from pure light, hovered in the air. And on every map, one location was marked with a pulsing, blood-red rune.

The Blackwood Spirit Mine.

”Listen up!” the scarred Deacon barked at his newly formed squad, his finger jabbing at the glowing map. ”The Blackwood Spirit Mine is here, in the contested Shadow-wood Peaks. It is not a simple outpost. It is a fortress. Intelligence reports suggest itʼs defended by three interlocking defensive formations, the ʼAzure Gale Barrierʼ being the outermost. We can expect an entrenched force of at least five hundred Azure Sword Clan disciples, led by one, possibly two, early-stage Foundation Establishment Deacons.”

He swept his cold, hard gaze over the faces of the young disciples before him, their expressions a mixture of fear, excitement, and a burning, patriotic sect loyalty.

”Our objective is simple,” the Deacon growled. ”The Vanguard Division will shatter their formations. We will secure the mine. And we will eliminate all resistance. We will reclaim our honor with their blood. Do you understand?”

”YES, DEACON!” the squad roared in unison, their voices echoing with the conviction of youth.

The Eldersʼ call to action had been devastatingly effective. The humiliation of the ambush, amplified by the Azure Sword Clanʼs arrogant proclamation, had galvanized the sect. Every disciple, from the newest outer sect novice to the most prideful core disciple, was burning with a desire for vengeance. They were no longer just cultivators on a personal path to power; they were soldiers in a righteous cause.

But while the entire sect, a great and powerful beast, turned its unified gaze towards the northern border and the promise of a glorious, honorable war, one manʼs attention was fixed firmly in the opposite direction.

The Inner Sect Mission Hall was a chaotic hive of activity. Deacons and disciples pushed and shoved, their voices raised as they formed teams and accepted the newly posted, high-priority war missions. Scouting the Shadow-wood Peaks. Securing supply lines. Reinforcing border outposts. These were the missions that promised glory, honor, and the greatest rewards.

Amidst this martial fervor, one mission, posted on a less prominent section of the great jade mission board, was being largely ignored.

Its title was stark and unappealing: URGENT: Investigate and Contain Southern Territory Beast Tide.

The description was even less glamorous: A massive, unnaturally agitated Beast Tide has overrun the Green Terrace Paddock and surrounding agricultural territories. The source of the agitation is unknown but suspected to be the insidious work of the Hundred Beast Manor. The mission is to assess the scale of the tide, rescue any surviving disciples, and contain the threat before it spreads further into the sectʼs vital inner territories.

The deacons who glanced at it scoffed. A Beast Tide was a messy, dangerous, and low-glory affair. It was pest control on a grand scale. Why would anyone choose to wallow in the mud and gore of the southern farms when a glorious, honorable war was about to be waged in the north?

The rewards, however, were anything but modest. The sect, desperate to prevent a logistical collapse, had attached an almost ludicrously generous compensation package to this undesirable task.

Rewards: 20,000 Contribution Points. A private audience and one hour of personal guidance from a Core Formation Realm Ancestor. One Earth-rank, Mid-grade Combat Technique (element to be matched with recipient). One chance to select a High-grade Cultivation Technique from the third floor of the Scripture Hall.

It was a package designed to tempt even the most ambitious Deacon. But still, the allure of the northern war was stronger.

It was into this bustling, chaotic hall that Wang Jian, flanked by Yue Lingshan and Chen Ying, walked. He ignored the clamor, his eyes scanning the mission board with a calm, focused intensity. His gaze passed over the high-profile war missions without a flicker of interest, landing directly on the Beast Tide assignment.

A slow, predatory smile touched his lips.

While the other deacons and disciples in the hall were either too busy or too intimidated to approach the trio—Wang Jianʼs monstrous talent, Yue Lingshanʼs otherworldly beauty, and Chen Yingʼs icy, aristocratic pride forming a formidable, unapproachable aura—they still watched them from the corners of their eyes.

”Look, itʼs Deacon Wang.”

”Heavens, heʼs with both the Fairy Yue and the Ice Queen Chen. What a man…”

”I wonder which war front he will choose to command? With his strength, he could probably lead a whole Vanguard Division!”

They watched, expecting him to walk to the northern front assignments. Instead, to their collective, dumbfounded surprise, Wang Jian walked directly to the southern territories board. Without a momentʼs hesitation, he reached out and pressed his Deaconʼs token against the Beast Tide mission. The jade slip flared with a golden light, signaling that it had been accepted.

A wave of shocked murmurs swept through the hall.

”Did he just… accept the Beast Tide mission?”

”Is he insane? Thatʼs a suicide mission! I heard the tide has tens of thousands of beasts!”

”Why would he choose that dirty work over the glory of fighting the Azure Sword Clan?”

Wang Jian ignored them. He turned to the mission registrar, a harried-looking mid-stage Foundation Establishment Deacon. ”I am forming my own response team,” he stated, his voice calm and authoritative. ”I am registering Deacon Yue Lingshan and Deacon Chen Ying as my official team members for this mission.”

The registrar, who had also been staring in disbelief, quickly snapped to attention. ”Of… of course, Deacon Wang. Right away.”

He quickly processed the request. The three of them were now officially assigned to the most dangerous, and least desirable, mission the sect had to offer.

A senior deacon, a man who had some minor dealings with Wang Jian in the past, approached him, his face a mask of confusion. ”Junior Brother Wang, are you sure about this? The real glory, the real chance to serve the sect, is on the northern front. The Beast Tide is… a mess.”

Wang Jian turned, his expression unreadable. ”Every threat to the sect must be dealt with, Senior Brother,” he replied, his voice a smooth, noncommittal platitude. ”Glory is irrelevant when the sectʼs foundations are at risk.”

The senior deacon could find no fault in his righteous-sounding words, but he still shook his head, walking away and muttering about wasted talent.

With their mission officially accepted, the trio left the hall, the shocked whispers of the other cultivators following them.

They met Liu Ruyan in a secluded bamboo grove a few miles from the sectʼs main gates, as they had planned. She was waiting patiently, a small, anxious figure in her green robes. Chen Ying gave her a single, cold, dismissive glare, a silent reminder of her status as an outsider, but said nothing.

They boarded the Serpent Scale Soarer, the magnificent artifact rising silently into the sky and streaking south, leaving the grim, war-focused preparations of the Mystic Peak Sect far behind.

Once they were airborne and the sect was a distant smudge on the horizon, the formal atmosphere of the mission hall dissolved, replaced by the unique, complex dynamic of Wang Jianʼs private army.

It was Yue Lingshan who broke the silence, her beautiful face a mixture of confusion and concern as she looked at him. ”Jian, I still donʼt understand. The rewards are magnificent, of course, but… a Beast Tide. It is so dangerous, and so… chaotic. Why would you choose this over the main battle?”

Chen Ying, standing silently by the railing, was also curious, though her pride would never allow her to ask. She simply listened, her attention focused entirely on her Master.

Wang Jian turned, a wide, excited grin spreading across his handsome face, an expression so at odds with the grim nature of their mission that it was almost startling.

”My dear Lingshan,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. ”You, and the entire sect, are looking at this the wrong way. A Beast Tide of this magnitude, agitated by the so-called masters of the Hundred Beast Manor, is a disaster, yes. But it is also a treasure trove.”

He walked to the edge of the Soarer, looking out at the passing clouds. ”Somewhere in that chaotic, stampeding horde will be beasts with rare, ancient, or mutated bloodlines. There will be Beast Kings with unique innate abilities. There will be creatures whose cores and materials are worth a fortune. We are not going there for pest control, my loves.”

He turned back to them, his grin widening. ”We are going hunting for treasures.”

The three women stared at him, a dawning understanding in their eyes. He had seen an opportunity where everyone else saw only a disaster.

He then clapped his hands together, his expression turning serious, his voice taking on the sharp, commanding tone of a general addressing his troops.

”Now, listen carefully. This will not be a chaotic free-for-all. We will operate under my rules.”

He began to explain the hierarchy of the threats they would face. ”Beasts in this region are categorized into Grades. First Grade beasts are the common rabble, their strength roughly equivalent to a Qi Condensation cultivator. They are numerous, but not a significant threat to us. Second Grade beasts are more dangerous, their power comparable to an Early Foundation Establishment cultivator. Third Grade beasts are formidable, on par with a Mid-Stage expert like yourselves.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the three of them, hard and unyielding.

”You three,” he commanded, ”will handle any First, Second, or Third Grade beasts we encounter. But I forbid you from killing them indiscriminately. Your primary goal is to subdue and capture, not slaughter. We will assess their bloodlines and potential later. Any beast without value can be disposed of for its core and materials then. Am I clear?”

Yue Lingshan and Liu Ruyan nodded immediately. Chen Ying, after a momentʼs hesitation, also gave a stiff, formal nod of assent.

”Good,” he said. He then took a step closer, his aura flaring with a pressure that made them all instinctively take a step back. It was a raw, dominant power that was far beyond that of a mere early-stage Foundation Establishment cultivator.

”However,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, ”if we encounter any Fourth Grade beasts—creatures whose power is comparable to a Late-Stage Foundation Establishment expert—they are mine. And mine alone.”

He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze a silent, absolute warning. ”You will not engage. You will not interfere. Your only job in that situation is to provide support from a distance and stay out of my way. I am confident I can handle them. Any questions?”

There were none. His authority, his absolute power within their small group, was unquestionable.

The Serpent Scale Soarer flew on, a dark streak against the afternoon sky, carrying its small, private army south. Behind them, the Mystic Peak Sect prepared for a war of honor and vengeance.

Ahead of them, a chaotic, roaring sea of monsters waited.

And Wang Jian, the master of this small, strange fellowship, could not have been more excited. The spoils of chaos were always the sweetest.