Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!

The atmospheric scars carved by the cosmic tribulation still bled faint wisps of violet lightning into the upper troposphere, but down within the sect, the stench of reality was far more visceral.

The proud architecture of the Rising Dragon Sect had been ground into an ocean of pulverized granite, burning timber, and liquefied mud.

Across the shattered avenues, the screaming had devolved from coordinated battle cries into the wet, choked sobs of dying men.

The gamers, entirely stripped of their digital detachment by the unmetered agony coursing through their nervous systems, lay writhing in the dirt like crushed vermin, their tears cutting through layers of grime and blood as the relentless students of the Imperial Academy methodically harvested their lives.

Then, the freezing winds of the high firmament parted without a whisper of sound.

Hovering weightlessly above the center of the devastated compound, bathed in the pale, returning sunlight, Shen Haoran appeared at the sky of the sect.

His silhouette was immaculate. The moon-white celestial robes draped around his tall, slender frame bore not a single droplet of blood, not a single scorch mark from the nine-fold heavenly tribulation he had just destroyed, and not a speck of dust from the battlefield.

The straight, pitch-black blade of the Black Imperial Sword, Azathoth, had already been re-sheathed and swallowed back into his world.

The third eye upon his forehead had closed seamlessly into his skin, leaving behind only the faintest golden cinnabar mark, while his natural pupils calmly surveyed the slaughterhouse below.

With an unhurried, drifting descent that mocked the frantic violence of the mortal world, he stepped across the empty air, and landed next to Huo Yue on the magma giant’s shoulders.

The impact of his embroidered boots upon the glowing rocky shoulders made no more sound than a dry leaf settling onto water.

Yet, beneath his feet, the massive titan of rock and magma instinctively stiffened.

The bubbling rivers of burning hot liquid stone running across its chest hissed to a quiet simmer; the primeval core within the monster’s gargantuan ribs thrummed with deep, instinctual submission, recognizing the arrival of an entity that stood at the apex of all predatory existence.

Standing at the edge of the molten precipice, her voluminous crimson hair flaring against the scalding updrafts, Huo Yue had been directing the advance of the Sun Tribe with ruthless, imperial efficiency.

Before she could even turn her head, a familiar, terrifying warmth brushed against the curve of her back.

Then, his slender fingers slid effortlessly around the tight, silk-wrapped contours of her hips, pulling her voluptuous frame back against his broad chest with casual, possessive familiarity.

The intense, blistering heat radiating from her pure flame constitution, like a furnace capable of turning ordinary steel to vapor upon contact, cooled instantly against his skin, tamed into a gentle, fragrant warmth that perfumed his white lapels.

Haoran rested his chin lightly beside her ear, his breath cool and steady against her flushed cheek, and asked for the situation.

”So, what’s the situation, Yue.” Haoran murmured, his voice smooth as polished jade, cutting through the distant roars of dying men with effortless clarity.

A rich, throaty chuckle vibrated in Huo Yue’s chest as she leaned into his embrace without hesitation, her head tilting slightly to press her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes burning with haughty, untamed satisfaction as she gestured toward the smoking ruins of the courtyards below.

”They are nothing more than screaming cattle in front of us, Haoran,” she smiled, her red lips curving into a sharp, cruel sneer. ”Those strange, insolent puppets who were shouting obscenities? The moment our students touched them, their fearless bravado dissolved into hysterics. They are rolling in their own filth, weeping like beaten children, begging for their mothers while we tear them apart. As for the grand elders of their sacred grounds... they can barely hold their battle lines against our tribal vanguards. It is not a war, Haoran, but a slow, humiliating slaughter.”

Down in the perimeter of the inner sanctum, where the broken pillars of the grand library formed a desperate barricade, the surviving leaders of the Four Sacred Grounds were fighting with frantic desperation.

The Sword Saint, his ascetic gray hemp robes torn to shreds, his left shoulder pierced by a solar javelin, swung his plain wooden blade to decapitate a charging beast.

But, at that moment, the old swordsman’s gaze, sharpened by three millennia of solitary blade-training, snapped upward toward the colossal silhouette of the magma titan.

There, perched high above the battlefield in the arms of the red-haired demoness, stood the white-robed youth.

The memories rushed back into the Sword Saint’s mind like burning venom—the grand assembly in the clouds, the chilling, and the patronizing speech that had ignited the bloodlust of the imperial students.

This was their leader. This was the demonic puppet-master who had brought this apocalyptic scourge upon their peaceful continent, the monster who had reduced the White Dragon Emperor to an empty, bloodless husk falling into the dirt.

”DEVIL! DIE!”

The Sword Saint roared, abandoning his defensive footing as he burned the final reserves of his life force, his entire body transforming into a blinding, gray pillar of sword intent!

He stepped onto the wind, his wooden blade pointing straight toward the young master’s throat, intending to sacrifice his very soul to pierce that arrogant leader of theirs—

BOOM!

The sky directly before his path detonated into a blinding wall of pure, solar radiance!

A disc of concentrated brass fire materialized out of the vacuum, and stepping upon it was the Chief of the Sun Tribe.

Augusta stood towering, her skin gleaming with ancient, primeval brands, her fiery orange hair whipping like tongues of living flame.

Her massive, solar-forged brass greatsword descended in a heavy, downward cleave that caught the Sword Saint’s ascending gray strike head-on!

CLANG!

The concussive shockwave of two peak Nirvana forces colliding blew the surrounding clouds away for leagues!

”Your eyes wander too easily, boy,” Augusta spoke, her mature, resonant voice rolling like thunder through the Sword Saint’s skull, her arms locking against his hilt with immovable, tectonic density. ”Your opponent is me.”

”Out of my way, savage wench!” the Sword Saint snarled, his teeth grinding as blood sprayed from his gums, locked in a ferocious, bone-shattering stalemate with the chief of the Sun Tribe.

Seeing his ancient brother-in-arms intercepted, the Xuan Yuan Saint of the Xuan Heavenly Sect roared in fury!

The broad-shouldered elder slammed his palms together, conjuring ninety-nine massive, earthen mountain-seals from the bedrock, preparing to bypass the solar duel and crush the magma titan’s shoulder beneath the crushing gravity of an inverted continental shelf!

SHIIIIING!

A razor-thin, purple line of severance whispered through the air, slicing clean through the core leylines of his ninety-nine earthen seals!

The massive stone manifestations disintegrated into harmless sand before they could even ascend fifty yards!

Then, stepping out from the shadow of a severed pavilion, the aged village elder of the forgotten Ascalon clan stood motionless upon an iron sword, his weathered, wrinkled face etched with cold, ancient disdain.

His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his notched greatsword hovering beside his shoulder like an obedient hound.

”Your earthen arts are crude, elder of the northern plains,” the old swordsman rasped, his voice sounding like two dry stones grinding together. ”Our clan was forgotten in the lightless woods for ten thousand years, while you grew fat off the offerings of mortal empires. Today, you shall test the sharp edge of Lord Ascalon’s true heritage. Move, and your head parts from your neck.”

”You... you renegade ghosts!” the Xuan Yuan Saint bellowed, his crimson talismans flaring in desperate defense as the Ascalon elder’s lethal, purple sword domain closed around him like an iron cage!

On the other side...

”Roar!”

A feral, deafening screech tore from the throat of the Murong Clan’s supreme lord!

The Nine Lives Demon King threw his beast-fur armor aside, his hair bursting into primeval demonic flames as his feline slit-pupils burned with pure bloodlust!

He burned his seventh and eighth demonic lives simultaneously, his muscles swelling, his claws extending into three foot long talons of black, corrosive blood-qi, lunging into the air to flank the imperial positions—

FZZZZT!

A rain of bone-carved, shadow-sealing needles rained down from the heavens, pinning his shadow directly to the scorched earth!

Drifting down from the storm clouds upon the back of a four-winged shadow condor, an ancient, hunched figure draped in primeval panther-skins and black feathers raised an obsidian skull-staff.

His eyes, burning with eerie, twilight-purple spiritual fire, locked onto the Demon King’s struggling frame.

”You damned feral beast,” the High Priest hissed, chanting ancient, primeval beast-suppressing curses that caused the draconic tattoos along the Demon King’s arms to writhe in agony.

”Damn you! I’ll tear your withered throat out!” the Demon King roared, thrashing violently against the soul-anchoring pins, his claws tearing through his own flesh in an effort to break the ancient tribal curse!

On the other side, The Wind Emperor of the Divine Wind Palace, attempting to dissolve his physical form into an intangible, hyper-speed localized gale to slip through the imperial perimeter and strike at Haoran from his blind spot, felt the atmosphere violently freeze into solid lead!

ROOOOOAAARRRRR!

A mountainous, obsidian-scaled tail tore through the sonic barrier, shattering the wind into fragments!

Ivaraune, the hundred-meter demon titan, planted his colossal basalt claws into the earth, his four jagged horns blazing with violet fiendish fire!

Standing atop his shoulder, Gu Xunyi sneered down at the swirling tempest, while Ning Xueli casually flicked her bone-white hairpin, unleashing an absolute wall of soul-freezing frost that locked the Wind Emperor’s ethereal form back into solid, shivering flesh!

”Where do you think you’re going, little breeze?” Ning Xueli giggled cruelly, the cold mist from her lips crystalizing the air. ”Stay right there and let our pet crush your bones into paste!”

The Four Sacred Masters—the supreme pillars of this lower world—were completely, effortlessly pinned down.

Every single counter-offensive had been cleanly intercepted by the ancient tribes, forgotten clans, and primeval beasts that the Imperial Academy scions had gathered from the corners of the realm.

They were isolated, bleeding, and surrounded by monsters whose foundations rivaled or surpassed their own.

Haoran stared at those people.

Standing atop the magma titan’s shoulder, his hands still loosely resting around Huo Yue’s waist, Haoran watched the chaotic, desperate struggles of the sacred leaders with cold, indifferent amusement.

To him, their righteous fury, their fraternal bonds, and their grand sacrifices were nothing more than the thrashing of insects trapped beneath a heavy stone.

They were already dead; their names were already erased from the historical scrolls of the cosmos.

But slowly, his golden eyes shifted downward, piercing through the smoke, past the shattered marble avenues, and deep into the subterranean leylines beneath the Rising Dragon Sect’s central compound.

The faint, relaxed smirk upon his lips vanished, replaced by a subtle, sharp furrow of his brows.

He felt Ling Luochen’s aura flickering.

It was weak. Incredibly weak. The distinct, corrosive qi of the Descending Asura Demonic Physique, which should have been burning like an uncontainable crimson furnace, was sputtering out like a dying candle in a torrential downpour.

Worse, beneath that fading demonic signature, Haoran detected a foreign, unnatural surge of spiritual density—an astronomical, pressurized reservoir of stolen life-force that bore the exact same repulsive, artificial frequency as the blue interface that had stayed the hand of the Heavenly Dao moments ago.

Someone down there is borrowing strength from beyond the board, Haoran thought, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Ling Luochen was an imperial disciple under his banner; regardless of her standing, her life and death belonged strictly to the Shen Clan, not to a backwater sect master playing with borrowed toys.

The comforting, possessive warmth around her waist lifted as Haoran took half a step backward, smoothing the immaculate folds of his white silk robes.

”I leave the rest here to you,” Haoran said calmly, his tone shifting into the cool, absolute authority of an imperial commander.

Huo Yue smiled and nodded.

”Worry not, Haoran,” she replied softly, her amber eyes glistening with fierce, loyal devotion as she placed her hand against her heart in a formal imperial salute. ”When you return, there will not be a single stone standing atop another, and not a single soul drawing breath in this valley.”

With that, Haoran disappeared.

There was no sound of air displacement,

no ripple of spatial distortion, and no lingering trail of spiritual light.

The space where he had stood simply became empty, his physical coordinates vanishing from the sky as he plunged into the dark subterranean depths below to settle the account.