Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 16: Challenge in the Marketplace

The Xuantian Sect's palace perched atop Backridge City like a dragon coiled in quiet repose. Its jade-tiled roofs gleamed faintly beneath the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. A long, inky shadow stretched over the bustling streets below.

Since Qin Ting's arrival just days prior, its towering gates had transformed into a crucible of ambition and intrigue.

A ceaseless tide of visitors flooded the outer courtyard—disciples from rival sects clad in embroidered silks that shimmered with subtle traces of qi. Heirs of noble clans arrived with retainers bearing crests etched with the weight of ancient lineage. Rogue cultivators, their weathered faces marked by years of solitary struggle and hard-won survival, joined the throng.

Each bore the burden of their pride, their offerings—rare scrolls bound in silk or spirit stones glowing with an inner light—a desperate bid for Qin Ting's elusive favor. The air pulsed with the low hum of murmured boasts, the rustle of luxurious fabrics, and the faint clink of treasures. It wove a living tapestry of power, yearning, and desperation.

Within the grand hall, Qin Ting reigned over this swirling chaos from a throne of polished black jade. Its surface, veined with delicate threads of silver, caught the flickering torchlight.

His presence was an unspoken tempest, radiating quiet, unshakable power. His eyes, sharp as honed steel and unreadable as a storm-shrouded sea, swept over the procession with an enigmatic calm that unsettled even the boldest petitioners.

As the final guest of the day—a florid-faced merchant, stammering promises of exclusive trade routes and bowing with awkward haste—scurried from the chamber, a heavy stillness descended.

The only sound was the soft, rhythmic crackle of incense curling upward in thin tendrils from twin phoenix-shaped braziers flanking the throne. Their bronze wings glinted in the dim light.

Nie You approached then, his measured steps echoing faintly against the gleaming stone floor. His voluminous black robes whispered with each movement. His face, angular and stern, carried subtle creases of a man who had witnessed far too much yet chosen to reveal little.

He knelt briefly—a curt gesture rooted in ingrained habit—before rising to meet Qin Ting's piercing gaze. "Young Master," he said, his voice low and edged with a trace of unease that belied his composed exterior, "it seems the other disciples have stumbled into trouble as we speak."

Qin Ting's brow arched slightly, a spark of intrigue flaring briefly in his dark eyes. "Oh?" The single syllable lingered in the air, deceptively light yet laden with unspoken intent.

He leaned forward, fingers steepled before him, a faint, ambiguous smile tugging at the corners of his lips—an expression that might signal idle curiosity or the prelude to calamity. "Do tell..."

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Meanwhile, the sun dipped low over Backridge City, painting the rooftops with rich hues of amber and gold. It bathed the winding streets in a fleeting, ephemeral warmth.

The city had swelled with vitality in recent months, its markets burgeoning under the influx of new trade routes. Hushed tales spoke of rare treasures unearthed from the untamed expanse of the Eastern Wilderness.

For the young disciples of the Xuantian Sect, however, the city's vibrant pulse was a siren's call they could no longer resist. Confined within the sect's sprawling residence—a labyrinth of jade corridors, echoing halls, and tranquil courtyards—they had grown restless. Their spirits chafed against the monotony of disciplined seclusion.

Days of meditation and relentless blade drills had dulled their edges. Their untamed qi simmered beneath their skin, restless and eager for release.

It began with a murmur—perhaps from Mei Lin, her sharp, clear voice slicing through the stifling silence, or Zhang Wei, whose quiet brooding masked a deep-seated yearning for action.

"Why not a stroll?" someone had ventured, the words slipping into the air like a spark igniting dry tinder. No one claimed ownership of the suggestion, but it caught like wildfire. Soon they were in motion—a band of eight, spilling beyond the palace's imposing gates into the chaotic, beating heart of Backridge City.

The marketplace unfolded before them like a vivid tapestry of disorder and color. Stalls groaned under the weight of spirit fruits, their glossy skins glistening with dew-like qi. Hawkers roared over the clatter of spirit stones, peddling talismans that pulsed faintly with latent power.

The air was thick with a heady blend of scents—charred meats sizzling over open flames, crushed herbs releasing their sharp aroma, the metallic tang of forging arrays. The crowd flowed like a living river, vibrant yet orderly. That is, until the Xuantian Sect disciples arrived.

Their elaborate robes, midnight blue that seemed to dance in the breeze, billowed as they moved—a silent testament to their storied lineage. The throng parted instinctively, merchants pausing mid-haggle, children tugging at their mothers' sleeves with wide-eyed curiosity.

Eyes tracked their every step—some brimming with awe and reverence, others narrowed with trepidation or dread. A single misstep near these prodigies could unravel a family's fragile fortune. Their power was a blade unsheathed, its edge gleaming dangerously in the open air.

Whispers trailed them like persistent shadows: "Xuantian Sect..." "Keep your distance..."

Xu Hao strode at their forefront, his broad frame a steady anchor amid the restless tide of his younger companions. At twenty-three, he carried the marks of journeys past—faint scars crisscrossing his knuckles, a small nick above his brow—and the quiet, unspoken authority of the Divine Wheel Realm.

His smile was warm and disarming, softening the edges of his commanding presence as he guided them through the labyrinthine sprawl of stalls.

"That's a Jade Marrow Elixir," he remarked, nodding toward a vial of shimmering green liquid cradled reverently in a merchant's hands. "Good for strengthening bones, if you can stomach the bitterness."

"Over there—Whispering Wind Talismans. Lazy man's messenger service." A ripple of laughter followed, easing the tension coiled tight in their shoulders. Their spirits lifted with the camaraderie.

Then a voice—high, bright, trembling with uncontainable wonder—shattered the crowd's steady rhythm.

"What is that?!" Mei Lin, small and wiry, rose onto her toes, her amber eyes locked on a modest stall tucked half-hidden between a spice vendor and a cloth merchant.

The group turned as one, drawn by her outstretched finger pointing like an arrow. There, beneath a frayed canopy patched with age, a faint blood-red glow pulsed like a living heartbeat. Its aura curled through the air—enigmatic, ancient, and heavy with unspoken promise.

Xu Hao stepped closer, his breath catching as the shape came into focus. "Crimson Arc Vitality Herb," he murmured, the words falling in a reverent hush that seemed to still the world around them.

"Crimson Arc Vitality Herb?" Zhang Wei's voice cracked through his usual stoic reserve. Excitement sparked through the group like wildfire racing across dry plains.

Mei Lin's braids swayed as she craned her neck for a better view. Chen Yu, the youngest, shoved forward, his habitual sullen demeanor replaced by wide-eyed awe.

The herb was a legend made manifest, its jagged ruby leaves glinting with an otherworldly vitality that seemed to hum with life. Tales claimed it thrived only in soil steeped in blood—forgotten battlefields lost to time, the graves of fallen cultivators—its roots drinking deep of their sacrifice and sorrow.

For those clawing their way toward the Divine Wheel Realm, it was a holy grail: qi fortified, blood enriched, meridians aligned with the celestial rhythm of the Wheel.

Even for Xu Hao, whose Divine Wheel already spun steadily within him, its power to refine and stabilize his foundation was a rare and precious boon. To the Primordial Pill disciples at his back, it was a dream plucked from the ether—a shimmering ladder to ascension.

'Seven hundred spirit stones,' Xu Hao thought, steadying his racing pulse as he calculated its worth. 'Maybe eight. It's worth far more than that in the sect vaults.'

He turned to the stall owner, a wiry man with a face carved by sun and worry, and kept his tone calm and even. "How much for the Crimson Arc Vitality Herb?"

The man's eyes flicked nervously to the Xuantian robes, a shadow of dread crossing his weathered features. 'They could demand it for free,' he thought, his throat tightening with unease.

He'd dealt with cultivators before—rogue wanderers bartering scraps for survival—but these were no ordinary strays. Their presence pressed against him, a silent threat cloaked in midnight silk.

He licked his dry lips, fumbling for a price, when Xu Hao spoke again.

"We won't fleece you," Xu Hao said, his voice cutting clear and steady above the market's ceaseless hum. "Seven hundred spirit stones. Fair?"

Relief flooded the man's face, his taut shoulders sagging as if a heavy yoke had been lifted. Seven hundred was a windfall—he'd braced himself for five hundred, a sum that would've sustained him for months. "More than enough, honorable one! More than enough!" he exclaimed, nodding so eagerly his patched cap slipped askew atop his thinning hair.

Xu Hao nodded back, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Seven hundred was generous, true, but the herb was a rarity beyond mere price—hoarded jealously by sect elders or traded for blood in the shadowy black markets of the Wilderness.

Finding it here, amid Backridge's dusty sprawl, was a stroke of fortune he couldn't let slip through his fingers. The Xuantian Sect's wealth flowed like an unending river; why haggle when all could walk away richer?

He reached for his pouch, the spirit stones clinking softly within, when a voice—lazy, insolent, and sharp as a freshly drawn blade—sliced through the air. "Hold on. I'll take that Crimson Arc Vitality Herb. Eight hundred spirit stones."

The crowd gasped, a collective breath that stilled the market's vibrant heartbeat. Heads swiveled, eyes widening with shock and a flicker of morbid thrill.

Who dared challenge the Xuantian Sect? Silence fell, heavy and brittle as glass, as a second group emerged from the throng. Their auras rolled forth like a gathering storm—deep, resonant, each figure a finely honed weapon of qi and intent.

Robes of ash-gray trimmed with gold marked them as disciples of the Yuanshi Gate Sect, a faction that had clawed its way to prominence in the wilds of the Eastern Wilderness. Not yet a match for Xuantian's ancient, towering dominion, but bold enough to bare their fangs in defiance.

The speaker stepped forward, his gait languid and unhurried, his smirk a crescent of pure defiance. Song Tong—Xu Hao knew him instantly. A rising star whose name carried the weight of whispered tales: a prodigy with a blade as swift as his temper, a shadow steadily lengthening across the region.

His dark hair hung loose, framing eyes that glinted with unspoken challenge. His presence thrummed with the quiet promise of violence.

The stall owner's gaze darted frantically between the two groups, his fleeting joy curdling into raw panic. 'Caught between titans,' he thought, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

Xu Hao's smile vanished, his voice dropping to a glacial edge that could've chilled the warmest breeze. "Do the Yuanshi Gate Sect teach no manners? First come, first served—surely even you can grasp that simple courtesy."

Song Tong's smirk stretched wider, his voice oozing with mockery as rich and sharp as honey spiked with venom. "Ha! Commerce bows to the deepest pockets, not your charming little traditions. Eight hundred. Deal."

Xu Hao ignored him, turning to the stall owner with a stare that could've frozen rivers in their tracks. "Make the trade. Now."

Sweat beaded on the man's brow, his fingers fumbling toward the herb with agonizing hesitation. He wanted to obey—Xuantian's shadow loomed largest here, its influence undeniable—but Song Tong's voice slithered in again, low and venomous as a serpent's hiss. "Think carefully, old man. Who are you selling that herb to?"

The stall owner froze, his hand hovering midair, shaking like a leaf caught in a tempest. He was nothing—a rogue cultivator who'd risked his life to harvest these herbs from a ruin where the air reeked of death and the ground wept blood.

Now, pinned between two powers he could never hope to defy, he saw his fragile luck turn to ash. 'I should've stayed hidden,' he thought, his chest tightening with suffocating dread.

Xu Hao's temper flared, a spark igniting in his steady, resolute gaze. "Song Tong, you've got some nerve, strutting so brazenly before the Xuantian Sect."

Song Tong's smirk faded, his face hardening into a mask of cold resolve. "Others may cower before your sect's lofty name, Xu Hao, but the Yuanshi Gate kneels to no one—not even you."

The air crackled, thick with the weight of unspoken violence. Mei Lin's fingers twitched toward her sword hilt, Zhang Wei's stance widened imperceptibly, and the crowd edged back, sensing the storm teetering on the brink of breaking.

The stall owner's nerve shattered entirely; with a choked, desperate gasp, he shoved the herbs into his storage pouch and bolted. His ragged cloak flapped wildly as he vanished into the throng like a hare fleeing hounds.

Xu Hao didn't stop him. His gaze locked onto Song Tong, the market fading—the chatter, the colors, the scents—all swallowed by the cold fury coiling tight in his chest.

'This isn't about the herb anymore,' he thought, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt, fingers brushing the worn leather grip. 'It's a challenge.'

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His voice dropped to a whisper, sharp and cutting as a blade's edge. "It seems you want to settle this the hard way."