Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 31: Three-Pronged Attack

The underground palace sprawled beneath the Eastern Wilderness like a forgotten tomb. Its vast main hall was built from stone older than memory.

At the chamber's heart stood the sacred tree—an enigma of gnarled branches and crimson leaves. They shimmered with an unearthly glow, as if lit by the souls of the departed. Its roots snaked through the cracked tiles, thick and sinuous, pulsing faintly with a rhythm that whispered of ancient power—a relic from a time when gods walked among men.

Elder Wei of the Yuanshi Gate Sect stood before this hallowed tree. His gray robes rippled faintly in the damp air. His gnarled hands, scarred by decades of cultivation and war, clenched into fists beneath his sleeves.

His weathered face contorted into a snarl. His voice lashed out, dripping with venom honed by years of authority. "Qin Ting!" he roared, the name a blight on his tongue. "The Yuanshi Gate Sect is a holy land of the Eastern Wilderness, a pillar of virtue carved from the blood and sacrifice of countless heroes! How dare you spit upon our honor with your insolence?"

Across the chamber, Qin Ting stood unruffled. His regal frame was bathed in the flickering torchlight that cast long shadows across the walls. His sharp features—high cheekbones, a jaw like polished obsidian—were softened only by the faint, mocking smile that played on his lips.

Sapphire eyes gleamed with a cold, sardonic light, sharper than any blade, daring the elder to act. He tilted his head slightly, a predator's gesture. His purple robes fluttered as if kissed by a phantom breeze, the air around him humming with latent power, violet lightning arcing between his fingertips like restless serpents.

'He mocks me,' Wei Zhong seethed, his chest heaving with ragged breaths that echoed his mounting rage. 'This whelp—this upstart boy—dares to stand alone against Yuanshi and grin as though we're ants beneath his heel!'

Hatred churned within the elder, threatening to consume him. 'If only I could rush forward and tear him apart!' he seethed, each ragged breath a battle to contain his fury.

But reality held him back. His cultivation remained stagnant in the Divine Spirit Realm, a far cry from surpassing Yan Han's—and even Yan Han had been obliterated by Qin Ting. The fool's shattered, naked corpse now served as a grim reminder, a chilling testament to Qin Ting's unyielding might.

The bitter truth gnawed at him, a wound deeper than pride. With a final, resentful glance at the sacred tree—its glow a taunting reminder of what they risked losing—he raised his voice in a snarl that reverberated through the hall. "Don't think this ends here, Qin Ting! Every insult you've carved into our flesh, every drop of blood you've spilled—we'll repay it a hundredfold!"

His robes flared like a cloud as he leapt into the air, soaring toward the distant side halls. Behind him trailed his disciples in a ragged procession. Their once-proud swagger had vanished, replaced by the slumped shoulders of defeat, their ornate armor clinking faintly with each step.

From the chamber's edges, a ragged throng of onlookers—rogue cultivators and lesser sect members—watched with barely veiled glee. Their faces, weathered by the Eastern Wilderness's merciless wilds, lit up with the grim joy of the downtrodden. The Yuanshi Gate Sect's arrogance had long festered like a plague across the region.

Earlier, they'd unleashed their Celestial Wrath Formation—a towering construct of golden energy that had swept the battlefield like a divine scythe. Its radiant tendrils had devoured friend and foe alike, rogue cultivators falling in droves, their screams lost to the wind. Even those who'd held no grudge against Yuanshi had perished, mere fodder in the sect's relentless bid for supremacy.

Now, as the disciples slunk away, the crowd's whispers swelled into a tide of vindication.

"Serves them right!" a grizzled man rasped, his voice roughened by years of ashwine. "Finally, someone's cut those pompous bastards down to size!" a woman hissed, her scarred lips curling into a smirk. The air thrummed with their satisfaction, a chorus of the forsaken savoring the fall of the mighty.

Qin Ting ignored their murmurs, his presence a storm unto itself. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, purple lightning wreathing his form in a crackling halo. His robes fluttered as he drifted forward, weightless as a specter, tendrils of thunder stretching outward to weave a shimmering field that spanned the chamber's breadth.

Where he passed, warriors of rival sects clad in resplendent armor plummeted from the air. Their bodies charred black by his aura's searing touch. Swords and spears clattered to the stone, melted into slag by the heat of his power, their wielders reduced to ash before they could cry out.

In this subterranean abyss, Qin Ting was a god among men.

The rogue cultivators scrambled back, boots scraping against the uneven floor, parting before him like a sea before a tempest. A path cleared to the sacred tree, its red leaves rustling with a faint, melodic chime that seemed to sing his name.

'Those who yield may live,' he mused, a quiet certainty settling in his thoughts. 'Those who resist shall die.'

His gaze swept the crowd, cold and unyielding, weighing each soul as if peering through their flesh to the marrow beneath.

A grizzled cultivator, his face half-shrouded by a tattered cloak, muttered under his breath, "Is this the might of a peerless genius?" His voice quivered with awe, laced with the faintest tremor of dread.

But as Qin Ting neared the sacred tree, its glow pulsed brighter. The disciples of the great holy lands—Chaosheng, Xingyue, and the Ancient Sanctum—could no longer restrain their battered pride. It flared like a dying ember stoked to flame, driving them into desperate action.

The Chaosheng Sect's silver-robed disciples formed a tight phalanx, their movements honed by years of discipline. At their forefront stood Liang Bo, a stern-faced True Disciple.

"Together, now!" he barked, his voice a whipcrack of command. "Summon the Peak of Eternity!"

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Their spiritual energy merged, a torrent of power coalescing into a colossal sacred weapon—a living mountain that throbbed with verdant life. Trees sprouted from its slopes, jagged rocks gleaming like fangs as it hurtled through the air. It crashed toward Qin Ting with the force of a falling sky, intent on burying him beneath its weight.

From the Xingyue Sect emerged Fu Mingzhu, her lithe frame draped in robes that shimmered like moonlit water. Almond hair framed a face alight with a coy, almost teasing smile. "Astral Blade!" she called, her voice lilting with a deceptive sweetness.

A blade of starlight streaked forth, ethereal and radiant, its edges rippling with celestial power. It sliced toward Qin Ting with the force to rend the palace asunder, trailing motes of light that glittered like fallen stars.

Zhou Qian of the Ancient Sanctum roared, his body swelling into a towering giant that dwarfed the battlefield. Crimson runes glowed across his skin, pulsing like the heartbeat of a demon god roused from slumber. Behind him, his fellow disciples—faces pale with strain—channeled their spiritual energy into his form, their breaths ragged as they fueled his ascent.

"Crush him!" one shouted, sweat dripping from his brow. With a stride that shook the earth, the giant lunged, his massive hand clawing toward Qin Ting. His fingers, tipped with claws of molten gold, sizzled against the stone.

Nearby, a wiry disciple of the Qianyuan Sect fidgeted, his nervous eyes darting between the chaos and Mu Qingyi. "Senior Sister Mu, should we join them?" he whispered, voice tight with urgency. "If we don't act, the sacred tree will fall into his hands!"

Mu Qingyi stood apart, her crimson robes pristine amid the dust and blood. Her gaze lingered on Qin Ting, calm and impenetrable, a still lake hiding unfathomable depths.

After a moment, she shook her head, her voice soft yet resolute. "If they can't stop Young Master Qin Ting, our strength won't tip the scales. And if they do, we'd only fight them next. Better to wait."

The disciple exhaled sharply, stepping back with a reluctant nod. 'She's right,' he thought, 'but it bothers me to stand idle.'

Only Mu Qingyi felt the crushing weight of her restraint—'He's someone we cannot afford to provoke.'

The combined assault of the three holy lands roared forth, a tempest of power that shook the palace to its foundations. Cracks raced across the walls, dust cascading from the ceiling as the air thrummed with raw, destructive force.

Qin Ting's laughter rang out—a sharp, fearless sound slicing through the chaos like a blade. "Is this the best the vaunted holy lands can offer?" he mocked, his voice steeped in contempt. With a casual flick of his right hand, he pointed skyward. A sigil flared to life on the ceiling, unleashing a sword of searing purple that erupted with brilliance.

It spiraled downward like a newborn sun, bathing the hall in blinding radiance and casting jagged shadows. The blade met the Peak of Eternity head-on, slicing through rock and earth with a thunderous crack. The mountain shattered into countless fragments, the Chaosheng disciples screaming as the backlash devoured them, leaving a sword-shaped crater scorched into the floor.

Qin Ting's left hand rose with a languid grace, effortlessly closing around the Astral Blade as it streaked toward him. "Pretty, but useless. Much like yourself," he murmured, his tone tinged with boredom.

With nothing more than a faint squeeze between two fingers, the starry weapon disintegrated, scattering into shimmering motes of light that drifted away like dying embers on the breeze.

Fu Mingzhu's smile faltered, then vanished entirely, her widened eyes betraying the shock as her pride crumbled before her.

With a wave of his hand, Qin Ting invoked a divine art. The ground split beneath him, and thousands of emerald vines erupted forth, each thick as a warrior's arm and bristling with thorns like daggers. They tore through the stone as if it were silk, surging toward Fu Mingzhu with relentless hunger.

She stumbled back, her energy spent, her coy mask shattering. "No—help me!" she cried, her voice raw with terror as her Xingyue comrades rushed forward. Their swords and techniques flashed, slashing at the vines, but the tendrils regenerated faster than they could cut, shrugging off their blows like a beast swatting flies.

The vines seized Fu Mingzhu in an instant, coiling around her limbs and throat. Her screams rang out—shrill and desperate—as they tightened, tearing her apart in a grotesque spray of blood and bone.

Her comrades froze, then collapsed to their knees, weapons clattering to the ground. "Senior Sister!" one sobbed, his hands clawing at the tiles as if he could pull her back from death's grasp.

Qin Ting chuckled, a low, dark sound, and turned to Zhou Qian's towering form. "A big target makes an easy mark," he mused aloud.

A single energy palm wreathed in purple light thrust out, striking with devastating force. The giant's chest caved in, flesh and blood rupturing as Zhou Qian was flung backward. His true body crashed among the Ancient Sanctum disciples, kicking up a cloud of dust.

He lay still, unconscious, as his comrades scrambled to his side, shouting, "Brother Zhou! Stay with us!"

But Qin Ting's mercy was a stranger. With a flick of his wrist, the blood-soaked vines surged toward Zhou Qian. "Finish him off," he commanded, his voice cold as the abyss.

The thorny tendrils pierced the fallen disciple relentlessly, shredding flesh and bone until his innards spilled across the floor in a crimson tide. The Ancient Sanctum disciples wailed, helpless as their prodigy was reduced to a mangled ruin, their hands trembling in the air.

With another flick, the vines retreated, slithering back into the earth with a wet, guttural hiss. The carnage they left behind was a brutal testament—a field of blood and despair that silenced the chamber.

In moments, Qin Ting had shattered the united might of three holy lands. It was as if he'd strolled through a garden, plucking victory with the ease of a child gathering petals.

'Their grand designs crumble so easily,' he mused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 'It's almost a pity.'

Silence descended, broken only by the distant drip of water from the ceiling. The crowd stared at Qin Ting, stunned, as though the world had paused to witness his ascent.

Liang Bo, Fu Mingzhu, and Zhou Qian were no mere disciples—each a titan under forty, masters of the Divine Spirit Realm, wielding divine arts that had felled lesser legends. They'd swallowed their pride to unite against him, their combined might a force to shake the heavens.

Yet they'd fallen before his solitary power, a chasm between them vast enough to drown hope itself.

A rogue cultivator, his face carved by years of strife, murmured under his breath, "The greatest of our generation... A blessing to behold, a curse to defy." His voice trembled with awe and despair, a prayer whispered into the void.

Qin Ting's gaze drifted to the sacred tree, its glow pulsing faintly as if in answer to his presence. He moved forward, the lightning around him crackling louder, a storm poised to break. The crowd held its breath.

In the shadows, Mu Qingyi stood watch, her calm facade betraying nothing. Yet, within the depths of her mind, a warning stirred: 'This is only the beginning. What will happen once we come across the heavenly treasure?'