Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 32: Slaughter in the Depths

The grand hall of the subterranean palace trembled faintly, its ancient stone walls etched with the scars of forgotten battles. Qin Ting stood at the center, a solitary figure haloed by the fading shimmer of his lightning aura.

The electric tendrils that had crackled around him moments ago—wild and untamed, like the wrath of a storm god—dissipated into the ether. A low, ominous buzz lingered in their wake.

He turned slowly and faced the gathered cultivators from a dozen factions. His lips curled into a smile—a predator's grin, sharp and vicious, promising ruin to any who dared meet his gaze.

The crowd before him was a motley assembly: disciples from the three holy lands clad in shimmering silken robes, rogue cultivators with weathered faces and eyes alight with hunger, and venerable elders whose spiritual energy roared like bonfires. They stood paralyzed, ensnared by the weight of his presence, their shallow breaths hitching in unison.

Qin Ting's piercing blue eyes swept over them, cold and unyielding, as if he could see through flesh and bone to the trembling souls beneath. "I can still sense it," he said, his voice deceptively calm, a velvet sheath over a blade of ice.

"A flicker of defiance in some of you. Do you truly believe you can claim what is mine?" His tone sharpened; each word laced with a ruthless edge that cut through the silence like a whip.

"Perhaps I was too lenient—snuffing out only a handful of your so-called geniuses. A mistake I can remedy. Stand still as I slaughter you. Resist, and your suffering will be a tale whispered in dread for centuries."

The words landed like thunderbolts, and the crowd recoiled as one. Faces paled, eyes widened, and hands hovered uncertainly over weapons—swords half-drawn, talismans clutched in sweaty palms.

A young disciple from the Ancient Sanctum exchanged a frantic glance with his senior, his fingers trembling as they brushed the hilt of his blade. An elder of the Xingyue Sect swallowed hard, his gray beard quivering.

With a flicker of intent, Qin Ting raised his hand, and the air before him shimmered. A colossal jade bell materialized, its surface a tapestry of Dao patterns—intricate swirls and soaring dragons that seemed to pulse with life.

Their scales gleamed like molten emerald, catching the dim light of the hall and casting it back in fractured, prismatic hues. The artifact radiated an aura so potent it pressed against the senses; a weight that dwarfed the petty treasures the onlookers had chased their whole lives.

This was no mere relic; it was a monument to power, a testament to Qin Ting's dominion. "Verdant Gale Dragon's Resonance," he declared, his voice ringing with unshakable authority.

The proclamation echoed off the palace walls, a divine decree that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. He snapped his fingers, and the bell quivered, its deep hum reverberating through the ground like the heartbeat of some ancient beast.

The air split apart as a spectral wind dragon erupted from its depths, its translucent form coiling skyward with breathtaking majesty. Green jade scales shimmered along its sinuous body, and its amber eyes blazed with fierce, otherworldly intelligence.

It reared back, jaws parting in a roar that fractured the heavens, and unleashed a tempest of wind—a storm of razor-sharp gusts that surged across the battlefield with deliberate, devastating precision.

The dragon's fury was a force unbound, a whirlwind of slaughter that carved through the assembly with merciless intent. Disciples of the three holy lands fell in droves, their figures shredded to bits as the wind sliced through flesh and bone.

Blood sprayed like crimson mist, painting the air as screams were swallowed by the howling gale. Rogue cultivators, their weathered resilience no match for the storm, were flung like leaves in a hurricane, their bodies twisting unnaturally as they crashed to the ground.

Even elders, their spiritual energy flaring in desperate shields of light, were torn apart—limbs severed, hair whipping wildly as their broken forms crumpled amidst the carnage. The hall transformed into a grotesque scene of death and gore.

Mangled remains littered the floor, pooling blood seeping into the cracks of the stone. The air grew thick with the stench of iron and despair, a slaughterhouse born from a single man's will.

Yet amid the chaos, Qin Ting's control was absolute. The wind parted deliberately around a select few—disciples and elders of the holy lands left trembling but alive, their faces ashen as they clutched at their torn robes.

He spared them not out of kindness, but calculation: they would be his heralds, carrying the tale of this massacre to every corner of the realm, etching his name into the annals of fear.

High above, an elder had faltered moments before the storm's peak. The initial gusts had battered him, hurling him from the sky like a discarded rag.

Now he lay amidst the wreckage, his breath ragged, his silver robes stained with dirt and blood. 'How... how could one man wield such power?' he thought, his mind reeling as he stared at the devastation.

Scattered around him, rogue cultivators clung to life—some with broken limbs, others with faces bloodied beyond recognition—all powerless before the tempest's wrath. The defensive arrays of the three holy lands—intricate formations woven with centuries of wisdom—had shattered like glass beneath a hammer, their golden runes flickering out in an instant.

True Disciples, the pride of their sects, staggered under the wind's residual force, their robes whipping violently as nausea roiled within them. One, a young man with sharp features and a blade still clutched in his hand, whispered, "He's a monster..."

His voice trembled, terror gripping his heart. They hadn't even faced Qin Ting directly, yet the mere echo of his power brought them to the edge of despair.

In stark contrast, the disciples of the Xuantian Sect and Qianyuan Sect stood untouched, the winds bending around them as if guided by an unseen hand. Qin Ting remained aloft, his figure serene and commanding, the architect of both ruin and reprieve.

His robes fluttered faintly in the dying breeze, and his blue eyes surveyed the carnage with a detachment that bordered on tedium. The wind dragon let out a final, triumphant roar before spiraling back into the jade bell, vanishing in a flicker of light.

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the drip of blood and the faint moans of the dying. The Xuantian Sect disciples erupted into fervent cheers, their faces aglow with reverence.

"Senior Brother, your might knows no bounds!" bellowed a broad-shouldered youth, his voice brimming with unrestrained adoration, piercing the stillness like a trumpet call.

"None can stand before you!" cried another, a wiry girl with fierce eyes, her fists clenched in awe. Their chorus rang out undeterred by the blood-soaked ground, a hymn to their unassailable champion.

A shiver rippled through the Qianyuan Sect ranks. Relief warred with dread as they grasped the grim truth: their earlier restraint—bowing to Qin Ting's dominance—had spared them this fate. The survivors of the holy lands, bloodied and broken, stared in stunned silence, their purpose clear: they lived only to serve as his messengers.

'I'll never forget this day,' an elder thought, his hands shaking as he wiped blood from his brow, the weight of his survival a chain around his soul.

Mu Qingyi, standing among the Qianyuan Sect, gazed at Qin Ting with wide, conflicted eyes. His peerless elegance amid the chaos captivated her—a figure radiant as the sun, his presence both breathtaking and terrifying.

'A legend forged in slaughter,' she thought, her heart quickening, torn between admiration and the cold grip of fear. She had seen his power before, but this... this was something divine, something that reshaped the world in its image.

"Are you waiting for my permission to leave?" Qin Ting's voice broke her reverie, a soft sigh laced with irony. He raised one brow in mock curiosity, his gaze settling on the Qianyuan Sect with faint amusement.

"N-no, Young Master Qin," stammered a Qianyuan elder, his voice cracking as he bowed low. "We... we thank you for your mercy."

With hurried murmurs of gratitude and a collective bow, they retreated toward a nearby side hall, their steps quick and unsteady. To challenge him now, after such a display, would be to court annihilation.

The Ignis Petal Sacred Tree—a prize they had coveted—was no longer worth their lives. Qin Ting turned toward the tree, its gnarled, flame-hued bark shimmering in the dim light.

A faint aura of dominance radiated from him, the air humming with the potency of his Vermillion Palace Divine Body. He extended his right hand, fingers brushing lightly against the bark, and a surge of vibrant purple spiritual energy erupted from his palm.

It coiled around the tree like living serpents, shimmering with an otherworldly glow as it seeped into roots and branches. The ground trembled as the tree shuddered, its fiery petals fluttering like embers in a storm.

With a final pulse of light, it uprooted itself entirely, yielding to his unassailable will. In a dazzling flicker, it dissolved into a stream of luminescent energy, spiraling inward to merge with the Celestial Harmony Palace nestled within his dantian.

Gasps of disbelief rippled through the onlookers. "Impossible..." a rogue cultivator muttered, his jaw slack, his weathered face pale.

To subdue a sacred tree with such ease was unheard of—absurd, even. Yet Qin Ting's expression remained as calm as if he'd plucked a flower from a garden, his energy barely taxed.

"Congratulations, Senior Brother Qin, on claiming such a magnificent treasure!" a Xuantian disciple cheered, his voice bright with pride. "You are the pride of our sect!" added a young girl, her eyes shimmering with excitement as she clasped her hands together.

Their devotion was unshaken by the carnage, their faith in him absolute. The spared cultivators fled like panicked rabbits, vanishing into adjacent halls to pursue their hunt for riches—far from the reach of this demon cloaked in human form.

"Come on, this palace is vast—there must be more treasures elsewhere," one called, his voice tinged with desperation. "Yes, let's hurry!" another replied, greed overtaking grief.

Qin Ting had anticipated this—such was the nature of cultivators, ever driven by ambition. He paid their retreat no mind; their petty struggles no longer concerned him.

With a thought, he summoned a handful of Ignis Petal Fruits from the tree within his dantian. They materialized in a burst of light between his brows, drifting gently into the hands of his Xuantian followers like divine gifts.

"Take these fruits, leave the underground palace, and return to camp immediately," Qin Ting commanded, his voice laden with the authority of an emperor leading legions. "Do not tarry to search for further treasure. Disobey me, and Nie You will personally shatter your Dao Foundation and crucify you."

His gaze swept across the group, cold and imperious, allowing no room for defiance. The disciples froze, stunned by the generosity—and the brutal threat that followed.

'He gives us treasures, yet promises death if we contravene his order,' a disciple thought, swallowing hard. Gratitude swelled within them, mingled with fear, and silent vows took root: they would train harder, determined to prove their worth.

Tears glistened in Xu Hao's eyes as he stepped forward, clutching the glowing fruit. "Senior Brother Qin... we will not fail you. We pledge our strength to you!" His voice cracked with emotion.

The others bowed deeply, echoing his resolve. "We will give our all for Senior Brother!" they chorused, their voices ringing with fervor.

Qin Ting dismissed them with a nonchalant wave, not sparing them a glance as they departed. 'Their loyalty is useful, but their weakness bores me,' he thought, his mind already shifting to greater concerns.

Turning with measured urgency, he surged toward a far-off side hall, his purple robes streaming like a banner in the wind. Nie You and Elder Liu followed in swift pursuit, their faces tight with resolve. Behind them, the Death Guards advanced in perfect unison, their black armor catching the dim light in fleeting glimmers.

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Two days later, the labyrinthine depths of the underground palace stretched before them, its halls a sprawling web of stone and secrets. The air grew heavy with the scent of ancient dust and sulfur, the faint echoes of clashing steel reverberating through the corridors.

Rogue cultivators clashed over scraps—elixirs, method scrolls, anything to justify their descent into this abyss. "Mine! This elixir is mine!" one snarled, slashing at another with a rusted blade.

His opponent retaliated with a burst of flame, and the two tumbled into a heap, oblivious to Qin Ting's approach.

Wherever he passed, silence fell like a shroud. Cultivators shrank back, their greed silenced by fear. 'He's a walking calamity,' one thought, pressing himself against the wall as Qin Ting's shadow loomed and passed.

Abruptly, the sounds of combat sharpened from a nearby chamber—a woman's fierce cry cutting through the din. Qin Ting's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. 'Mu Qingyi.'

"Follow me," he said, his voice low. Nie You and Elder Liu quickened their pace, the Death Guards fanning out like specters.

As they entered the side hall, devastation greeted them. The Qianyuan Sect lay in ruin, their formation shattered, bodies strewn across the ground.

Most disciples sprawled across the ground, grievously wounded, their robes stained with blood and ash. The few still standing bore injuries of their own—gashes across arms, burns searing their flesh—yet they gripped their weapons with trembling hands.

Before them, Mu Qingyi battled a towering, fiery-red tiger beast, its fur ablaze with molten light. Its aura blazed at the peak of the Divine Spirit Realm, a fire-aligned creature thriving in this subterranean inferno. Here, its strength surged beyond its natural limits, the heat radiating from its body warping the air.

This chapter is updat𝙚d by freeweɓnovel.cøm.

Mu Qingyi's expression was grave, her delicate features set in a mask of determination. The beast had lunged without warning, decimating her unprepared sect in a single, devastating strike.

Now, she fought alone, her slender fingers fumbling to activate a magical talisman—a glowing slip of paper inscribed with protective runes. But the creature's relentless assaults gave her no respite, its claws slashing inches from her face.

Her cultivation lingered at the Divine Wheel Realm, too weak to wield a true magical artifact, let alone a sacred weapon. 'I was a fool to think we could handle this place,' she thought bitterly. The beast had struck first at the Divine Spirit Realm guardian who shielded her—a grizzled elder named Tian Bo—leaving his corpse smoldering in a corner.

The rest, mostly Divine Wheel cultivators, were outmatched, their defenses crumbling like dry leaves before a flame. "Hold it back, Senior Sister!" a young disciple shouted, his voice cracking as he hurled a weak bolt of spiritual energy at the tiger.

The attack fizzled against its hide, and the beast roared, swatting the boy aside with a casual flick of its paw. He crashed into the wall, groaning as blood trickled from his mouth.

Mu Qingyi's spiritual energy dwindled to a faint flicker, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Despair crept in, cold and suffocating. 'Will I die here today?' she thought, her grip tightening on the talisman as it pulsed faintly, too slow to activate.

The tiger's presence swelled, its eyes glowing like twin suns. With a deafening roar, it unleashed a torrent of flame—a breath of annihilation that scorched the air, turning the stone floor molten beneath its heat. The surviving Qianyuan disciples cried out in desperation.

"Be careful!" one screamed.

"Senior Sister Mu!" another wailed, tears streaking his soot-covered face.

"No!" a third sobbed, falling to his knees.

Her strength spent, Mu Qingyi could only brace herself, eyes fluttering shut as death loomed. The heat singed her skin, the roar of the flames drowning out all else.

But at that instant, a figure materialized before her—violet aura vast as the ocean, divine in its majesty.

Qin Ting had arrived.