Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 5: Unveiling of a Divine Spirit

To summon a Divine Spirit was to wield an art beyond mortal grasp, a supreme skill reserved for powerhouses who had transcended into the Divine Spirit Realm or higher. It was no mere flourish of the Dao, but a sublime manifestation of a cultivator's soul—its intricacies weaving a brilliance that dwarfed the crude strokes of ordinary techniques.

Song Changge's Divine Spirit erupted into existence—a marvel born of celestial fury, the Skylight Sword of the Heavenly Vault. Hailing from the Extreme Sun Peak, it stood as one of the peak's three supreme absolute arts, a legacy of brilliance as unpredictable as a storm tearing through the firmament. The air itself seemed to bow before it, shimmering with threads of radiant gold as the spirit unfurled, its edges glinting with the promise of chaos and ruin.

Until that moment, Qin Ting had reigned over the duel, his every strike a lash of dominance that forced Song Changge to scramble. But the unveiling of the Skylight Sword flipped the crowd's favor like a gust scattering fallen leaves. Murmurs of doubt swelled among the disciples. True, Qin Ting was a prodigy kissed by the heavens, his battle prowess a testament to his ability to spar with foes beyond his realm.

Yet the Divine Spirit Realm loomed as an uncrossable divide—a crucible where the Dao Foundation transcended mortal limits, forging a cultivator anew. An ancient adage echoed in their minds: Those below the Divine Spirit Realm are but ants. For all his brilliance, Qin Ting's Divine Wheel Realm seemed a flickering candle against the inferno of Song Changge's ascent.

'Your turn to bow down, Qin Ting,' Song Changge thought, a savage glint flashing in his eyes as he summoned the Skylight Sword once more. The spirit quivered, then splintered into forty-nine streams of sword energy—each a blade of searing light, sharp enough to rend mountains and churn seas into vapor. They streaked toward Qin Ting from every direction, a web of destruction closing in with relentless precision.

Qin Ting's hands danced through seals, swift as a river's current, conjuring a wall of ice that gleamed like frozen moonlight in midair. But the Skylight Sword struck with relentless force, shattering the barrier into a cascade of crystalline dust—no pause, no mercy.

A playful chuckle slipped from Qin Ting's lips, light and carefree, as though the chaos of battle were a mere game. At the center of his brow, a divine wheel flared to life, its golden radiance igniting the air with a halo of celestial fire. The wheel spun faster, weaving threads of light into a towering nine-story pagoda—a monolith of divine will that seemed to pierce the heavens themselves.

The pagoda enveloped him, its shimmering walls alive with ancient runes that pulsed like veins of molten gold, drinking in the surrounding light until the world dimmed in its presence. Then came the Skylight Sword—a streak of blinding fury slashing toward him.

The collision rocked the Battle Stage to its core, a thunderous roar erupting as if the mountains themselves had joined the fray, resounding like the beat of a colossal war drum. Power exploded in a tempest of gold and white, sword energies clawing against the pagoda's unyielding frame, each strike a scream of defiance against its might.

For a fleeting moment, the pagoda stood resolute, a bastion of unbreakable grace. Then, with a sound like fracturing crystal, it shattered—dissolving into a cascade of ethereal sparks that twinkled briefly before fading into the void. Yet the Skylight Sword faltered too, its once-radiant edge dulled, its ferocity exhausted in the cataclysmic clash.

A heavy silence descended, pressing against the crowd like a living thing. Eyes widened, breaths held, the onlookers stood frozen, caught in the aftershock of such titanic power. Then, from the throng, a disciple's voice broke through, trembling with raw awe. "So strong... Senior Brother Qin is unbelievably strong."

'He defied a Divine Spirit art,' another thought, heart pounding beneath his robes. 'With just the Divine Wheel Realm—what kind of monster is he?'

The elders sat straighter, their weathered faces etched with a mix of astonishment and calculation. The True Disciples, perched like hawks among the stands, narrowed their eyes, the weight of Qin Ting's power settling into their bones.

Song Changge's breath hitched, his triumph curdling as Qin Ting emerged from the fading glow—untouched, unbowed.

Song Changge's face darkened, a storm cloud brewing beneath his furrowed brow. The Skylight Sword of the Heavenly Vault—a Divine Spirit art that should have sundered Qin Ting's defenses—had faltered, its brilliance snuffed out by that accursed pagoda. His breakthrough to the Divine Spirit Realm, a triumph he'd clawed from the jaws of disgrace, was proving insufficient.

The distant roar of the crowd, once a chorus of awe, now grated against his pride like a blade on stone. To falter here, mid-battle, was to forfeit what scraps of credibility he still held within the Xuantian Sect. Retreat was not an option—only victory could scour the stain of his past defeat.

'You've forced my hand, Qin Ting,' he snarled inwardly, his chest tightening with a bitter resolve. 'If I can't crush you with skill, I'll bury you with power.'

His glare cut toward Qin Ting, sharp as a drawn blade, and a faint glow flickered at the center of his forehead. From that spark erupted a formation diagram—a swirling mandala of light that unfurled like a scroll of creation itself.

Thousands of phantom mountains rose in jagged splendor, rivers coiled like serpents of silver, and the sun and moon wheeled through an illusory sky. In an instant, the diagram expanded, its edges shimmering with an eerie hum, and swallowed Qin Ting whole. He vanished into its depths, trapped in a pocket realm where reality bent to Song Changge's will.

With a surge of spiritual energy, Song Changge poured his fury into the diagram. The illusory world trembled—mountains crumbled into dust, rivers boiled into mist, and the sun and moon shattered like glass ornaments, their fragments raining down in a cataclysm of light. The very fabric of that false cosmos began to collapse, intent on grinding everything within to oblivion.

A gray-robed elder bolted upright from his seat, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "A sacred weapon!"

The words hung heavy, rippling through the stands. Sacred weapons were relics of untold power, mystical artifacts so rare they gleamed like stars in a cultivator's grasp. Only those who had breached the Divine Spirit Realm could awaken their slumbering might, yet their scarcity made them treasures even the Divine Platform and Divine Palace Realm masters coveted in vain.

Li Zhenren—Song Changge's master and one of the sect's leaders—possessed only a mere handful, two or three at most. None bore the mark of this Array Diagram Sacred Weapon. Its origin remained a mystery, and its presence, a shock.

The True Disciples rose as one, their faces etched with solemnity. Feng Qianhan's icy gaze narrowed, while Luo Yuan's hand hovered near his sword, fingers twitching. They exchanged fleeting glances, a silent understanding passing between them. The crowd might speculate, but they knew the truth—this weapon's roots traced back to that person, a shadow few dared name.

On the surface, Qin Ting's fate seemed sealed, ensnared in a collapsing realm with no escape. The elder tasked with enforcing the duel's rules stood motionless beside the Battle Stage, his weathered face an unreadable mask. Tradition demanded he intervene, yet his eyes remained fixed on Qin Ting, glinting with something inscrutable—curiosity, perhaps, or expectation.

'He's not moving,' an elder thought, brow creasing as he studied the overseer. 'Does he see something we don't?'

Within the diagram, the air thickened with the weight of annihilation, and the crowd held its breath, teetering on the edge of dread and wonder.

"Ah, Senior Brother Jiang... so it was you all along." Qin Ting stood at the heart of the formation diagram, its swirling runes coiling around him like a tempest poised to devour a lone duckweed. Yet no trace of fear marred his serene features.

His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as he gazed at the intricate patterns pulsing beneath his feet. Lowering his head, he let out a soft chuckle, his voice a velvet murmur laced with steel. "I've toyed with this fool Song Changge long enough. At last, your hand is laid bare."

Jiang Zhongbai—the eldest True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect, a name spoken in hushed reverence. Less than a century had passed since he crossed the sect's threshold, yet he had ascended to the Divine Platform Realm, his cultivation a towering edifice built on a talent so rare it seemed plucked from the stars.

Once, he had been the uncontested heir to the Holy Son's mantle, his brilliance a beacon that lit the Eastern Wilderness. But then Qin Ting emerged—a supernova eclipsing his radiance—and Jiang's star dimmed. He had cloaked himself in humility, shunning the spotlight, avoiding rivalry with the younger prodigy. Even now, he had abstained from the Battle Stage's spectacle, claiming seclusion for meditation. Or so the sect believed.

The truth unfurled like a venomous bloom: Jiang Zhongbai had orchestrated this moment, leveraging Song Changge's breakthrough to the Divine Spirit Realm as a blade to cleave Qin Ting's rise.

Qin Ting's eyes sharpened, twin shards of ice glinting with resolve. 'With the puppetmaster exposed, this pawn has outlived his use.' Song Changge was now a discarded piece on the board.

With an air of unshakable calm, Qin Ting stepped forward, strolling out of the formation diagram as if it were no more than a child's scribble. The once-menacing array flickered, its power guttering like a candle in the wind, until it collapsed into a lifeless sketch upon a tattered parchment. Qin Ting plucked it from the air, twirling it between his fingers with a playful smirk, as though inspecting a curious trinket.

"No, this is impossible!" Song Changge's voice cracked, his wide eyes trembling with disbelief. He had disabled his trump card without any effort—the Array Diagram Sacred Weapon. To see it unravel so effortlessly at Qin Ting's hands defied all reason. "What sorcery is this?"

The crowd mirrored his shock, a collective gasp rippling through the stands. A sacred weapon—each a force capable of reshaping the heavens and earth—reduced to nothing by Qin Ting's casual gesture? Whispers erupted, tinged with awe and dread.

Feng Qianhan's face hardened, his icy composure fracturing as he stared at the scene. Qin Ting's counter had eluded even his keen perception. More unsettling still, the techniques Qin Ting had wielded thus far were mere staples of the Xuantian Sect's arsenal—ordinary Dao arts etched in every disciple's memory. Yet in his hands, they blossomed with a potency that defied their humble origins, each move resonating with the weight of an elder's mastery.

'He's turned the mundane into the miraculous,' Feng Qianhan thought, a chill threading through his spine. 'What depths does this Junior Brother hide?'

A spark of suspicion flared in Feng Qianhan's mind, sharp and unbidden. His gaze darted to Luo Yuan, catching the faint crease of concentration etched across his fellow True Disciple's brow. Their eyes locked, and in that silent collision, a shared disbelief flickered—raw, unguarded, and laced with a tremor of fear.

'Could it be that Qin Ting has already...' Feng Qianhan's heart stuttered, the thought too vast to grasp.

'...stepped into the Divine Spirit Realm?' Luo Yuan's mind echoed, his breath catching as the impossible loomed before him.

On the Battle Stage, Qin Ting's lips curved into a smile—slight, serene, yet edged with a predator's quiet certainty. He regarded Song Changge with a tilt of his head, his voice smooth as polished jade. "Senior Brother's flair is commendable," he said, each word a deliberate prod, "but when it comes to real power... well, it speaks rather poorly."

Before the echo of his words faded, Qin Ting's aura detonated. A torrent of purple astral light erupted around him, cascading like a river of stars spilled from the heavens. The air shimmered with an ethereal glow—dreamlike, radiant, and utterly overwhelming.

It crashed against Song Changge's presence with the force of a tidal wave, snuffing out his aura as if it were a candle in a gale. The pressure bore down, relentless and suffocating, forcing Song Changge to his knees with a choked grunt. His chest heaved, each ragged breath a battle, and yet Qin Ting stood untouched—his expression languid, almost bored, as if he were idly debating the merits of lotus cakes over spiced porridge.

The stands erupted in a wave of gasps. Female disciples leaned forward, their eyes alight with fervor—some sparkling with awe, others glowing with a softer, unspoken adoration. Qin Ting's figure, framed in celestial splendor, was a vision they'd etch into their dreams.

Song Changge's face contorted, a grotesque mask of rage and shame as Qin Ting's aura pressed him deeper into the stage's stone. 'This can't be my fate,' he thought, his mind a storm of defiance and dread. 'Not after everything I've surrendered!' Then, a shiver of awareness pierced him, his eyes widening in shock before narrowing in wild incredulity.

His voice rasped out, jagged and desperate: "You... you've reached the Divine Spirit Realm too?! How—what are you? This defies all reason!"

The crowd below exploded into pandemonium, a roar of disbelief and wonder surging through the tiers. They were still reeling from Qin Ting's effortless demolition of the Skylight Sword, and now this—a revelation that shattered the boundaries of possibility. At eighteen, Qin Ting had stormed the gates of the Divine Spirit Realm?

A disciple near the edge of the stands faltered, his words tripping over themselves. "D-Divine Spirit Realm? At eighteen? No... that's not—it can't be true, can it?"

All eyes turned to the elders, seeking an anchor in the chaos. The venerable figures sat rigid, their faces carved from solemnity and streaked with incredulity. One elder's hand trembled faintly on his staff; another's jaw tightened as if biting back a curse. The truth sank in, heavy and undeniable: Qin Ting, True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect, had ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm at an age when most were still fumbling with their first meridians.

'A freak of nature,' one elder mused, his thoughts cloaked in awe and unease. 'This isn't talent—it's a force the heavens themselves might fear.'

The wave of shock receded, leaving behind a stark, unsettling truth that dawned on the elders like a cold moon rising over a battlefield. Across the storied expanse of the Eastern Wilderness—where legends were forged in blood and spirit—not a single cultivator had pierced the veil of the Divine Spirit Realm before their twentieth year. None, that is, save Qin Ting.

Even his father, Emperor Qin, a colossus whose dominion once shook the heavens, had claimed that realm at twenty—a milestone long revered as the outer edge of mortal genius. Now, his son had eclipsed it, a feat so staggering it rewrote the boundaries of possibility.

The elders froze, their breaths snagging in their throats as the weight of it settled. Then, as if ignited by a shared spark, they erupted in unison, voices trembling with elation: "A supreme heavenly pride graces us! With him, the Xuantian Sect will ascend to eternal splendor!"

A deathly stillness gripped the stands, as if time itself paused to bow before the revelation. The crowd sat frozen, eyes wide, hearts pounding against the cage of their ribs. Even the True Disciples—Feng Qianhan, Luo Yuan, and their ilk—felt the ground shift beneath them, their usual poise crumbling under the enormity of Qin Ting's feat.

Song Changge's power, though it had flared brightly moments ago, dwindled in their estimation. His breakthrough, propped up by his master's alchemical crutches, was a house built on sand—shallow, unstable, unworthy of the awe it had briefly commanded.

Qin Ting, by contrast, was a fortress of the Dao. His aura radiated with an almost tangible purity, a cascade of light and power that bore no hint of fracture or flaw. The True Disciples reached out with their senses, probing for weakness, for any threadbare seam in his foundation. They found nothing but perfection—a Dao so resolute, so majestic, it seemed to hum with the heartbeat of the cosmos itself.

'He's not just a prodigy,' Feng Qianhan thought, his gaze narrowing as a bead of sweat traced his temple. 'He's a force we can't measure...'

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Luo Yuan, standing beside him, let out a slow, deliberate breath, the faintest tremor in his exhale betraying his awe. His sword hand relaxed, and a wry smile curved his lips as he murmured, "Junior Brother Qin Ting... you're something else entirely."