Why is My System Glitching-Chapter 99: Hanz Clan Estate

With every word from Carl Murphy, Lordi Payne's expression grew grimmer. He'd assumed the task to Hanz Clan Estate was a routine mission, suitable for Sixth Layer Qi Refinement cultivators. In a rash bid to deflect Ruru Rosa's suspicions, he'd volunteered to take Kim Simona's place without a second thought. Now, the truth unraveled: this wasn't just a task—it was a deadly abyss, swallowing squads whole.

And the situation was even worse than he thought. Five elite battle squads had registered for this same Outer Sect task. The implications were dire. At the Hanz Clan Estate, the Thorn squad wouldn't just face the death estate's hidden perils—ancient traps, wards, and whatever slaughtered its inhabitants—but also the treachery of their own sect comrades. The other four squads, packed with elite Ninth and Eighth Layer cultivators, demon beast battle pets, and legendary Dao weapons, were as likely to stab them in the back as to compete for the Hanz Clan Estate's treasures.

A darker thought gnawed at him: what if betrayal lurked within the Thorn Squad itself? A traitor turning on them at a critical moment could spell doom, and with the demonic sect's opportunistic nature, he couldn't rule the thought out.

Resigned to his fate but desperate for any edge, Lordi Payne steadied his voice. "Senior Brother Murphy, before Senior Brother Hughie Wing fell into his coma, did he say anything about how he was so gravely wounded at the Hanz Clan Estate?"

Carl shook his head, his expression grim. "Hughie Wing was a mess—half-dead, his mind shattered. He muttered a few incoherent words before collapsing. The medicine cultivators examined him and found his spirit soul deeply shaken, as if something had torn into it. They gave him a Soul-Calming Pill to stabilize him, but that means he'll sleep for a month. If we wait for him to wake, the other battle squads on this task will seize the advantage."

BRO! What the fuck!

Lordi Payne cursed under his breath. So they were going on the task blind. The task's opacity was suffocating. He stole a glance at Ruru Rosa, seated nearby, her face an icy mask. His mind raced, calculating. "Whatever the others' strength, at least she's not a threat. Her Eighth Layer Qi Refinement Stage cultivation outranks me, but her combat skills are weak."

If the situation in Hanz Clan Estate turned ugly, Lordi Payne was confident his Blood Spectre Footwork Art would let him outpace Ruru Rosa with ease, leaving her behind in a flash.

——

A few days later, at high noon, the sun hung bright over a serene valley cradling a natural reservoir, its glassy surface reflecting the sky. The water was hemmed by rugged mountains, their slopes cloaked in a breathtaking grove of cherry trees, their pink blossoms swaying gently in the breeze, painting the air with delicate petals. The scene was a tranquil haven, the soft rustle of leaves and distant trickle of a landslide-dammed river weaving an almost dreamlike calm.

Whoosh!

A sharp sound shattered the stillness as a long, obsidian javelin spear pierced the clouds, slicing through the sky before descending gracefully to the reservoir's waterfront. As it touched the ground, the spear's form shimmered, rippling like liquid night. The weapon swelled, widening and morphing into a sleek, black canoe, its hull etched with serpentine carvings that seemed to writhe in the sunlight. From within, ten cultivators emerged by turn, their vigorous auras crackling with purpose.

At their forefront, a tall and commanding figure radiating authority. This male cultivator stepped forward, his white robes, embroidered with intricate sun and moon patterns, flowed over sharp black boots. Fine eyebrows framed his bright, piercing eyes, and his jade-embedded waist belt secured a blood-red Dao Staff. Its gnarled shaft, resembling petrified vines, crowned by the snarling head of a serpent, alive with menace, its twin curled horns and bared fangs glinting. The serpent's slit-pupil eyes flickered with bloodflame, exuding a malevolent aura that seemed to thirst for slaughter.

Once all had disembarked, the leader like cultivator cast a hand seal, and the canoe shrank back into its javelin form. Tucked the black javelin into his storage pouch, he surveyed the cherry-blossom-laden valley, then his gaze settled on his squad, his Ninth Layer Qi Refinement aura pulsing like a beacon. "My fellow Junior Brothers and Sisters," he declared, his voice resonant, "we've arrived at the Hanz Clan Estate."

A turbaned male cultivator knelt, pressing his palm to the earth. After a moment, he exhaled in relief. "No sign of Senior Brother Donovan Valdez's Dominator Squad. Senior Brother Langley, it seems our GhostClaw Squad is the first to arrive."

"Of course we are," chimed a tall, slender female cultivator, her delicate makeup accentuating her graceful features. Her eyes sparkled with admiration for the leader like cultivator. "Thanks to Captain Soren's foresight in borrowing the Venomflame Blood Wyrm Staff and the Ebony Spirit Canoe from an Inner Sect Senior, we've gained a two-day lead over the other battle squads. With this advantage, victory is already in GhostClaw Squad hands!" frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

The Soren Langley's warm smile flashed, but his expression quickly hardened, his gaze sweeping the GhostClaw squad with steely resolve. "Listen well, GhostClaws! The Hanz Clan has long faded, its members now dust. Their array formations and traps, though still active, are weathered and frail by time. The true threat lies not within the estate's defenses but in the four rival battle squads trailing us. Our early arrival is no accident. The Mother of the Abyss has favored us. It's her call for we GhostClaw to seize victory. Let us unite as one, guard each other's backs, and storm the treasury with speed and precision."

He raised the Venomflame Blood Wyrm Staff, its serpent head seeming to snarl in agreement. "We'll secure the treasury and retreat to the Holy Sect before others even scent our trail. The division of spoils—Cultivation Techniques, Martial Spells, alchemy herbs, the Alchemy Formula of Foundation Establishment Pill, the Crimson Whisker Vine—will come later, once we've breached the vault. If we linger or hesitate, our lead advantage vanishes. Worse, we risk becoming stepping stones, clearing the path for other battle squads to snatch our prize."

"Aye, Captain!" the GhostClaw Squad roared in unison, their voices echoing across the reservoir.

A purple-clad female cultivator stepped forward, her array compass humming in her palm. With deft calculations, and a few precise adjustments, she pinpointed a breach in the Hanz Clan Estate's grand defensive array. Soren nodded, and the GhostClaw squad moved as one, rushing toward a thick cherry tree, the breach location, with disciplined hast.

One by one, the ten cultivators advanced toward an ancient cherry tree, its gnarled branches casting long shadows. Their figures melted into the darkness beneath its canopy, vanishing like specters into mist. Cherry petals drifted silently in their wake, the soft sound of their steps swallowed by an eerie, oppressive stillness.

The air shimmered like ripples across a pond, and the vibrant cherry grove and serene reservoir vanished. In their place, the GhostClaw Squad stood at the base of a towering hill, its slopes dotted with half-hidden mountain houses, towers, and sprawling courtyards, their outlines softened by mist and time. Before them loomed a colossal gatehouse, its arched entrance flanked by an ancient wall that stretched endlessly in both directions, encircling the entire hill like a slumbering serpent, hinting at the Hanz Clan's faded grandeur.

Above the gatehouse hung a worn plaque, its gold gilding long peeled away, leaving a dim, chipped base. Two characters in elegant Ancient Cloud calligraphy spelled "Hanz Estate," their faded strokes a silent testament to the clan's decline.

Ebony flagpoles lined both sides, draped with tattered festival ribbons and frayed tassels, ravaged by years of wind and rain. Once-potent Dao Fulus, carved in the clan's prime, adorned the walls, but their power had dwindled to mere whispers, barely enough to ward off only the weakest ghosts and wandering spirits—utterly useless against the GhostClaw Squad's might.

Driven by their hunger for the Treasury House, the GhostClaw spared the decayed decorations no second glance. They scoured the entrance briefly, their movements sharp and efficient, before passing through the gatehouse. Boots scuffed against ancient stone steps as the squad ascended into the mist-wreathed mountain estate, each stride carrying them deeper into the clan's abandoned heart.

As they advanced, the purple-clad female cultivator, her array compass still in hand, approached Soren Langley. "Senior Brother Langley," she said, her voice measured, "this Hanz Estate spans a vast area, and with only ten of us, if we stay together, we'll never cover enough ground to locate the treasury before the other squads arrive. With respect, I propose we split up to maximize our search."

Split up?

The words hung in the air, Soren Langley's frown was fleeting, but not born of fear.

The Hanz Estate was undeniably perilous; four prior squads had been obliterated, with only Hughie Wing, an Eighth Layer cultivator, escaping alive, broken and comatose. Yet every member of the GhostClaw Squad was at least Eighth Layer or above, armed with meticulous preparations—elixirs, Fulus, and Soren's Venomflame Blood Wyrm Staff. Even if one of them triggered a trap or faced an enemy, they could hold their own long enough until reinforcements arrived.

No, Soren Langley's hesitation wasn't about danger of the task. But the greed nature pulsing in human hearts.

Splitting up risked betrayal. What if a squad member found the Treasury House and, tempted by its riches—the Foundation Establishment Pill Formula, the Crimson Whisker Vine—chose to conceal it, claiming the prize alone?

The purple-clad female cultivator, sensing Soren Langley's hesitation, consulted her array compass, its needle quivering as it traced the estate's energies. "Captain, my calculations show the next breach in the Hanz Estate's grand defensive array will open in roughly eight hours," she said, her tone respectful. "It'll appear at the gazebo pavilion in the heart of Sleep Lily Lake, within one of the residence districts on the back mountain. With so little time, Senior Brother Langley, sticking together will limit our search. We won't cover enough ground to find the Treasury House before the other battle squads arrive."

Soren's eyes flickered, weighing her words. The Hanz Clan Estate sprawled across the hill, its labyrinthine paths and hidden courtyards a daunting maze for just ten cultivators. Junior Sister Woods' logic was sound, yet the risk of betrayal gnawed at him. Still, her proposed timeline offered a solution. He nodded decisively. "Junior Sister Woods is right. Attention GhostClaw Squad! The nine of you will form three groups of three. I'll search alone. We'll scour the estate separately, but whether we find the treasury or not, we regroup at the gazebo pavilion in eight hours."

His strategy was calculated. The single breach point and tight deadline gave him control. By arriving early at the pavilion, Soren could inspect his squad's belongings and question them one by one, ensuring no one concealed a find.

The nine squad members, their eyes alight with greed for the treasury's treasures, bowed in agreement, no trace of hesitation. Within moments, the GhostClaw Squad dissolved into the estate's shadows—four groups of cultivators scattering quickly like leaves in a storm.

——

A few moments later...

Array Cultivator Marie Woods, the purple-clad female, descended a towering ladder woven from gold hover vines, her two squadmates trailing close behind with footwork art. They emerged into a shadowed mountain valley, its air thick with the scent of moss and decay. The trio had found nothing in their search so far, their hands empty.

As they walked, the wind that had rustled the leaves above abruptly stilled, plunging the valley into an unnatural silence, as if they'd crossed an invisible threshold into another realm. The temperature plummeted, a chill seeping into their bones as a cool, whispering breeze slithered toward them, carrying the faintest echo of distant cries.

Ahead, under a dense canopy of gnarled mountain woods, a cluster of wooden buildings loomed, their weathered frames half-swallowed by vines and shadows. Despite the midday sunlight, the interior was cloaked in darkness. The light strangled by the thick foliage above. Scattered in the corners of the first building were several open coffins, their lids splintered, their interiors yawning like hungry maws. A narrow passage led downward, connecting to a dim, cavernous natural cave. Within, vast martial arenas sprawled—rugged platforms, training dummies, and stone floors scarred by countless blades and fists, with the training dummy's straw guts spilled across the stone, the marks of the Hanz Clan's rigorous heir training still etched into the stone.

"Search thoroughly," Marie Woods commanded, her voice too loud in the silence. "We've found nothing so far, but this was where the Hanz Clan honed their heirs and offsprings. Even if the Treasury House isn't here, there could be valuable relics or insights worth taking."

Her squad-mates nodded, moving to rummage through dusty cabinets and crates, their footsteps echoing in the hollow space. Suddenly, one froze, his gaze fixed on a figure standing not far off, hands clasped behind its back.

"S-Senior Brother Langley?" he called, his voice tinged with confusion. Just moments ago, Soren Langley had set off in a completely different direction.

Marie Woods, inspecting a dusty ornate vase for hidden value, snapped her head up at the words. Her breath caught as the air seemed to solidify, a bone-chilling cold invading her lungs.

Not far away, standing unnaturally still, was a figure wore Soren's distinctive white robes, embroidered with sun and moon patterns.

It faced away from them.

Then—slowly—the head began to turn.

The body did not move.

The neck twisted further.

Further.

Bone ground against bone in wet, sickening cracks, the head rotating far past the limits of flesh.

180 degrees.

And there it stopped.

Soren Langley stood back to them but his face rotated back, his gaze locked at them—his eyes unblinking, hollow. The thing stared in silence, its lips curling into a faint smile.