Chen Moyan's Exit from the Qingqiu Ruins
When Chen Moyan stepped out through the stone gate of the Qingqiu Ruins, the midday sun blazed down fiercely, warming the hidden patterns on his black robe until they tingled. The valley wind carried the scent of pine resin, mixed with the crisp sound of a distant stream crashing against rocks—far more pleasant than the stale, decaying wood smell inside the ruins. He raised a hand to wipe his forehead; there was no sweat, but the sun was so intense it made his head spin. The Soul-Purifying Bead around his neck still held the coolness of the chamber, pressing against his skin like the ice talisman Su Qingxue had once tucked into his hand, bringing back memories of snow at Ice Sea Cliff in Canglan Realm.
In the open space at the valley's center stood a few tattered tents, their canvas patched over and over—exactly like the shanties of refugees in Canglan Realm. Three rogue cultivators huddled around a campfire roasting a hare; oil spat and crackled, and the aroma drifted far. The leader, wearing a ragged Daoist robe, had a rusted iron plaque hanging from his waist, carved with four characters: "Tianyan Holy Sect". Though blurred, they felt like a thin needle, stabbing the sword scar above Chen Moyan's left eyebrow until it ached.
The man looked up, and his eyes lit up the moment he saw Chen Moyan. The black robe was made of ice silkworm silk from Canglan Realm—even after 100,000 years, the cloud patterns along its edges still glowed, a clear sign it belonged to no ordinary cultivator. He tossed the half-eaten hare onto the ground, grabbed a steel saber from beside his feet, and shouted to his two lackeys: "Da, Er—move! That kid's got treasure on him!"
Da grabbed a thick wooden staff, Er lifted a chipped kitchen knife, and the three fanned out to surround Chen Moyan. The leader grinned, revealing a missing front tooth: "Kid, hand over your storage pouch if you know what's good for you. I'll give you a quick death—otherwise, I'll break your limbs and feed you to the wolves!"
Chen Moyan stood still, his left hand idly brushing the Soul-Purifying Bead around his neck. The bead held Su Qingxue's spiritual energy, and a faint coolness seeped through his robes, just enough to soothe the restlessness from the sun. The sword scar above his left eyebrow glowed pale cyan in the light—a memento from his decisive battle against Canglan Realm's Demon Emperor 20,000 years ago. It still carried the sword aura of that day, like a sleeping snake that occasionally woke to nip at him.
Da charged first, swinging his staff at Chen Moyan's shoulder with a whoosh of wind. Chen Moyan dodged sideways and tapped the staff lightly with his fingertip. There was a sharp crack—the staff snapped clean in two. Splinters dug into Da's palm, and he sucked in a breath of pain: "You—you cheated!"
The leader cursed, "Useless fool!" and swung his saber at Chen Moyan's neck. Chen Moyan shifted his feet slightly; the saber sliced past his nose, the wind from it stinging his eyelashes. He grabbed the man's wrist with his free hand and slowly squeezed. The man's face contorted, veins bulging as he screamed: "It hurts! It hurts! Let go! My hand's gonna break!"
Chen Moyan's fingertips were damp with the man's cold sweat. His voice was icy: "Earlier, who did you say you'd break the limbs of?"
Tears streamed down the man's face as he stammered: "I—I was wrong! Spare me, sir! I have an 80-year-old mother and a 3-year-old child at home…"
Chen Moyan said nothing, only squeezed harder. There was another crack—the man's wrist joint dislocated completely. He nearly fainted from the pain. Next came his elbow, then his knee, then his ankle. With each break, the man screamed like a dog whose tail had been stepped on. Da and Er's legs turned to jelly; they dropped to their knees with a thud and kowtowed repeatedly: "Spare us, sir! We were just following Zhou Laosan for a meal! We don't know anything!"
Chen Moyan stepped on Zhou Laosan's shoulder, forcing him to tilt his head up. The sun shone behind Chen Moyan, stretching his shadow long enough to cover Zhou Laosan's face. He pulled a handkerchief from his bosom and slowly wiped the sweat from his fingertips—it was the one Su Qingxue had woven from ice silk, its threads now brittle but still carrying her scent. "Tell me," he said, "who sent you?"
Zhou Laosan trembled with pain, his voice wheezing like a broken bellows: "It—It was Steward Wang from the Tianyan Holy Sect! He said if we saw someone in a black robe, we should stop him… alive… for three low-grade spirit crystals…"
"Wang Teng?" Chen Moyan's fingertips paused. He remembered Old Mo's intelligence report mentioning a Steward Wang Teng in the Tianyan Holy Sect, tasked with tracking down former disciples of Yijing Sect. "What else did he say?"
"N-Nothing! He only said to bring you back alive…" Zhou Laosan sobbed. "Sir, I really don't know anything else!"
Chen Moyan lifted his foot. Zhou Laosan collapsed to the ground like a pile of mud. Chen Moyan kicked his leg: "Go back and tell Wang Teng—if he sends trash like you again, breaking limbs will be the least of it. I'll crush his bones one by one and feed them to the valley's wolves."
Da and Er scrambled to help Zhou Laosan, fleeing in a panic toward the valley exit. Zhou Laosan's screams faded into the distance, finally disappearing in the pine forest—leaving only the half-roasted hare on the ground, still curling with thin smoke.
Chen Moyan watched their retreating figures, then pulled an intelligence jade slip from his bosom. Old Mo had sent it the day before; its outer shell was carved with "Universal Pavilion" and still held his body heat. Chen Moyan had read its contents three times: "A Demon Lord resides on Blood Prison Star, titled 'Soul-Eater,' and wields the Pojun Secret Art—suspected to be Xiao Qianjue, Yijing Sect's eldest disciple." He gripped the slip tightly, his knuckles whitening. 100,000 years… Qianjue, have you really become a Demon Lord?
The wind suddenly picked up, billowing his robe. The Soul-Purifying Bead around his neck glowed faintly, as if Su Qingxue were trying to warn him of something. Chen Moyan looked up at the sky; the sun broke through the clouds, casting spots of light on his face. A cold smile tugged at his lips. Seven Great Holy Sects—you destroyed my sect, harmed my disciples. Now it's time to pay.
He turned and walked toward the valley exit, the hem of his black robe brushing the dry grass on the ground. The distant stream still flowed, birds chirped in the pine forest, and everything was quiet. But Chen Moyan knew—beneath this quiet, a towering storm was brewing.