Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 30: Sacred Tree

Beneath a sky bruised with crimson clouds, the cultivators of the Xuantian Sect gathered on a windswept peak. Their banners of war catching the fading light. The air thrummed with anticipation as they mounted their luminous swords and shimmering artifacts—tools of ascension forged in the sect's ancient forges.

With a unified surge, they rose into the heavens, a constellation of light streaking toward the Blazing Valley. An underground palace had clawed its way into existence there, its jagged spires thrusting through the earth like talons of a primordial beast. A churning sea of flame wreathed it, roaring with insatiable hunger.

As they soared, rival sects joined the procession, their banners snapping in the wind. A kaleidoscope of colors and sigils unfurled across the sky, a vivid display of power. Below, the valley shimmered with a blistering haze, the heat a living entity that clawed at the air, distorting the horizon into a molten mirage.

Even hundreds of feet aloft, it prickled their skin, a relentless assault gnawing at their resolve. Among the Xuantian Sect, disciples in the Primordial Pill Realm faltered first. Their faces paled, sweat beading on their brows as the oppressive warmth sapped their strength.

Hands trembled as they summoned their cultivation methods—golden domes flared, azure veils shimmered, crimson barriers bloomed. The sky became a dazzling tapestry of light clashing against the fiery glow below. Yet the effort drained them, their breaths growing ragged, their shields flickering like candles in a storm.

Qin Ting hovered at the forefront. His sharp eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. 'This heat is no mere trial. Even those in the Primordial Pill Realm strain beneath it,' he thought. The realization coiled in his chest, a thread of unease weaving through his usual composure.

Murmurs of unrest rippled through the gathered sects—disciples exchanged wary glances, elders tightened their grips on staves and talismans. Their weathered faces etched with doubt, a restless current swept through the crowd. Whispers rose like smoke, sharp and fleeting.

"What manner of cursed place is this?" a young disciple from a lesser sect muttered, his voice a faint tremor over the crackling inferno below. His wide eyes reflected the flames, a boy out of his depth.

"A furnace," an older cultivator beside him replied, his voice grim. His sweat-slicked face, carved with lines of experience, betrayed no fear. "One that'll melt the weak and temper the strong. Best pray you're the latter, lad."

No one dared descend into the fiery depths first. An uneasy stillness settled over the cultivators, their silhouettes hovering like moths entranced by a flame—captivated, yet fearful of its embrace. The palace loomed below, its spires glinting with an otherworldly sheen, promising treasures forged in peril.

Then, a lone figure broke the silence. A cultivator in the Divine Wheel Realm, his crimson robes billowing like a phoenix's wings, snapped under the weight of his impatience. With a burst of resolve, he transformed into a streak of rainbow light, his fire-based cultivation cloaking him in dancing flames.

'This heat is my domain,' he thought, pride swelling in his chest as he plunged toward the palace gates. Seeing the major sects hesitate, he seized the chance to claim the prize. His laughter rang out—a sharp, fleeting echo swallowed by the wind.

The gathered factions watched, faces impassive, as he streaked downward. Qin Ting's lip curled into a sneer. "Idiot," he muttered, the word laced with disdain.

The cultivator breached the gates, a flicker of triumph sparking in his eyes—only to be extinguished as a torrent of flame erupted forth. A geyser of molten fury swallowed him whole, his piercing scream cutting through the air like a blade, sharp and fleeting. His form crumbled to ash, embers scattering lazily on the wind, a fleeting testament to his hubris.

A collective shudder rippled through the onlookers. 'This place is a deathtrap,' Qin Ting mused, his greed flaring like an ember stoked to life. The palace's danger was a beacon, signaling wealth beyond imagining—treasures ripe for the taking by those bold enough to claim them.

He turned to his followers, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade honed to perfection. "Disciples of the Primordial Pill Realm, return to camp immediately. Senior Sister Zhou, you should go back as well. This expedition is no place for you—not even as cannon fodder."

His tone was cold, unyielding, a commander brooking no dissent. The group nodded, though Zhou Pingyue's delicate features tensed, her lips parting as if to protest. "Junior Brother Qin, I—" she began, her voice soft yet laced with resolve.

But his piercing gaze locked onto hers, and the words faltered, drowned in the unyielding certainty of his eyes. She suppressed her objection, the faint shimmer of her water-based techniques curling around her—a cool mist struggling against the extreme heat. In this blazing inferno, her power seemed as fragile as morning dew under the relentless sun.

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"Go," Qin Ting commanded, his tone softened yet unyielding. The weight of his words lingered like a shadow. Zhou Pingyue bowed her head, strands of raven-black hair catching the light like polished obsidian.

Without another word, she turned and ascended, leading the retreating disciples into the sky. Their silhouettes gradually vanished into the horizon, swallowed by the crimson clouds.

A chill gripped Qin Ting's heart, a shiver racing down his spine despite the suffocating heat. He gazed at the palace, and for an instant, a colossal shadow loomed over him—a formless specter born of instinct, pressing against his soul.

'A warning from the heavens,' he realized, his pulse quickening. Only those blessed with great fortune could sense such omens, a gift of foresight bestowed by the Dao. 'Ye Qiu... are you lurking within, waiting to strike?'

He whirled abruptly, robes snapping with the motion. "Elder Liu, you're coming with us into the palace."

The elder blinked, his grizzled brows knitting together. "Nephew Qin, shouldn't I escort the others back to safety?" His voice was rough with age, steady despite the question.

"No," Qin Ting replied, his expression grave, eyes glinting with unspoken urgency. "I need your strength here. Something awaits us—something I can't face alone."

Elder Liu studied him, then gave a curt nod. "By your command, Nephew Qin," he said, acquiescing without further question. A flicker of curiosity danced in his gaze.

As Zhou Pingyue's group vanished into the safer skies, Qin Ting took the lead. "Move out!" he barked, his voice ringing with authority.

The Xuantian Sect surged forward, a disciplined wave of power and purpose. Their advance stirred the other sects to action, a cascade of resolve descending upon them.

"Follow them!" cried a cluster of rogue cultivators, their voices ragged with desperation. They trailed the larger factions, seeking shelter in their shadow.

At the palace entrance, a blistering gust roared outward, slamming into Qin Ting's face with the force of a dragon's breath. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a shimmering blue shield, its surface rippling like a frozen lake.

The barrier enveloped his sect in an instant, its cold embrace snuffing out the searing heat. "Senior Brother Qin's skill is unmatched!" the disciples chorused, their voices bright with admiration, eyes wide with awe.

"Enough flattery," Qin Ting's icy tone sent a chill through the air, making some disciples visibly flinch. "Stay sharp. This is no place for carelessness."

The renowned sects charged forth, breaching the threshold with awe-inspiring momentum, their collective power a tidal wave of light and fury. Inside, a vast central hall unfurled before them—a surreal marvel carved from the very bones of the earth, its scale defying comprehension.

Towering trees stretched hundreds of miles upward, their gnarled branches clawing at a ceiling shrouded in impenetrable shadow, as if seeking to tear the heavens asunder. The air thrummed with primal energy, thick with the acrid scent of ash and the resinous tang of ancient wood, a heady miasma that set their senses ablaze.

At the hall's heart stood a sacred tree, its colossal trunk wreathed in smoldering embers that pulsed like the heartbeat of a slumbering titan. Its branches bore fiery red fruits that glowed faintly, each one a living ember radiating heat and power, as if imbued with the essence of the inferno itself.

Eyes locked onto the bounty, breaths catching in throats like arrows nocked on taut bowstrings. "Ignis Petal Fruit!" a cultivator gasped, his voice trembling with naked greed, the words tumbling forth like a prayer to avarice.

Though it paled in comparison to the mythical Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit of legend, it remained a treasure rarer than phoenix tears. It held the power to enhance cultivation, fortify one's Dao Foundation, and kindle the spark of enlightenment. Yet, every cultivator present understood the true prize lay not in the fruit—but in the tree itself. A living artifact, a font of immortality, it was a relic coveted by all who tread the path of the heavens.

No one moved. The hall plunged into a tense, eerie silence, the weight of countless gazes pressing down like a storm on the verge of breaking, charged with unspoken intent.

'They're all waiting for someone to make the first move,' Qin Ting thought, his fingers flexing subtly at his side, a predator coiled and ready to strike. 'Cowards.'

The hall quaked as a middle-aged man launched into the air, shattering the stillness with a bellow that shook the roots of the earth. A colossal python erupted from his form, its sinuous body spanning dozens of miles, scales glinting like molten steel forged in the fires of creation.

With jaws gaping wide enough to swallow a mountain, it lunged for the sacred tree, its hiss reverberating through the chamber like the death knell of a fallen god.

A veteran of the Divine Spirit Realm, his strike bore the earth-shattering power of the Yuanshi Gate Sect's Yan Han at his zenith—a tempest incarnate within mortal flesh. "Step away from that tree!" he thundered, his voice shattering the air like a celestial decree.

Powerhouses shed their restraint, unleashing their might in a cataclysmic storm of light and fury. Figures darted forth, colliding midair in brutal skirmishes—spells and strikes raining down like a deluge of divine wrath.

A blade of wind, sharp as a guillotine's kiss, severed a rogue cultivator's arm, blood arcing through the air like a crimson ribbon. A bolt of lightning, jagged and merciless, reduced another to a charred husk, his dying scream lost in the cacophony.

Bodies plummeted—some clutching shattered limbs, their faces contorted in agony, others lifeless husks broken beyond recognition, tumbling into the abyss below. Disciples from the great holy lands formed grand arrays, advancing with lethal precision, their movements a dance of death choreographed by centuries of tradition.

An elder of the Yuanshi Gate laughed, his voice dripping with arrogance as thick as molten gold. "This treasure belongs to the Yuanshi Gate Sect! Clear out if you value your lives!" Flanked by prodigies, he conjured the Yuanshi Formation—a war construct of golden light that blazed with lethal intent, its edges sharp enough to cleave the soul from the body.

It swept forward like a tidal wave of divine judgment, cutting down scores of rogue cultivators in its path. Their screams were swallowed by the deafening din, their bodies reduced to ash and ruin.

Qin Ting eyed the Yuanshi contingent with a cold smirk, his gaze a blade honed on disdain. "Fools never learn," he muttered, his voice a low growl of contempt. Raising a hand, he brought it down in a decisive strike, the motion swift and final as the fall of an executioner's axe.

A massive backhand of purple energy materialized, crackling with raw, untamed power that ripped through the air like a rift in reality. It slammed into the Yuanshi Formation with earth-shaking ferocity, fracturing it into a thousand glittering shards that cascaded like the fallout of a celestial eruption.

The Yuanshi disciples reeled, blood spraying from their lips as they staggered back, their faces pale with shock and fury.

"You—!" the elder sputtered, his voice a strangled snarl, fury twisting his features into a mask of rage.

Qin Ting's voice slashed through the tumult, cold and commanding—a blade of sound that cut through defiance. "This sacred tree—does the Yuanshi Gate Sect presume to lay claim to it? I thought Yan Han's downfall would have beaten humility into you. Leave now, or I'll make corpses of you all. This tree belongs to no one but me."

His words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding, as the chaos of battle churned around him like a raging tempest. The Yuanshi elder's face twisted, his trembling hands betraying a fury he could not wield. The other sects faltered, their gazes darting between Qin Ting and the sacred tree, the weight of his indomitable presence rooting them in hesitation.