Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 39: Divine Retribution

The secret chamber beneath the underground palace of Blazing Valley trembled as if caught in the throes of a dying beast. Jiang Zhongbai's aura erupted, a maelstrom of silver light spiraling around him, untamed and ferocious, like a storm clawing free of its chains.

The chamber's ancient walls groaned under the pressure, their once-sharp edges softened by time and neglect. Fine gravel sifted from the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the sharp, acrid tang of scorched stone that hung heavy in the air.

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Shadows danced across the walls, cast by the flickering torches that lined the chamber. Their iron frames were pitted with rust, and their flames guttered like the last gasps of a forgotten age.

Jiang Zhongbai stood at the center of this chaos, his hands a blur as they wove through intricate seals with a precision that belied his faltering state. Each gesture summoned tendrils of power, coalescing into a spectral blade—a crescent of raw, pulsating energy that thrummed with the weight of a collapsing star.

Its edges shimmered with a cold, lethal gleam, slicing the air with a low, mournful wail that prickled the skin and set the braziers' flames shivering. With a snarl that bared his teeth, he lunged forward, the blade arcing toward Qin Ting in a howl of silver fury.

The stone floor beneath him fractured, glowing fissures spiderwebbing outward, pulsing with a malice that seemed to seep into the very bones of the earth. Yet his movements betrayed him—sluggish, burdened by exhaustion.

His breath came in ragged heaves, a faint tremor shaking his blood-smeared hands. The earlier clash with Nie You and Elder Liu had carved its toll into his flesh: bruises bloomed across his arms like dark storm clouds, a deep gash wept crimson across his chest, staining the tattered remnants of his white robes, and his once-brilliant aura flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows that mirrored his fractured resolve.

Across the chamber, Qin Ting stood as still as a statue, his silhouette wreathed in violet-golden flames that coiled around him like a serpent's possessive embrace. The heat warped the air into shimmering waves, distorting the outlines of the ancient relics scattered about—cracked urns, a rusted incense burner tipped onto its side, a jade tablet hanging askew on the wall, its faint glow a whisper of forgotten power.

Perched on his shoulder, the Golden Crow—a creature of molten fire and righteous wrath—let out a piercing shriek, its talons clicking against the lavish purple robes that clad Qin Ting's form. Its eyes, twin embers of liquid amethyst, glinted with a fury that seemed almost alive.

A slow, cruel smile curled Qin Ting's lips, sharp and predatory, as though he were a hunter savoring the final moments of a quarry already ensnared.

"You wish to weather a storm in a straw raft?" he mused aloud, his voice smooth as polished obsidian, each syllable laced with a chilling, almost playful delight. "A broken one, no less... Did Nie You and Elder Liu leave you so fragile after trading just a handful of weak techniques?"

Jiang Zhongbai's snarl deepened, but Qin Ting's words struck true. Nie You and Elder Liu, staunch defenders of their master's will, had met Jiang Zhongbai and his conspirator Ye Qiu in brutal combat earlier.

The battle had left them scarred but unbowed, their recovery hastened by the exorbitant medicinal pills Qin Ting had pressed into their hands before they descended into this shadowed lair. Each pill was a treasure, a shimmering orb worth thousands of spirit stones, its potency capable of knitting torn flesh and replenishing spiritual reserves with breathtaking speed.

Qin Ting spared no expense for his allies—not out of kindness, but necessity. They were tools, honed and preserved to serve his purpose, and he wielded them with the same ruthless precision he now turned on his foe.

'His defiance is a dying ember, clinging to the last sparks of desperation,' Qin Ting thought, his mind a cold, calculating abyss. 'I'll stoke it—just enough to watch it gutter out in despair.'

He had anticipated this betrayal ever since his clash with Song Changge. Jiang Zhongbai's whispered conspiracies in shadowed corridors, his promises of power to sway Xuantian's elders, and his bold scheme to assassinate the sect's destined Holy Son had all been meticulously unraveled by Qin Ting's masterful counterstroke.

This wasn't a duel; it was a performance, a game of dominance he played with sadistic glee. His gaze flicked briefly to the cracked jade tablet on the wall, its ancient script pulsing faintly—an omen, perhaps, of the traitor's impending ruin.

The Golden Crow launched from his shoulder, its molten wings unfurling in a blaze of hellish light that bathed the chamber in a golden inferno. It met Jiang Zhongbai's spectral blade mid-strike, the collision erupting in a deafening boom that reverberated through the ancient stone.

Parts of the wrecked ceiling broke free, crashing to the floor in a hail of dust and debris, while the blinding cascade of their clashing powers—silver stained with betrayal against violet-gold radiant with murderous intent—flooded the space. The air thrummed with the resonance of their techniques, a cacophony that toppled urns and sent the rusted incense burner skittering across the stones.

Qin Ting's strikes flowed with an effortless grace, a dancer in command of his stage, while Jiang Zhongbai's were labored, his knees giving up as he fought to hold his ground, his strength ebbing with every breath.

"Don't send your petty tricks to do your work!" Jiang Zhongbai roared, his voice cracking like a whip frayed by overuse, blood flecking his lips as he spat the words. His tattered robes snapped in the tempest of his own making, the once-pristine white now a grim parody of his fallen honor.

Qin Ting's laughter cut through the chaos, cold and sharp as a blade skating across ice. "Face you? Don't be ridiculous. I'll toy with you—until you break."

A third eye of purple-golfen flame flickered to life between his brows, blazing with a sadistic intent that cast a harsh, unforgiving glow across his chiseled features. With a casual flick of his wrist, fire surged forth from his third eye, twisting into a flock of Golden Crows—harbingers of ruin, their wild auras pulsing with the promise of annihilation.

They spiraled toward Jiang Zhongbai, shrieking with a gleeful hunger, as if eager to feast on his flesh. The heat scorched the chamber's walls, blackening the ancient sigils until they smoldered, their once-proud lines reduced to ash.

The chamber could no longer contain their fury. With a surge of intent that cracked the air like thunder, the two prodigies soared upward, bursting through the palace's ceiling in twin streaks of light—Jiang Zhongbai a faltering comet of silver, his aura fraying like a torn shroud, Qin Ting a meteor wreathed in violet-gold flame, radiant and unstoppable.

The sky above Blazing Valley split in their wake with a sound like shattering glass, debris raining down as the palace's roof collapsed inward, exposing the chamber to the blood-red twilight beyond. The wind howled through the jagged breach, carrying with it the faint, metallic scent of storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

Below, a throng of onlookers had gathered, drawn by the tremors shaking the valley—elders clad in Xuantian's golden-trimmed robes, their faces stern and unyielding, and cultivators from lesser factions, their eyes wide with awe or fear. The glow of the shattered ceiling illuminated their upturned faces, painting them in hues of crimson and gold.

Among them stood Nie You and Elder Liu, their gazes fixed skyward. Nie You, his dark hair streaked with dust and sweat, crossed his arms, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he tracked the duel.

"Look at him—Young Master Qin Ting hasn't even broken a sweat," Nie You said. "Jiang Zhongbai's half-dead from our fight, and still, he's nothing to our Young Master."

Elder Liu, his grizzled face etched with a grim satisfaction, leaned heavily on his dented sword, its tip sinking into the cracked earth. "He's not fighting—he's punishing. Like a judge sentencing a condemned fool. I've never seen such effortless cruelty."

The two exchanged a glance, their loyalty to Qin Ting tempered by a quiet, unshakable awe.

A grizzled wanderer nearby, his cloak patched and threadbare, spat into the dirt, his voice rough with disdain. "Jiang Zhongbai was one of Xuantian's brightest stars. How does a traitor fall so low?"

"He fell the instant he raised his blade against the greatest genius of this era," replied a stern elder, his tone sharp, hand resting on the sect medallion at his chest. "Qin Ting surpasses even his lord father, Emperor Qin, in raw talent—he's the future. Zhongbai's nothing but ash to be swept aside."

High above, amidst a roiling expanse of storm clouds, Jiang Zhongbai and Qin Ting faced each other across the turbulent sky. Jiang Zhongbai's eyes burned with a desperate, flickering resolve, though his body trembled, his breaths puffing into the cold air in faint, white wisps.

Qin Ting's gaze was a frigid abyss, gleaming with the thrill of dominance, his stance both relaxed and commanding, as though the heavens themselves bowed to his will. Their resolves collided with every strike, unleashing a force that sent clouds spiraling outward before fracturing in an eruption of raw power.

They struck, the heavens trembling with a thunderous detonation. Jiang Zhongbai's hand flared open, five streams of sword energy roaring upward in radiant arcs, painting the sky crimson—but their edges wavered, fraying mid-flight as his dwindling power faltered.

Qin Ting countered with a languid gesture, his Golden Crows multiplying into a flock, their screeches a chorus of doom that echoed across the Lian Yun Mountains. Techniques clashed, sparks raining down like molten stars, but Qin Ting's strikes were precise, almost leisurely, while Jiang Zhongbai poured every ounce of his fading strength into survival, his arms quaking with the effort.

The duel stretched on, Qin Ting prolonging it with deliberate malice. Jiang Zhongbai fumbled in his sleeve, drawing forth a black talisman, its surface glowing with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the gloom.

"Spirits of the void, heed my call!" he shouted, shattering it with a trembling hand. A torrent of silver chains lashed toward Qin Ting like a dragon's claws, each link humming with stolen power.

Qin Ting tilted his head, a flicker of amusement crossing his features, and waved a hand. A single Golden Crow swooped down, its flames melting the chains to slag mid-air, the molten metal hissing as it fell.

"Is that all?" Qin Ting taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "I expected more from a traitor who dared confront the heir of the Qin Family."

Gasping, Jiang Zhongbai summoned his next treasure—a crystalline spear pulsating with divine light, its haft etched with forbidden sigils that whispered of ancient, forbidden pacts. "Pierce the usurper!" he cried, hurling it with a ragged shout, the weapon streaking like a comet through the twilight.

Qin Ting sighed, almost bored, and snapped his fingers. A wall of violet-gold flame erupted, shattering the spear into glittering dust that drifted on the wind.

"Worthless," he sneered, circling Jiang Zhongbai like a vulture, his crows weaving a mocking pattern around him. "Keep struggling—it's delicious."

Below, Nie You shook his head, brushing dust from his cloak as he marveled. "He's not even trying. Zhongbai's throwing everything he has, and the Young Master swats it away like flies."

Elder Liu's voice was stern, his staff tapping the cracked earth rhythmically. "He's breaking him—body and soul. That's not just strength; that's justice honed to an art."

The wind carried Jiang Zhongbai's faint cries, a pitiful echo over the valley's jagged peaks.

A young cultivator, his Xuantian robes pristine, watched with wide eyes. "The elders were right—Senior Brother Qin is our next Holy Son for a reason. Zhongbai never stood a chance."

"Treachery's a weak blade against fate," muttered an older wanderer, his voice rough as gravel. "He's learning that the hard way."

Jiang Zhongbai's reserves dwindled to embers. He drew his final weapon—a longsword etched with jagged patterns, its blade humming with the last vestiges of his stolen spiritual energy, the hilt slick with his blood.

The traitor's voice shattered the silence, raw and unhinged. "I'll bury you yet!" he roared, his blade igniting the air as he unleashed a relentless storm of slashes.

Each strike carved a silver crescent through the void, a symphony of desperation and fury, as if he could claw his way back from the brink through sheer will. The heavens trembled with the force of his defiance, his sword singing a dirge of survival.

But Qin Ting moved like a shadow through the chaos, untouchable, his lithe form weaving between the arcs of steel with an almost mocking grace. Around him, a flock of Golden Crows swirled, their blazing feathers glinting as they descended upon Jiang Zhongbai's blade. Peck by peck, slash by slash, they tore at the weapon—its metal screamed, then faltered, crumbling to ash in his trembling hands.

He staggered midair and plummeted to the ground, like a puppet with severed strings. His once glorious aura flickered and died, snuffed out like a candle in a gale. The treasures that had adorned him—rings, talismans, the jade pendant at his throat—lay shattered, their glow extinguished, their power bled dry. His energy was a guttering ember, spent beyond recall.

Blood seeped from a dozen wounds, dripping from his torn robes to spiral into the endless abyss below, each drop a silent testament to his ruin. His chest heaved, ragged breaths rattling through him as he hung there, a broken shell of the warrior he'd once been, suspended between pride and oblivion.

For a moment, he was still, his gaze locked on the ash drifting from his hands. Then, slowly, his shoulders slumped, the weight of defeat pressing down like a mountain.

His voice, when it came, was a hoarse, fractured thing, scraped raw by anguish. "I yield," he rasped, the words clawing their way out of his throat. His head dipped, a faint bow to the inevitable, his matted hair falling across his face like a shroud.

He raised his eyes to Qin Ting, the fire in them dulled but not extinguished. His plea hung in the air, fragile yet resolute. "Please, grant me a warrior's death, Qin Ting. I ask not for mercy, nor pity—but for dignity. Let me die as I lived. Do this, and claim your victory."

Qin Ting descended to meet him on the ground, as a god might deign to confront a mortal. He glided closer, his feet never touching the earth, his smile stretching into a grotesque mask of cruelty. For a fleeting moment, his third eye flared with blinding intensity before vanishing, along with the fiery golden-purple aura that had enveloped him. "A warrior's death?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venomous contempt. "You forget your place beneath my heel, filth. A rat deserves only a rat's end."

With a snap of his fingers, the Golden Crows swooped down, their razor-sharp talons sinking deep into Jiang Zhongbai's flesh.

They ripped into him with slow, deliberate precision, tearing through his robes, his skin, and his dignity in equal measure. His screams shattered the sky—a raw, piercing wail of anguish and shame—as the flames consumed him piece by piece. First his arms, then his chest, the fire gnawed relentlessly until his cries dissolved into a wet, choking gurgle.

Qin Ting stood by, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight, watching until nothing remained but a charred, twisted husk that stained the earth with its darkened blood. When the Golden Crows had completed their gruesome work, they vanished into thin air, leaving only silence in their wake.

The sun dipped low, a red glow sinking into Blazing Valley, casting long shadows over the jagged peaks and smoldering ruins of the palace. A silent dirge hung in the air, carried by the wind—a requiem for a traitor's fall.

Jiang Zhongbai, once a prodigy of Xuantian Sect turned betrayer, met his end above the skies—a death as wretched as Qin Ting's malice.

Qin Ting hovered in the air, gazing down at the ruin he'd wrought, the wind tugging at his robes. "Dignity?" he muttered, sneering. "You lost that when you turned on the Xuantian Sect. When you thought yourself worthy of being my opponent."

Cold satisfaction coiled inside Qin Ting's heart like the vicious flames he commanded, a dark thrill pulsing through him at his rival's annihilation. He had foreseen this betrayal, countered it, and perfectly executed his trap.

The valley below seemed to quake under the weight of his triumph, its scarred earth a testament to his dominance.

Turning to Nie You, who approached silently through the air, Qin Ting's tone was brisk, stripped of sentiment. "Leave his charred body here to rot. May the wild creatures feast on his disgrace."

Nie You nodded, ever obedient, his voice low and steady. "As you command, Young Master."

Qin Ting's lips twitched, a faint glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes. He clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the last light bled away into darkness.

'Jiang Zhongbai is gone,' he thought, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. 'Now, Ye Qiu, it's your turn to writhe.' The wind carried the promise of his next hunt, whispering through the valley like a predator's breath.