Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 57: Loose End

Sect Master Ling Xiao's gaze fixed on Qin Ting, his voice a resonant tide sweeping across the vast square, heavy with the weight of centuries.

"And now, to seal this sacred rite, receive the hallowed legacy of Saint Xuantian—the Dawnforge Blade!"

A surge of divine energy pulsed through the air, stilling hearts and silencing breaths. The heavens seemed to draw closer, clouds parting in reverence. Before Qin Ting, a radiant golden sword materialized, its blade wreathed in holy light that shimmered like molten starfire.

The Dawnforge Blade, forged by Saint Xuantian, hung suspended, its presence a hymn of conquest and unyielding progress. Each curve whispered of battles won, empires forged, and destinies carved.

The Xuantian Sect revered two sacred relics: the Skyshroud Oracle, a mantle of protection held by the Sect Master, and the Dawnforge Blade, the embodiment of ambition entrusted to the Holy Son. This blade, now hovering before Qin Ting, was no mere weapon—it was a covenant, a promise of dominion etched in celestial steel.

Qin Ting's hand closed around the hilt, his fingers steady, as if grasping fate itself.

The moment his touch met the blade, the sky erupted in chaos. A vortex of storm clouds spiraled above, their edges crackling with silver lightning that tore through the heavens like jagged veins. Winds howled, sharp and mournful, carrying the faint, ethereal echo of an immortal's song—ancient and haunting—as if the spirits of the sect's forebears sang in unison.

The morning sun pierced the tempest, a single beam of molten gold bathing Qin Ting in a radiant halo. His crimson robe blazed, the golden dragons embroidered upon it writhing as if alive, their scales catching the light in a cascade of fiery brilliance.

He stood like a deity descended, his chiseled features framed by the storm's fury, his sapphire eyes glinting with quiet, unshakable majesty. The Dawnforge Blade thrummed in his grip, its aura resonating with his own, acknowledging him as its master. The sacred weapon, once wielded by Saint Xuantian to sunder mountains and defy the heavens, had chosen its new bearer.

The spectacle gripped the hearts of the gathered throng. Hundreds of thousands of Xuantian Sect disciples fell to one knee, their voices rising in a thunderous chant that shook the earth.

"All hail the Holy Son!" The cry swelled, a tidal wave of devotion echoing through mist-wreathed peaks and sacred valleys.

"All hail the Holy Son!" they roared again, the sound a primal force, as if the world itself knelt before Qin Ting's ascendance. A third cry followed, reverberating with such fervor that the stones of the square seemed to hum in reverence.

The elders rose from their platforms, their silken robes shimmering like starlight as they bowed in unison, their voices joining the chorus.

"All hail the Holy Son!" Their weathered faces, etched with the wisdom of ages, glowed with pride, though some concealed flickers of envy or fear.

Qin Ting stood atop the elevated platform, the Dawnforge Blade gleaming in his hand like a captured star. His gaze swept the plaza below, where a sea of disciples knelt, their heads bowed, their voices a unified hymn to his name.

Wherever his eyes lingered, reverence deepened, and the chant grew louder. "All hail the Holy Son!"

Even envoys from rival holy lands, their pride tempered by the moment's grandeur, rose and offered subtle bows, their gestures a reluctant acknowledgment of his dominion.

In that instant, Qin Ting felt the weight of divinity settle upon him, a mantle of power burning in his veins.

'I am the axis of this world,' he thought, his heart swelling with a sharp, intoxicating rush of exhilaration. 'Every eye, every heart, every blade—they all turn to me.'

The sensation was a fire, stoking the ambition that had carried him from obscurity to the sovereign of this sacred stage.

Elder Liu, newly elevated to the Law Enforcement Court, stood among the elders, his weathered face alight with unrestrained pride. His peers' gazes, laced with envy, slid toward him like daggers cloaked in silk.

Who among them did not know that Liu had tethered his fate to Qin Ting's rising star? From an obscure guardian of Backridge City, he had risen to a seat of power, rumored to have earned the favor of Qiu Jiu, the Chief Law Enforcement Elder. Such fortune stirred whispers of resentment, yet none dared voice them aloud.

Murmurs of Elder Zhang's fate rippled through the crowd, a cautionary tale. Weeks ago, the Divine Spirit Realm cultivator had taken his own life, his legacy unraveling amid missteps within the sect's intricate web of loyalties.

Disciples exchanged knowing glances, their thoughts a silent warning. 'Choose your allies wisely, lest you share Zhang's ruin.'

As eyes turned to Elder Liu, they burned with a complex mix of admiration, jealousy, and quiet fear.

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Three days later, the fervor of the coronation had ebbed, leaving only a quiet hum—like embers fading to ash.

The envoys from the holy lands had departed, their missives burdened with the gravity of Xuantian's rise. Mu Qingyi, too, set out with the Qianyuan Sect, her thoughts a battlefield, strategies clashing and reforming as she braced for the storm of Qin Ting's dominion.

In the grand hall of Taixu Peak, Qin Ting stood alone, his crimson robes pooling like liquid fire across the starstone floor. Before him hovered a plain metal ring, its unassuming form belying the ancient power within. His sapphire eyes glinted with cold resolve as he channeled a thread of qi into the ring.

The air shimmered, and the spectral form of Ling Lao emerged, his regal yet faded robes flowing as if stirred by an unseen wind. His weathered face, etched with the weight of millennia, held eyes that burned with guarded intensity, like twin moons veiled by storm clouds. Though his form was intangible, his aura pressed against the hall, a silent echo of a power that once rivaled the heavens.

Ling Lao's gaze locked onto Qin Ting, his voice steady, laced with a serenity that masked his wariness. "I see you've mastered the initial stage of the Heavenly Mysterious Flame Scripture. A commendable feat. Now, fulfill your end of our bargain. Where is the new body you promised?"

Qin Ting's lips curved into a faint smile, disarming yet laced with menace, like a predator toying with its prey. "Patience, Elder. There's no need to rush."

Ling Lao's eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening his tone. "What's this? Do you intend to break your word?"

The smile widened, a glint of mischief dancing in Qin Ting's gaze, though his voice remained smooth as polished jade. "Not at all, Elder. I merely wish to offer you a grand gift—a token of gratitude for sharing your martial wisdom."

Before Ling Lao could respond, a cascade of azure light erupted above Qin Ting's head, coalescing into a yawning maw of shadow—a demonic beast forged of nightmares, its jagged teeth glinting like obsidian. The air grew heavy with malevolent energy. In an instant, the maw surged forward, ensnaring Ling Lao's spectral form within its confines.

Shock flickered across Ling Lao's face, his eyes widening as the sky above transformed. Stars twinkled in an endless void, the sun and moon wheeling in a cosmic dance. He realized, with a chill that pierced his ancient soul, that he was trapped within a magical artifact—a prison woven of Qin Ting's ruthless intent.

"You dare scheme against me, boy?" Ling Lao's voice was a frozen gale, each word heavy with eons and betrayal. "I have endured for hundreds of thousands of years, my soul unyielding. What can you possibly do to me?"

Qin Ting's voice drifted through the artifact, calm and taunting, as if savoring the elder's defiance. "Why don't you look around, Elder?"

Ling Lao's gaze swept his surroundings, and dread coiled in his chest. He stood within a formation, its boundaries alive with the wails of countless specters, their ghostly forms clawing at the air. The chill of their presence seeped into his essence, a harbinger of annihilation.

His pupils contracted, fear flashing in his ancient eyes. "The Heavenly Demon's God-Devouring Formation? Impossible! That art was lost to the ages!"

Qin Ting's chuckle echoed, low and mocking, rippling through the void. "Your knowledge is vast, Elder, as expected. Indeed, it is the Heavenly Demon's God-Devouring Formation."

The formation, a relic of forgotten eras, was the bane of all soul-bound entities. Qin Ting had acquired it through the system's shop, its cost a steep million Villain Points, specifically to refine Ling Lao's ancient soul. Like an alchemist distilling rare herbs, he would consume the elder's essence, claiming centuries of knowledge and power for himself.

Ling Lao's voice trembled with suppressed rage, his spectral form flickering as he fought against the formation's pull. "I gave you the Heavenly Mysterious Flame Scripture! Why seek my destruction?"

Qin Ting's tone remained light, almost playful—a velvet glove over an iron fist.

"Elder, must we pretend? Ye Qiu was your disciple, and we both know I killed him. You, his master, are a loose thread I cannot let unravel. Sparing your life serves no purpose—except to invite calamity. No, you'll join him in death—a fitting reunion."

Ling Lao's eyes blazed, his voice dropping into a low growl. "I'll swear upon my inner demons never to seek vengeance for Ye Qiu or trouble you again! What say you?"

Qin Ting's smile held, wordless, as he activated the formation with a subtle gesture. The air roared to life, specters surging like a ravenous tide.

Panic seized Ling Lao, his composure fracturing. "I'll submit to you, Qin Ting! I'll serve as your slave! I know the locations of other Strange Flames, secrets untold!"

Qin Ting's laughter was a soft, chilling echo, cutting through the wails. "No need for further words, Elder. Your spiritual essence... I've coveted it for some time. As for the Strange Flames? I'll find them in due course. No need to trouble yourself."

At the mention of his essence, Ling Lao's heart sank—the weight of his fate crushing his resolve. A soul like his, tempered over millennia, was a treasure trove of divine consciousness. To refine it would grant Qin Ting a wealth of knowledge and power—an irresistible prize for any cultivator.

Realizing his doom, Ling Lao's voice rose in a final, furious cry. "Qin Ting, you treacherous cur! I, a hero of ages, felled by your deceit—I will not accept this!"

The formation surged. Ghostly figures swarmed like locusts, their wails a cacophony of despair.

They tore at Ling Lao's fading silhouette, each claw stripping away fragments of his essence. His silver robes dissolved into motes of light as the Heavenly Demon's God-Devouring Formation consumed him, leaving only silence in its wake.

Qin Ting stood alone in the hall, the ring now dull in his palm, its once-vibrant glow extinguished. His sapphire eyes gleamed with triumph, a cruel smile curling his lips.

'Another step toward the heavens,' he thought, his heart a sealed vault—its facade unbroken, its secrets locked in silence.

The jade pillars around him pulsed in quiet reverence, their dragon carvings watching as Qin Ting turned his gaze to the mist-wreathed peaks beyond, his ambition burning brighter than ever.