Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 9: Jiang Zhongbai

The afternoon sun hung low over the Xuantian Sect, casting golden threads across the pavilion where Qin Ting lingered in the company of Li Junning. With an air of quiet confidence, he wove his prowess into their shared moments, his every gesture a subtle display of mastery. He wielded only the simplest arts—techniques so rudimentary they might bore a lesser cultivator—yet in his hands, they shimmered with an enigmatic grace.

To the untrained eye, even the mundane took on the sheen of a secret technique, a veil that concealed the depths of his true power. Li Junning, his Senior Sister, knew of the restraint behind his poise.

'He's holding back,' she mused, her sharp mind probing the edges of his performance. 'But how much?' The question danced in her thoughts, unanswered yet intoxicating, stoking her curiosity like embers catching flame.

Their conversation unfolded like a river in spring—effortless, fluid, alive with a rhythm that drew her in. Qin Ting's words were a deft dance, each syllable laced with charm, his voice a low melody that resonated beneath the surface. He spoke of the sect's history, of fleeting philosophies, and of the wind that carved the mountain's face, all while his eyes gleamed with a knowing light.

Li Junning found herself ensnared, her laughter brightening the air as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. As twilight beckoned, they parted with a promise—a future meeting sealed in the quiet exchange of glances.

Qin Ting turned to her one last time, catching the flicker of admiration in her gaze. A faint smile curved his lips. Then, in an instant, his form dissolved into a radiant beam of iridescent light—shimmering violet and gold, a streak of brilliance that cleaved the heavens.

He soared toward his spirit peak, his silhouette a comet against the fading day. Li Junning stood rooted, her breath caught as she traced his path across the sky. Her heart thudded, a wild rhythm of awe and something deeper, stirred by the enigma that was Qin Ting.

'He's more than he seems,' she thought, her eyes still fixed on the distant glow of his departure. The wind tugged at her robes, carrying the echo of his presence, and she knew—whatever secrets he guarded, they were vast enough to shift the very tides of the sect.

The instant Qin Ting's boots met the jade-stone courtyard of his private palace, the air seemed to ripple with his presence.

From the lengthening shadows cast by the sinking sun, Nie You emerged—a lean, hawkish figure whose sharp silhouette sliced through the amber glow. A smile stretched across his face as he dipped into a low bow, his voice ringing with fervor. "Congratulations to the Young Master on his boundless divine might, which has shaken the very heavens!"

Around them, the Death Guards—hulking sentinels sheathed in obsidian armor—stood like statues carved from night itself. Servants in flowing robes of silver and maids with heads bowed low mirrored Nie You's reverence, their movements synchronized as if pulled by an unseen thread.

Their voices rose in a unified chorus, rich and resonant, filling the courtyard with echoes of awe. "Congratulations to the Young Master on his boundless divine might, which has shaken the very heavens!"

Qin Ting's lips curled into a faint, self-assured smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his sapphire eyes. With a careless flick of his hand, he brushed aside the tide of praise, his tone smooth and unhurried. "They were nothing more than two insignificant ants—scarcely worth a moment's notice. Still, their little dance proved fruitful. I've unmasked the puppeteer tugging at their strings."

Nie You's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing to slits that glinted like polished steel. "Could it be...?" he ventured, his voice a low murmur laced with suspicion.

Qin Ting tilted his head in a single, deliberate nod, the gesture as precise as a blade's edge. "Indeed."

A chill seeped into Nie You's tone, his words hardening with contempt. "That wretch—cowering in the shadows, playacting at submission—still dares to spin his webs against you from the dark!"

Qin Ting's smile deepened, a soft chuckle slipping from his throat like a ribbon of silk. "How swiftly his iron grip on the Holy Son's mantle was pried loose," he mused, his voice a velvet caress woven with quiet glee. "It was never a question of if he'd strike—just when his festering ambition would drag him into the open. And now that the fool has bared his fangs, stepping brashly into the light... crushing this insolent gnat will be child's play."

Nie You dipped his head, his loyalty a bedrock unshaken by doubt. If his young master faced this treachery with such calm, then he too would stand resolute. His devotion burned like a flame that needed no fuel—absolute, bordering on the zealous.

Straightening, Nie You smoothed his expression, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. His faith in Qin Ting was a fortress, impregnable and eternal. Collecting his thoughts, he pressed on, his voice steady once more. "There's another matter, Young Master. That person, Ye Qiu, has surfaced."

Qin Ting's brow arched, a spark of intrigue flaring in his gaze. "Oh?" he murmured, the single syllable dripping with curiosity, like a predator catching the scent of fresh prey.

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Tucked within the mist-wreathed slopes of a sacred mountain claimed by the Xuantian Sect, a lone figure reclined in a rattan chair outside a humble thatched hut.

Clad in robes of flowing white, the man rested with his eyes gently shut, sunlight spilling over him like a golden shroud. His face was plain yet striking, and touched with a quiet, magnetic charm that lingered in the beholder's mind. A soft breeze teased his dark hair, and he exuded an air of unshakable ease, as though the chaos of the world could never pierce his serenity. To an outsider glimpsing this scene, he might seem a mere hermit lost in idle repose.

Who could fathom that this tranquil soul was Jiang Zhongbai, the eldest True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect?

At just over forty, Jiang Zhongbai was still a youthful titan among cultivators, his vigor a sharp contrast to the weathered masters of the sect. He had already conquered the Divine Platform Realm, a feat that marked him as a power beyond reckoning.

His cultivation surged forward with relentless grace, but his true brilliance lay in his mastery of the Dao. Divine arts—complex and arcane to others—unfolded before him like a scroll laid bare; he seized their essence in an instant and wielded them with a precision that bordered on the heavenly.

Long ago, an ancient expert of the Xuantian Sect had whispered in shadowed corners, his tone thick with awe: "Jiang Zhongbai is a prodigy of the ages—unrivaled in his time, all but anointed as the Holy Son." His name had once shimmered with promise, a beacon of destiny poised to illuminate the sect's future.

Then Qin Ting emerged, a supernova igniting the sky.

In a mere blink of time, Qin Ting had soared to unimaginable heights: the Divine Wheel Realm at sixteen, its pinnacle by eighteen. His brilliance burned so fiercely that it swallowed Jiang Zhongbai's light whole. Wisely, Jiang Zhongbai had withdrawn, avoiding a contest with the younger prodigy's unstoppable radiance.

Now, among the sect's newest disciples, Qin Ting's name echoed like a sacred chant, while Jiang Zhongbai's had slipped into obscurity—a relic buried beneath the weight of a brighter star.

A faint twitch danced across Jiang Zhongbai's face, a fracture in the serene mask he wore so effortlessly. With a graceful sweep of his hand, a jade talisman shimmered into existence, its polished surface glinting like captured starlight in the sun's embrace. His dark eyes, sharp and unyielding, followed the glowing script that ignited upon it, each character a silent barb piercing his calm.

"Qin Ting has ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm. Song Changge's cultivation lies shattered beyond repair, and Elder Zhang teeters on the brink of death—felled by a single, ruthless strike."

Jiang Zhongbai absorbed the words with an impassive stare, though a shadow crept into the hollows of his face, etching faint lines of strain. 'I acted too hastily,' he mused, his fingers tightening subtly around the talisman's cool edges.

He had slipped that sacred weapon to Song Changge—a veiled dagger aimed at Qin Ting's relentless rise. Yet the gambit had crumbled into disaster, exposing his intent before the game had fully begun.

Qin Ting's ascent clawed at him, a relentless tide he could scarcely fathom. Sixteen to the Divine Wheel Realm, eighteen to the Divine Spirit Realm—the sheer speed of it defied all reason. 'How does one soar so fast?' he wondered, a ripple of unease coiling through his chest. With every boundary Qin Ting shattered, the shadow in Jiang Zhongbai's heart deepened, its contours growing sharper, colder, more unforgiving.

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He held no delusions about his own prowess. Qin Ting burned like a wildfire, his brilliance near-blinding, yet Jiang Zhongbai clung to a quiet certainty: he could face the younger prodigy on even footing—perhaps even triumph. But it wasn't Qin Ting alone who stirred the dread pooling in his gut like ink in still water.

Beyond the boy loomed a far greater specter: Qin Ting's father, the patriarch of the Qin Family—Emperor Qin. His name thundered across the heavens, a force so immense it seemed to shake the very foundations of the Xuantian Sect. Emperor Qin was no mere mortal. A great immortal shrouded in boundless power, he towered over the Eastern Wilderness as its undisputed sovereign—resourceful, cunning, and ruthlessly precise, the archetype of a hero born to define an era.

Over the years, his influence had seeped into the sect like ink into water. Elders, once steadfast, now bent to his will—some in whispered allegiance, others in open submission. The Xuantian Sect teetered on the brink of bearing the Qin name, its ancient legacy entwined with the patriarch's iron grip. Jiang Zhongbai could feel the ground shifting beneath him, the once-solid earth of his standing crumbling away.

And where did that leave Jiang Zhongbai?

There had been a time when he stood taller, his footing secure. While his master, Grandmaster Xuan Dao, still lived, the balance had held firm. Xuan Dao, a formidable immortal in his own right, had been a rival to the Qin Family's might—a beacon of strength whose disciples and loyal retainers held great influence throughout the sect.

Under that aegis, Jiang Zhongbai had flourished, his name whispered as a contender for Holy Son, his future ablaze with promise. But time had turned its cruel blade. As Grandmaster Xuan Dao's life flickered toward its end, he had staked everything on a final gambit—to shield his disciple and carve a path to ascension.

In a desperate bid to breach the Manifest God Realm, he had poured his soul into the attempt—and failed. His death had struck like a collapsing mountain, its echoes rippling through the sect. With it, Jiang Zhongbai's power began to erode, the torch of Xuan Dao's legacy dimming with each relentless day.

Once, he had wielded sway over the Court of Justice through Elder Zhang, a steadfast ally whose influence bent the court's upper echelons to Jiang Zhongbai's will. But that too had crumbled. Qin Ting's crippling strike had left Elder Zhang broken, and Jiang Zhongbai knew what followed. The new head of the Court of Justice would retreat to neutrality, severing the last threads of favor owed to the Xuan Dao faction.

'All debts are settled now,' he thought bitterly. 'Heh, it won't be long before they cast poor Elder Zhang out like trash, will it?'

Jiang Zhongbai exhaled, the sound heavy with resignation. The air around him felt thick, pressing against his chest as he murmured to himself, "It seems I must prepare sooner than I'd hoped..."