Immortality Starts With Face

The silence within the newly reclaimed cabin of my flying boat was a heavy cloak, stitched with the lingering threads of ozone, stale blood, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that clung to the plush upholstery like a stubborn ghost. Outside, the sky bled through a spectrum of bruised purples and angry greys as we sliced north-westwards, leaving the charnel house of the Whispering Peaks far behind, homeward bound for the dubious comforts of Qingshan Town.

It was a respite, of sorts, but my mind, that restless theatre of ambition and anxiety, was anything but quiet.

Lin Ruolan, bless her steadfast soul, was at the helm. Her slender fingers, usually so graceful in their service, now gripped the glowing control runes with a white-knuckled intensity, her shoulders set in lines of tension that bespoke the harrowing ordeal we'd barely survived. I've decided to give the poor girl a break on her earlier insubordination. While she should have followed my orders and gotten help, she nevertheless demonstrated impressive bravery and loyalty in coming after me. And she'd done a commendable job piloting us away from that slaughterhouse, as well as of retrieving the… spoils… from our fallen adversaries before we'd made our departure. Good help was so hard to find – one had to cherish and support competent subordinates!

On the port-side spirit beast hyde bench-sofa, Big Sis Yue lay in a deep, healing slumber. Her breathing was even, the fierce lines of pain that had etched themselves around her eyes and mouth softened now by the potent power of the Pure Yang pill. The rather kinky golden chain artifact that had so cruelly bound her earlier was now safely stowed in my storage bracelet, awaiting a… closer examination at a later date.

Across from her, on the starboard sofa, City Lord Zhang Wei also slept, though his rest seemed far less peaceful. He looked shrunken, diminished, the vibrant, if often comically undignified, spark that usually animated him now banked to a dangerously low ember. The more immediately dangerous after-effects of his… berserker episode… had thankfully faded, but the final cost of that desperate gamble was etched upon his pale, drawn features. The crazy bastard had sacrificed almost everything – including his life and future – for us. I made a note to try to heal him at the earliest opportunity.

…And laying on the bare, polished floor, securely bound with spirit-dampening chains I'd manifested for the occasion, lay my new 'friend' Feng the Stub – as I'd privately christened him – the legless Foundation Establishment remnant of our erstwhile ambushers. He too was unconscious, another of my "Pure Yang" healing pills ensuring he remained a viable, if currently dormant, asset.

My gaze drifted from one sleeping form to another.

We were a battered, bruised, but ultimately victorious little troupe. And the victory, however narrow, however costly, had yielded certain… insights.

Ruolan, ever efficient, had managed to gather all five of the bandits' storage rings. A small mercy, I'd initially thought.

The contents, however, proved to be a masterclass in underwhelming disappointment. A pitiful scattering of a few dozen low-grade spirit stones in one. A couple of poorly maintained, rust-pitted low-grade swords in another. A handful of questionable healing pills that looked and smelled as if they'd been brewed in a back-alley latrine…

Truly, the dregs of the cultivation world.

Only one item category – aside from that rather intriguing chain – was even remotely useful to me: the masks, I had to admit, possessed a certain grim, anonymous style. The built-in voice distortion effect was a rather clever touch.

Perhaps Shadow could incorporate one into his ensemble for future performances, Leo, the showman, mused from the recesses of my mind.

It would add a certain… theatrical menace, no?

Before I allowed Feng the Stub to succumb to a pill-induced oblivion, he and I had engaged in a rather… illuminating conversation. Strapped to a chair within the ship, with the very distinct (and no-doubt unpleasant) memory of my skinning knife still fresh in his mind, he'd been remarkably forthcoming. He confirmed my lingering suspicion: their little band of cutthroats hadn't been hired to specifically target me.

They were opportunistic vultures, plain and simple – drawn by whispers of a wealthy young master, fresh from a lucrative auction at the Myriad Treasures Pavilion, traveling this particular route.

The source of that timely whisper? Someone present at the Pavilion's auction – a detail known only to their now-deceased leader, who was, at this very moment, serving as a fetching, if somewhat fragmented, improvised ice sculpture garden across a rather wide swathe of the Whispering Peaks.

So, the identity of my mysterious antagonist, who had so conveniently set these lost souls my way, must remain shrouded in frustrating anonymity.

For now.

More importantly, our little chat had confirmed a crucial System mechanic, one I'd suspected – and hoped for – but hadn't had the opportunity to verify until now: belief obtained through… vigorous motivation… did indeed count!

The System, it seemed, wasn't particularly discerning about the source of the belief, only its quality and intensity. A terrified, pain-filled, desperate belief was, apparently, just as valid as one born of awe or respect.

There was, however, a significant catch: a rather irksome degradation in belief quality. Feng the Stub, an Early Foundation Establishment cultivator, should have, by all rights, provided me with BQT Level 6 belief – the apparent standard for his realm. But under the duress of our trial run… persuasion session… his belief had, sadly, been downgraded to BQT 5. That was the same level I typically garnered from Peak Qi Gathering cultivators on the level of Alchemist Chen… or even Lin Ruolan, when she was feeling particularly convinced.

Still, I mused, tapping a finger against my chin, BQT 5 isn't to be sniffed at.

Far from it!

It was the bedrock, the foundational layer, for manifesting an endless supply of "mundane" non-spiritual items, any skill a mortal might possess, and, crucially, any item typically associated with or useful to cultivators at the Peak of Qi Gathering or below. This included a great deal of very useful things, including low-grade storage rings, basic spirit materials like unrefined spirit jade or the more common spirit woods, and – most enticingly – low-grade spirit stones.

On tap.

With the proper… encouragement… Feng the Stub was a walking, talking (well, soon-to-be-talking-again, anyway) belief piñata for the basics.

Yes, I could theoretically use Big Sis Yue or even Ruolan for generating such low-tier belief. But, why tax their goodwill, mental fortitude, and precious cultivation time, when the universe, in its infinite and brutal wisdom, had so thoughtfully gift-wrapped this dedicated, if somewhat unwilling, resource for me?

Waste not, want not I say! It was simply… the efficient attitude to have.

I'd laid out Feng's future prospects with what I considered to be admirable, crystal clarity.

Cooperate fully, listen carefully, believe earnestly in what I told him, and he would not only survive but enjoy increasing comforts.

Food.

Wine.

Perhaps even some light entertainment.

Eventually, with a great deal of proven loyalty, I might even be persuaded to fund the expensive alchemical treatments required to restore his legs (and the other, arguably more important – at least to men – appendage).

A new pair, custom-grown, courtesy of the Jiang Li Benevolent Fund for Reformed Scoundrels ™.

However, should he refuse?

Attempt escape?

Try to harm anyone under my protection, however subtly?

Then the fun would truly begin!

I'd explained, in painstakingly vivid and anatomically precise detail, how I would go about systematically removing his remaining limbs and ears, burning out his eyes and tongue, and then ensuring that he spent the remaining century or so of his Foundation Establishment lifespan as a helpless, constantly tormented, but still very much conscious, torso, interred in a specially prepared, soundproofed cell in the deepest dungeon of my Qingshan compound.

A living, breathing monument to the folly of defying me.

Judging by the satisfying chime from the System and the subsequent +5000 boost to my Belief Meter after that particular monologue, Feng had found my arguments rather persuasive.

The healing pill I'd administered afterwards was a small mercy, an investment to ensure my new… asset… remained viable. I'd have Jin Bao arrange a secure, comfortable (but not too comfortable) cell in the basement upon our return.

I could envision the results now.

A couple of hours a day, a friendly chat with Feng, a little storytelling… and I would be able to manifest whatever low-grade necessities and luxuries I desired. An endless, on-demand supply of "basic" resources.

It had a certain appeal!

This low-grade stream of belief, however, would be merely a foundation. The recent ambush, the terrifying ease with which a Late Foundation Establishment expert had nearly ended us all, had hammered home the brutal, undeniable truth: even the Foundation Establishment level felt pathetically, terrifyingly weak when facing the true threats of this world.

To survive in this place, to thrive, to protect Yue and the others who were increasingly becoming… important… to me, I needed power. Real, undeniable, overwhelming power.

And for that, I needed access to higher-quality belief.

My "performances" for figures of genuine consequence, individuals like Princess Long Xueyue and her formidable attendant Wei Long… those were the key to securing my future. They were the only path to manifesting truly game-changing abilities, upgrades that could reshape my destiny.

The stage was larger now, the audience far more discerning, and the stakes… infinitely, terrifyingly higher.

My thoughts drifted to my own recent, startling transformation. The sudden, System-fueled leap to the Peak of Qi Gathering's Stage 9 had, understandably, left Ruolan speechless.

But, bless her loyal heart, she'd witnessed so much impossible bullshit from me in the past few weeks that she'd largely learned to just nod, accept, and try not to let her jaw hit the floor too often. Her quiet, unwavering awe, however, was a potent source of belief in itself: a steady, reliable thrum in the background symphony of the System that I could feel empowering me even now.

The new Aura Concealment skill – at the Saint Level of skill, no less – was a true gem.

I'd tested it out on Ruolan during a quiet moment in our flight. At will, I could now either suppress my Qi signature completely, becoming a veritable ghost in the spiritual currents, practically indistinguishable from the ambient energy of the world around us.

Or, with a little more finesse, I could consciously mimic the output of any Qi Gathering cultivator, from a trembling, "barely-there" Stage 1 novice to a confident, "almost-there" Stage 8. The strategic value was impressive: invaluable for stealth. For lulling arrogant opponents into a false sense of security. For playing the underestimated fool until the precise, opportune moment to strike.

Sigh. Leo lamented internally, If only I could mimic someone stronger than myself. Now that would be a performance worthy of an award!

But it was the other gift from the System, the elevation of my Talisman Crafting to '9th Level Grandmaster – Unique Sealing Method,' that truly resonated within me, representing a fundamental shift in how I perceived not just my own abilities, but the very fabric of this cultivation world.

This… this was more than just a skill.

It was a new lens, a new paradigm!

Now, I like to think of myself as having been a relatively smart man before I arrived in this world.

However, that my mind, already sharp from Leo's years of script analysis and character deconstruction, now felt like a vast, ancient repository of esoteric knowledge – knowledge that felt both terrifyingly new and yet deeply, intuitively familiar.

Jiang Li knew all of jack shit about talismans, considering that craft beneath him.

Yet, now I knew talismans. Intimately.

And what a knowledge it was!

Talismans, I now understood with a profound, almost cellular certainty, were but a highly specialized, portable application of the broader, far more encompassing field of Formation arts.

And Formations… they were the art of sculpting Qi, of engineering the very flows of spiritual energy on scales both infinitesimally minute and breathtakingly cosmic.

Think of the extra-dimensional storage woven into the very fabric of my rings and bracelet – that was applied Formation mastery, albeit a relatively common application.

The intricate array of glowing runes that propelled this very boat through the sky? Also Formations.

But the true scope of the art, as whispered in the deepest archives of the knowledge the System had unlocked within me, went so much deeper.

So much further.

There were Formations in this world that were capable of subtly, or even radically, altering a cultivator's spiritual roots.

There were Formations that could, theoretically, pluck un-reincarnated souls from the Great Cycle of Rebirth, achieving a form of resurrection that defied the very laws of life and death as mortals knew it.

There were Formations that could help forge artifacts of world-shattering power from common dust.

There were Formations that could tear open rifts in the fabric of space, creating portals for instantaneous travel across continents – or, perhaps, even between worlds.

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And, there were even Formations capable of weaving entire Secret Realms into existence: pocket dimensions, self-contained worlds with their size and internal rules limited only by available power, that could be hidden from the gaze of the uninitiated.

But, that was all theory to me at this point.

Now, talismans, by comparison, were far more constrained, more focused.

They utilized specially prepared spirit-infused materials – things like meticulously crafted Qi paper, refined silks spun by spirit worms, cured hydes from powerful creatures, specialized jades or exotic products birthed from the crucibles of high-level alchemy – as media to 'seal' a cultivator's technique – a spell – storing it away for later use.

The creation of even a single potent talisman demanded immense reserves of spiritual energy – as well as an encyclopedic understanding of Qi shaping; of the subtle, invisible harmonies of Feng Shui and the natural energy flows of the earth and heavens; of elemental stabilization and the resonant frequencies that governed all existence.

And, at the higher echelons, the art also touched upon branches of advanced mathematics and multi-dimensional physics of a complexity that would have made Einstein weep; and also required a degree of raw mental acuity sufficient to visualize and actively manipulate intricate Qi flows in five, six, and sometimes even more dimensions simultaneously.

I didn't merely know all of this academically, as one might know facts from a book.

I felt it in an intuitive, bone-deep comprehension that felt as natural as breathing.

I was smarter now, my thoughts coming clearer, faster, capable of processing complexities that would have baffled the old Leo Maxwell and been utterly beyond the grasp of the original, unfortunate Jiang Li.

I looked at the world, at the very air around me, and I could see them now – the invisible currents, the subtle eddies and flows of ambient Qi, with a clarity that was breathtaking.

It made a grim sort of sense, this newfound understanding.

Most cultivators in this world were locked in a desperate, unending race against time, clawing for every scrap of spiritual advancement merely to extend their fleeting lifespans by another few decades – just so they could rinse and repeat for yet more time.

Who, in the frantic scramble of the Qi Gathering or even the hard-won stability of Foundation Establishment, even possessed the luxury, (and the sheer, unadulterated audacity) to dedicate decades, perhaps even centuries, to mastering such a 'non-essential,' supportive skill as Talisman Crafting?

It was a pursuit often relegated to those deemed lacking in "true" cultivation talent, a consolation prize for those whose path to "real power" was blocked. Thus, based on Jiang Li's memories, few ever truly mastered the craft.

Even fewer reached the hallowed, almost mythical ranks of Grandmaster.

A 9th Level Grandmaster though?

I'd never even heard the term whispered in the Azure Dragon Empire.

Perhaps such a concept existed on other continents, or had been lost in the crumbling ruins of past, more advanced civilizations.

Or perhaps… it was even unique to the System's interpretation, a level of mastery with no current equal in this entire world?

Regardless of its origins, the practical benefits were undeniable – and already manifesting.

I now saw Qi itself in a new, more intimate light. My control over my internal Qi flows, those vital rivers of energy coursing through my pseudo-ethereal meridians, was now so precise, so exquisitely intuitive, that I felt I could even have replicated the complex effects of the Aura Concealment technique independently, even if the System hadn't so generously gifted it to me outright.

Not a single wisp of my internal Qi was wasted now; every erg of energy was accounted for, and directed with flawless efficiency.

More than that, I could sense and draw upon the ambient Qi of the world around me with an ease that bordered on the miraculous. For me, it was no longer solely about the abysmal, almost laughable quality of my five-element spiritual root; it was about skill.

About understanding.

It is said that a shuriken, however deadly its design, is useless in the hands of a clumsy novice, and yet even a common, unassuming pebble can become a lethal weapon in the hands of a true master.

My spirit root might be that metaphorical pebble – a thing of scorn and dismissal for most – but in these hands…

An internal smirk of grim satisfaction touched my mental lips…

In these hands, even Jiang Li's pathetic spiritual root was far from useless.

Not that I truly intended to rely upon conventional cultivation, of course. Why toil and sweat like some common pleb when the System offered such delightful, effortless shortcuts to power?

But regardless of its usefulness in cultivation, this new paradigm, this profound, almost terrifying understanding of Qi dynamics granted by the talismanic knowledge, was truly opening my eyes now.

It was changing how I viewed everything.

How I saw people, even.

For what were cultivators – what were all living beings, fundamentally – but intricate, walking, breathing talismans, their innate potential, their destinies, their very souls, all sealed within the fragile shells of flesh and blood?

I shook my head, a physical motion to dispel the sudden, dizzying philosophical vertigo.

The implications of those thoughts were vast, almost overwhelming…

But for now, as much as I desperately wanted to explore them further, I needed to focus on the immediately practical.

+++

The flying boat, under Ruolan's steady guidance, descended smoothly, settling with a barely perceptible sigh into the middle of the main courtyard of my Qingshan estate. Evening had well and truly fallen, draping the familiar compound in shades of deep indigo and charcoal, the air cooler now, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant, smoky aroma of kitchen fires.

Jin Bao, my ever-anxious 'fixer,' rushed out to greet us as the ramp lowered, his usually obsequious demeanor tinged with a visible, almost palpable anxiety. His eyes darted nervously between me, Ruolan, and the hatch of the boat.

"Young Master! Steward Lin! Welcome back!" he chirped, his voice a little too high, a little too strained. "Is… is everything alright?"

"Everything is perfectly fine, Jin Bao," I said, my voice projecting a calm authority I didn't entirely feel, but which Leo knew was essential for the current performance.

"Have City Lord Zhang and my cousin, Jiang Yue, who are inside, carefully carried to the finest guest suites. Ensure they are not disturbed under any circumstances. I will speak with them in the morning, after they've had a chance to… rest and recover."

I chose my words carefully, not wanting to alarm the staff unnecessarily.

And, as I began to walk towards my own residential wing, Ruolan falling into step silently at my heels, I noticed them – subtle but unmistakable signs of lax discipline, of an authority that had clearly frayed in my absence.

A discarded, empty wine flask lay half-hidden beneath a decorative shrub here.

A small pile of refuse was carelessly dumped near the servants' entrance there.

The few servants we passed on the path bowed, yes, but their movements were a little too quick, their eyes darting away with a nervousness that I didn't like one bit.

An undercurrent of unease, of something… amiss… permeated the usually well-ordered atmosphere of my compound.

Then, it came.

A woman's high-pitched squeal of distress, abruptly cut off, sharp and ugly in the evening quiet, echoing from the direction of the kitchen wing.

My head snapped up.

Beside me, Ruolan tensed, a low, almost inaudible growl rumbling in her chest.

We exchanged a single, hard look. No words were needed.

We moved, my steps silent on the stone paving, Ruolan's equally so, shadows detaching themselves from the greater darkness, flowing towards the disturbance.

The scene that greeted us in the flickering lamplight of the main kitchen was one of such casual, brutish vulgarity that it made my blood run cold – and then hot, with a glacial, unforgiving fury.

Captain Gou Xiong ("Dog Bear," a fitting appellation) – one of the mercenary captains the reliable Captain Feng had hired to bolster my estate's security, was clearly, staggeringly intoxicated. He positively reeked of my estate's spirit wine – undoubtedly stolen from the basement where some barrels of it manifested earlier – and cheap perfume.

The bastard had a terrified young serving girl, Lian Hua – one of the newer hires – pinned like a struggling butterfly against a heavy wooden preparation table.

Her simple cotton robes were hiked up indecently around her waist, and he was… forcing his thick, grimy fingers inside of her, his other hand mauling her breast with a possessive, slobbering crudity. She was whimpering, small, helpless sounds, tears streaming down her face as she begged him, uselessly, to stop.

Two of his equally loutish buddies, their faces flushed with drink and vicarious excitement, were leaning against a nearby wall, swigging from another stolen wine flask, laughing crudely – their eyes devouring the scene with a disgusting, participatory leer. They were egging him on, their jeers and catcalls adding another layer of filth to the already squalid tableau.

Ruolan, her face a mask of cold, murderous rage, instinctively surged forward, her hand a blur as it went to the hilt of the spirit sword she now carried openly. That low growl in her throat intensified, promising violence.

I placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

A silent command, instantly understood: Allow me.

My face, I knew, was a mask of perfect, aristocratic calm, but inside, Leo Maxwell, the actor, was already selecting the perfect persona for this little drama: the Regal, Righteous Lord, about to deliver a much-needed – and thoroughly unforgettable – lesson.

My Aura Concealment technique was already active, projecting only the mild, unassuming Qi signature of my earlier strength: that of a Stage Four cultivator – weak, unthreatening, easily dismissed. My voice, when I spoke, was level, firm, not particularly loud, yet carrying easily in the sudden, startled silence that fell as the occupants of the kitchen registered our presence.

"Captain Gou Xiong."

My tone was that of a master addressing an errant but perhaps redeemable servant.

"Cease what you are doing. Immediately."

Gou Xiong, startled mid-grope, flustered for a bare instant, then his gaze fell upon me, registered my 'weak' cultivation, and a sneer – ugly and contemptuous – spread across his drink-slackened features.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Young Master himself!" he slurred, his words thick with alcohol and arrogance.

He didn't release the terrified Lian Hua.

"Just havin' a bit o' fun with the new girl, boss! She's just bein' shy, is all. Pretty little thing, ain't she? You should chill out, Young Master. Ma'ybe have a drink with us, eh? Loosen up!"

"That is my spirit wine you are consuming without permission, Captain," I stated, my voice still calm, but now laced with an unmistakable edge of steel that should have warned him.

"And that is my servant you are molesting. I believe I gave you an order."

The captain's mask of forced bonhomie finally dropped, revealing the brutish, arrogant thug beneath.

He shoved Lian Hua roughly aside; she stumbled and fell, sobbing, to the floor.

"An order?" he scoffed, puffing out his chest.

"Heh. No, I don't think I'll be takin' orders from you, little whelp."

He took a swaggering step towards me, his eyes narrowed with drunken belligerence.

"Fact is, what're you gonna do about it, huh? You're barely in the mid-stages of Qi Gathering, if that. Your cute little Steward over there ain't much better. I'm at Stage Seven! A hair's breadth from Stage Eight! You should be grovelin' before me, boy, thankin' me for even agreein' to guard this shithole estate of yours."

He paused.

"Matter of fact," his eyes gleamed with avarice, "I'm thinkin' I deserve a raise. A big one. Effective tomorrow. Yeah, you should be bendin' over backwards to keep me happy!"

He punctuated his tirade with a disgusting, predatory leer, his gaze flicking from the sobbing Lian Hua on the floor, then back to me, then lingering on Lin Ruolan with a blatant, insolent appraisal that made her hand tighten on her sword hilt until her knuckles were white.

"And I know at least one person who'll be bendin' over for me tonight, one way or another!"

A faint, dangerous smile touched my lips. Sarah would have approved of the dramatic timing.

"Oh?" I asked, my voice soft now, almost conversational, a stark contrast to his drunken bluster.

"So, it is might that makes right in your estimation, Captain?"

Gou Xiong, mistaking my quiet tone for fear, puffed out his chest even further.

"Damn right it is, pretty boy! Strength is the only law that matters in this world!"

I nodded pointedly to myself, looking thoughtful.

"Then allow me," I said, my smile widening just a fraction, "to demonstrate a fundamental truth about power."

With that, I let my Aura Concealment drop.

And not just drop, but erupt.

The full, unadulterated, terrifying pressure of my Peak Ninth Layer Qi Gathering cultivation slammed into the kitchen like a physical, suffocating wave. The air crackled with sudden, immense power. The stolen wine flask still clutched in one of his lackey's hands shattered, exploding into a thousand glittering shards as if struck by an invisible hammer. The oil lamps above us flickered violently, threatening to extinguish.

Gou Xiong's arrogant smirk froze, then melted, ludicrously, into an expression of slack-jawed terror.

His eyes, moments before filled with drunken lust and contempt, now widened comically, reflecting pure, unadulterated shock.

His two buddies, mere Stage Three and Four Qi Gatherers, stumbled back as if physically struck, gasping, their faces instantly ashen, the color draining from them as if pulled by a string.

"N-no… this is impossible…"

Gou Xiong stammered, his voice cracking, shrinking, all bluster gone, replaced by a dawning, horrified comprehension.

"Y-Young Master… a m-misunderstanding… I… I didn't mean…"

My voice, when I finally spoke again, was like chipped ice, devoid of all warmth, all emotion.

"Kneel."

He tried to speak, to plead, to offer some desperate, pathetic excuse, but only a choked, gurgling sound escaped his throat.

I interrupted him, focusing my spiritual pressure, a technique now as instinctive and precise as breathing, into a single, crushing point directly above him.

"I. Said. Kneel."

His legs buckled as if his bones had turned to wet sand.

He crashed heavily to his knees, the sound echoing in the suddenly silent kitchen.

A dark, shameful stain spread rapidly on the front of his trousers, and the acrid, unmistakable stench of fresh urine filled the air, a testament to his abject terror.

"You seem to possess a… lamentable habit of touching things – and people – that do not belong to you, Captain," I observed, my voice still quiet, clinical, devoid of inflection, which probably made it even more terrifying.

"Such uncouth habits require… correction." I took a slow, deliberate step towards him. "Hold out your right arm."

"N-no… mercy… please, Young Master… I beg you…" he sobbed, snot and tears mingling on his terrified face, his body trembling uncontrollably. He was a pathetic, broken creature now.

"Your arm, dog" I repeated, my patience clearly, audibly, wearing thin. "I will not ask again."

With a desperate, animalistic cry, he made a scrabbling attempt to flee.

How foolish.

I moved, far too fast for anyone in the room to perceive clearly, far too swift for his terror-stricken mind to comprehend.

My hand clamped around his thick throat, lifting him effortlessly from the floor as if he weighed nothing – and with a single, brutal motion, I choke-slammed his body against the nearest stone wall. The impact was jarring, shaking the very foundations of the kitchen. Dust rained down from the age-blackened ceiling.

A glacial, cold anger, utterly pure, utterly focused, was burning within me now. It was a somewhat familiar sensation, this icy inferno. It felt… cold.

Clean.

It was reflected in my Qi, which seemed to respond to my intent, feeling different, sharper, imbued with a biting, frost-like edge.

My meridians hummed with a joyful, cold fire.

My other hand seized his thrashing right arm.

Let's try a little experiment, a detached, clinical part of my mind noted. I channeled a small, precisely controlled stream of my now distinctly frost-aspected Qi into his limb.

The effect was instantaneous and – I had to admit – grimly gratifying.

His arm began to flash-freeze, from those grimy fingers upwards. Translucent ice crystals bloomed on his skin like some grotesque, accelerated frostbite. His screams were high-pitched, thin, animalistic… and utterly futile.

When the ice had crept up to his shoulder, encasing the entire limb in a glittering, crystalline shell, I gave it a sharp, brutal tug. The frozen arm came away with a sickening, wet crack, like something you might hear when breaking away a rotten, frost-covered branch.

I let the severed limb fall to the stone floor – where it promptly shattered into a thousand glittering, crimson-stained pieces of frozen flesh.

Gou Xiong slumped in my grip, conscious but seemingly incapable of making a sound, his eyes wide with a horror that transcended mere pain.

My voice, when I spoke again, was still quiet, but it carried the unmistakable weight of absolute, terrifying authority.

"Count yourself fortunate you still draw breath, scum. Leave your storage ring and any other valuables you possess as compensation for your egregious behavior. Then, you and your… associates…"

-- my gaze flicked dismissively towards the two trembling lackeys still cowering against the far wall –

"…will vacate my estate. And my city."

I leaned closer, my face inches from his, fixing him with a gaze that promised untold, imaginative torments.

"If I ever see your face again within the borders of Qingshan Town; if I hear that you have stolen so much as a copper coin, or that you even looked at a woman without her permission; if you step one single toe out of line… I will find you. And I will personally freeze and shatter every single bone in your miserable, worthless body. Slowly. Am I understood?"

He nodded frantically, a grotesque, puppet-like jerking of his head, tears and snot streaming down his terrified face, far too terrified to try to form words.

"Then get the fuck out of my sight."

I released his throat, and he crumpled to the floor, a sobbing, bleeding, one-armed wreck. He scrambled away, his remaining arm clutching his still frozen stump, his terrified lackeys practically tripping over themselves in their haste to follow him out of the kitchen, out of my estate, and – I hoped – out of our lives.

I turned to Lin Ruolan. She had been watching the entire exchange with a grimly approving, almost feral, expression. With Gou Xiong and his cronies gone, and not counting the still-recovering Big Sis Yue or myself, Ruolan's Stage Six cultivation now made her the undisputed strongest person among the remaining guards and mercenaries of the estate.

"Ruolan," I said, my voice returning to a more normal, if still cold, register. "Assemble all remaining mercenaries and estate guards in the main courtyard. Immediately."

A fierce, almost predatory light gleamed in her usually calm eyes.

"And if any show… reluctance, Master?" she asked, her tone betraying a certain eagerness.

"Please feel free to strike down anyone who displays insubordination or dares to talk back to you," I replied, my words precise and unyielding. "Make an example of them. Ensure the lesson is… memorable."

A rare, sharp, almost wolfish smile touched Lin Ruolan's lips.

"With the greatest pleasure, Master!"

She bowed deeply, a new, more profound respect in her posture, and departed silently to carry out my orders.

I stood there for a long moment amidst the lingering stench of fear, stale wine, fresh urine, and the faint, sharp bite of frost in the air. The terrified serving girl, Lian Hua, was still huddled by the table, staring at me with wide, uncomprehending, tear-filled eyes.

Her fear of Gou Xiong had been replaced by a new, perhaps even deeper, fear of me.

Unfortunate. But understandable.

My gaze swept the now-empty kitchen, the shattered wine flask, the glistening shards of the frozen arm on the floor.

It would seem some fools have mistaken my earlier benevolence for weakness.

It was time to disabuse them of that notion.