Chapter-33

The boy walked slowly down the shrine steps.

He wore a robe of plain brown linen, loose at the sleeves, dusted with chalk from stone floors and dried mountain air. His feet were bare. His hair was loosely tied behind his back. There was nothing expensive about him—no treasures, no gold nor silver

Only a single green-handled sword hung at his waist.

And yet—

As he stepped forward, every martial artist felt it.

A pressure they couldn't name. A weight that had no form. A quiet cold that crawled into the spine and made Qi tremble in its core.

His eyes were dark—too dark. Like obsidian under moonlight. There was no anger in them. No killing intent. Just that calm, distant certainty that only those with absolute power could afford to wear.

He stopped just at the edge of the stairs and looked over the corpses, the wounded, and the burned.

His gaze passed over Su Zheyan without urgency.

Then he spoke.

His voice was soft. Calm. Lazy, even.

"What a mess," he said. "And here I thought the mountain wind would be peaceful today."

Su Zheyan's lips quivered.

"You—!"

Lin Haoran tilted his head.

"You trampled my mountain."

"You attacked my guards"

"You exploded something at my gate."

He gave a slight shrug.

"...how do you want to die?"

That was the final straw.

Su Zheyan, eyes bloodshot and mad with fear, reached again into his scorched robe and pulled out the Immortal Artifact again. His fingers were barely able to grip it—already blackened and twisted from earlier.

"DIE!" he howled.

He forced his last Qi into the stamp.

The light surged.

The flame burst forth—twice as wild, unstable, crackling.

And Lin Haoran didn't even blink.

The moment the flame formed—it was crush!!!

Not burned out.

Obliterated.

As if it had never been.

Su Zheyan's arm dropped, burned beyond use. His breathing was ragged. The smell of cooked flesh hung in the air.

He fell to his knees.

"No... you can't... I'm Su Zheyan... Su Clan of Longyao! You hear me!? My father sits on the Elder Council! One word—just one—and you'll have the whole capital after you!"

Lin Haoran's face didn't change.

He lifted one hand.

Palm open.

No Qi. No glow. Just a raised hand.

Before he could lower it—

Protector Zhou stumbled forward, bloodied and one-armed.

"Wait—!"

He threw himself between Lin Haoran and the young master.

His mouth opened.

But he never got the words out.

Lin Haoran's hand closed.

CRACK.

The sound wasn't like thunder. It was like mountains collapsing.

Both Zhou and Su Zheyan crumpled in place.

Their bodies didn't fly. Didn't burn. Didn't vanish.

They were simply crushed.

Flattened.

Like two sacks of blood and meat.

[+500 destiny points]

The martial artists around them screamed.

Some ran.

Some fell to their knees.

"Please—!"

"We surrender—!"

"We didn't mean—!"

But Lin Haoran just lowered his hand again.

His gaze didn't change.

He spoke softly, more to himself than anyone else.

"Too many voices. I prefer peace and quiet."

Crack. Crack. Crack.

[+100 destiny points]

[+90 destiny points]....

One after another, they collapsed like broken dolls.

Some still tried to crawl.

None succeeded.

And then—

Silence.

Again.

Except for one.

Only one remained.

Gong Heshan lay under the shattered trunk of a pine, chest heaving, one eye swollen shut. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. One of his legs was twisted unnaturally, and his Qi was in shambles—crushed from within by the earlier impact.

But he was alive.

Barely.

Lin Haoran's eyes drifted to him.

His hand began to lift.

Gong Heshan saw it. Felt it.

And screamed, "WAIT—WAIT! I'm—I'm with the Saint Guiding Sect! Spare me!"

Lin Haoran paused.

His fingers didn't close.

His eyes narrowed faintly. "...The what?"

"The Saint Guiding Sect!" Gong coughed, clutching his ribs. "You... you're wearing their sword!"

He pointed—half-delirious—toward the green-handled blade at Lin Haoran's waist

Lin Haoran's brows lifted slightly.

So someone actually recognized the sword.

His mind turned quietly.

Saint Guiding Sect.

He had never heard of that name before, his master had never talk about it, but since the man had recognise the sword, he still had some use.

He looked down at the weapon, then back at Gong Heshan.

saying nothing more.

He simply lifted his hand again.

Gong Heshan flinched.

But instead of crushing him—

He floated.

Lin Haoran's power lifted him effortlessly, suspending him like a doll.

He turned slightly toward the shrine, calling out without raising his voice.

"Mu Qinglan."

Soft footsteps answered.

Mu Qinglan descended from the shrine, calm but focused. His gaze swept at the terrifying bloodied ground looking horrified, then fixed on the floating Gong Heshan.

"Heal him and the siblings too.." Lin Haoran said

With a flick of his fingers, Gong Heshan dropped beside him like a sack of broken bones.

Mu Qinglan bowed slightly.

"Yes, master"

And with that—

The boy with the green-handled sword turned and walked back into the shrine, barefoot, calm.

As if the mountain had never burned.

...

The mountain was quiet again.

Unnaturally so.

Bodies lay sprawled across the stone path, limbs bent at impossible angles, the air heavy with the stench of blood and scorched fabric. The heat from the Immortal Artifact had burned the very soil—blackened earth cracked beneath boots.

Mu Qinglan knelt beside Gong Heshan, one hand glowing faintly with green-white light. Healing energy pulsed from his palm, weaving through broken ribs and shattered veins like silent threads. It wasn't instant—but the man's breathing began to steady.

Mu's expression stayed calm, but his brows were faintly furrowed.

He wasn't worried about Gong Heshan.

He was thinking of Lin Haoran.

He had watched from the shrine's threshold as his master crushed enemies without even lifting a blade. No shouting. No posture. No threats. Just one gesture—and even a Great Grandmaster had been reduced to paste.

Mu Qinglan exhaled slowly.

He'd seen Lin Haoran do some strange things before.

But this was the first time he had seen him act with force and it was certainly horrifying.

Meanwhile Yin Cheng sat with his back against a tree trunk, chest rising unevenly. His shirt was soaked with blood from a deep gash along his ribs. His arm were stiff.

Yin Xue crouched beside him, cleaning the dried blood from her face with a torn cloth. Her cheek was bruised, and her lower lip split.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Yin Cheng broke the silence.

"I almost lost."

Yin Xue didn't look up. "We didn't."

Yin Cheng grunted. "Only because you saved me."

Yin Xue dabbed his shoulder with salve. "We're a team."

He smirked—just a little. "Still hurts."

"Good," she said.

Then, quietly—

"Master will scold us."

Yin Cheng nodded. "...Maybe. But he didn't step in until the end. That means we did okay."

A pause.

Then Xue said, "We'll do better next time."

Yin Cheng leaned his head back against the bark.

"Next time," he agreed.

They sat in the shade, the wind rustling the trees around them, the mountain once again still—except for the faint scent of blood on the air, and the weight of power that still hadn't left the stones.

After Mu qinglan pull Gong heshan out of the danger zone, he quickly rush towards the siblings and also started healing them.