Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 11: Beyond the Sect’s Favor

Qin Ting stepped away from the steaming bath chamber, his silk robes whispering against the polished stone floor as he moved with unhurried grace toward the leisure hall. The air grew cooler, scented with jasmine and the faint tang of incense, as he approached a grand banquet table that stretched across the room.

The table gleamed under the soft glow of hanging lanterns, laden with a feast that could beggar the imagination—plates of glistening phoenix-tail shrimp, bowls of spiced lotus root simmered in dragon-bone broth, and delicate pastries dusted with gold leaf.

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Each dish was a masterpiece, its cost surpassing the monthly stipend of even the most favored Inner Disciples of the Xuantian Sect. With a deft flick of his fingers, Qin Ting selected a morsel—a tender slice of ivory-horn deer glazed in honeyed starfruit—and brought it to his lips, savoring its richness with the poise of a prince.

As the flavors melted on his tongue, he tilted his head slightly, his voice calm and measured. "System, is there a specific range from which this random Spirit Beast is drawn?"

A cool, mechanical voice echoed in his mind, devoid of inflection yet sharp with clarity. [There is no defined scope, Host. The Spirit Beast that emerges from the egg will be entirely unpredictable. It might even be a creature not typically born from an egg. Please consider this carefully.]

Qin Ting's dark eyes flickered with mild curiosity. "And the hatching time? Are the conditions consistent, regardless of what emerges?"

[The parameters are also randomized, Host, unbound by the beast's lineage or nature.]

He raised a hand to his chin, his fingers brushing thoughtfully against the smooth skin as he weighed the gamble before him. The pros danced in his mind—power, prestige, the thrill of the unknown—against the cons of uncertainty and wasted potential. 'A wild card,' he mused. 'Potentially a king... or a fool's jest.'

The system's voice cut through his reverie, its tone edged with a faint chill. [Does the Host wish to expend 30,000 Villain Points to acquire a random Spirit Beast Egg? Or would you prefer to continue browsing the shop?]

Qin Ting lingered on the decision, his gaze drifting to the opulent spread before him as if it might hold the answer. Thirty thousand Villain Points wasn't an insignificant sum, but neither was it a fortune he couldn't replenish. His upcoming journey to the Lian Yun Mountain Range loomed in his thoughts—a crucible of chaos and opportunity where Villain Points flowed like blood in a war.

'Why hoard what I can earn back tenfold?' he reasoned. With a faint smirk tugging at his lips, he spoke decisively. "Exchange it."

A pulse of energy surged through the room, and in an instant, his hand glowed with a radiant shimmer of red and gold. The light coalesced, solidifying into a Spirit Beast Egg that rested lightly in his palm. It was a thing of eerie beauty—its surface etched with cryptic runes that seemed to writhe faintly under his gaze, pulsing with an otherworldly aura that prickled the air.

Qin Ting examined the egg with the keen eye of a collector appraising a rare gem. He turned it slowly, studying the interplay of shadow and light across its shell, a quiet thrill stirring in his chest at the mystery it held.

His fingers traced the strange lines, feeling the cool, thrumming energy beneath the surface. Then, with a sharp snap of his fingers—a crisp, commanding sound that reverberated through the palace—he summoned his servant.

The air shifted, and Nie You materialized at the center of the room as if stepping out of shadow itself. Clad in dark robes, the man dropped to one knee, his head bowed low. "Young Master!" His voice was a gravelly rasp, steeped in unwavering devotion.

Qin Ting didn't spare him a glance. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the Spirit Beast Egg toward Nie You, the motion as dismissive as handing off a curiosity. "Take this to one of the greenhouses," he instructed, his tone cool and detached. "Nurture it daily with Heavenly Fragrant Warm Jade."

Nie You's eyes widened imperceptibly at the command, though his expression remained a mask of deference. Heavenly Fragrant Warm Jade was no ordinary ingredient. Its milky glow and subtle fragrance could soothe a raging mind and steady turbulent qi—a rarity coveted by cultivators seeking to shatter the barriers of their realms.

In the outside world, a single shard could spark a bloodbath among Divine Wheel Realm experts, and even those at the Divine Platform Realm would wager their lives for a piece. Yet here, in the hands of Qin Ting, it was reduced to a mere tool, nourishment for some unborn beast.

Such was the privilege of the Qin Family's heir—a lineage that rivaled the holy lands in power, its wealth and resources a tide that lifted Qin Ting above the struggles of lesser men.

Nie You accepted the egg with reverent hands, his head dipping lower. "Yes, Young Master," he replied, his voice steady despite the weight of the task. He knew not where this strange egg had come from, nor did he care to speculate.

He knew better than anyone that his Young Master was a man of many secrets— a labyrinth of ambition and cunning. Nie You, as Commander of the Death Guard and Qin Ting's most loyal blade, had no desire to unravel them. Obedience was his creed, and that was enough.

With a final bow, Nie You vanished as swiftly as he'd appeared, leaving Qin Ting alone once more. The Young Master turned back to the banquet table, his fingers brushing the edge of a golden chalice as a faint smirk played on his lips.

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A few days later, a figure descended upon the mist-shrouded summit of Qin Ting's spirit peak, the air thrumming faintly with the weight of their presence.

The visitor was none other than Zhou Qianji, an Inner Elder of the Xuantian Sect and a deacon of considerable influence. His cultivation had long since reached the Divine Platform Realm, a testament to decades of relentless pursuit, earning him a fearsome reputation that echoed across the vast Eastern Wilderness.

Elder Zhou cut an imposing figure, his black robes swaying like shadows against the wind, the fabric etched with subtle silver runes that glinted faintly in the sunlight. His face bore the weathered lines of a man who had seen countless seasons pass, each crease a silent story of trials endured.

Known throughout the sect for his stern, unyielding demeanor—his lips rarely curling into anything resembling a smile—he now stood before Qin Ting, a warm chuckle rumbling from his chest. The sight was jarring, almost surreal, as if the stone-faced elder had shed his usual armor of severity. Were the disciples beyond the peak's borders to witness this, their jaws would surely drop in disbelief.

"Nephew Qin," Elder Zhou said, his voice carrying a rare softness, his weathered features softening further with a smile, "to step into the Divine Spirit Realm at a mere eighteen years of age—such a feat is unheard of, a marvel that rewrites history. I was nearly fifty when I clawed my way to that stage, and even then, I thought myself accomplished. Standing before you now, I can't help but feel a pang of shame."

Qin Ting inclined his head slightly, a faint smile playing across his lips. "Please, Elder Zhou, don't belittle yourself. Your humble nephew merely stumbled upon a stroke of fortune." His words dripped with a carefully measured blend of modesty and arrogance, each syllable polished to perfection.

Coming from anyone else, such blatant hypocrisy might have provoked a grimace or a scoff, but Qin Ting's voice—smooth as silk, resonant with the quiet confidence of nobility—transformed the sentiment into something almost palatable, even admirable. His poised stance, the way his robes flowed around him, only amplified the effect.

Elder Zhou threw his head back and laughed, a hearty sound that rolled through the peak's serene stillness. Remarkably, he seemed utterly unbothered by the subtle condescension threading through Qin Ting's tone. "Too modest, Nephew, far too modest! Oh, by the way," he added, his tone shifting to a conspiratorial lilt, "I've heard that you're eyeing the Lian Yun Mountain Range for your next venture?"

Qin Ting nodded, his expression serene. "Indeed. After so many days of idleness, I find myself craving a break from the monotony."

The elder's grin widened, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. "Excellent timing, then. Word has it the Lian Yun Mountain Range has been restless lately—strange omens flickering across its peaks, hinting at the birth of some rare treasure. I'm certain you've already caught wind of it. The sect has chosen a handful of disciples for the expedition, but we're still missing a leading disciple to guide them. Heh, what say you, Nephew Qin? Fancy taking the reins?"

Qin Ting's lips curved ever so slightly. "It's only fitting that I do."

Elder Zhou's eyes twinkled with approval, though he made no mention of Song Changge or the ripples left by his downfall. It was as if the name had been erased from his memory entirely, a deliberate omission that hung unspoken between them.

The two lingered in conversation a while longer, the air between them light with idle pleasantries. For an Inner Sect Deacon Elder like Zhou Qianji, whose days were typically consumed by the sect's endless demands, this moment of camaraderie was a rare indulgence. Eventually, he rose to his feet, brushing the folds of his robes with a practiced hand, signaling his departure.

Qin Ting accompanied him to the grand gates of his palace, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone.

As they neared the threshold, Elder Zhou paused, his tone light but pointed. "Oh, I nearly forgot to mention—Elder Zhang from the Court of Justice recently found himself demoted. A mere Outer Sect servant now, tending to menial tasks. All because he couldn't keep his nose out of trouble. Foolish, really."

He didn't elaborate, but Qin Ting understood the subtext perfectly. 'Going against the Qin Family—against me—was his undoing.'

Elder Zhou, as one of the sect's most powerful decision-makers, had likely wielded the axe that severed Elder Zhang's lofty position. The message was clear: loyalty to Qin Ting's lineage carried rewards, while defiance invited ruin.

Qin Ting's smile remained faint, almost ethereal. "Is that so? Quite the surprise."

Elder Zhou chuckled, exchanging a few more courteous words before taking his leave, his black robes billowing as he vanished into the horizon. Behind Qin Ting, a figure stepped forward—Nie You, his ever-present shadow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Even Elder Zhou comes to curry favor with you now, my lord," Nie You said, his voice laced with amusement. "Your ascension to Holy Son seems all but assured—unstoppable, even."

Qin Ting's smile remained steady, yet he dismissed the flattery with a gentle wave of his hand. "Enough of that. What news of Song Changge?"

Nie You's grin sharpened, a hint of disdain creeping into his tone. "He's awake, but he's a shell of a man. The sect has stripped him of his True Disciple status and cast him out entirely. He'll likely waste away in some forgotten hamlet, a cripple barely able to drag himself through the dirt."

Qin Ting nodded slowly, piecing together the broader picture. Elder Zhang's demotion and Song Changge's expulsion weren't mere punishments—they were the sect's olive branch, compensation for the plot those two had dared to weave against him.

'A tidy resolution,' he mused silently. After a brief pause, he tilted his head. "And Extreme Sun Peak? How have they taken it?"

Song Changge had been their pride, a True Disciple whose presence funneled resources and prestige to their lineage. His fall was a wound that cut deep, stripping Extreme Sun Peak of the privileges they'd grown accustomed to—a loss that stung more than any blade.

Nie You snorted, his voice dripping with contempt. "The moment the sect's decree came down, Master Li scurried into a closed-door retreat. The old fox saw the storm brewing and decided to play corpse. A Divine Palace Realm cultivator, reduced to hiding like a rat."

Qin Ting gave a faint shake of his head, dismissing the matter with a flicker of disinterest. Song Changge, Elder Zhang—those names were fading into irrelevance, ghosts of a past he had no intention of revisiting.

'Their Chapter is closed,' he thought, turning his gaze toward the distant peaks of the Lian Yun Mountain Range, where new challenges—and perhaps new triumphs—awaited.