Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 13: Bound for the Lian Yun Mountains

The morning sun bathed the Xuantian Sect, casting long shadows across the stone courtyards where a throng of disciples buzzed with restless energy. Their voices clashed like discordant chimes, a chaotic clamor that scraped against Elder Zhou's patience.

His piercing gaze, sharp as a blade forged in frost, swept over them, and with a single icy snort, he cleaved through the din. Silence fell like a heavy curtain.

"What's the meaning of this racket?" His voice cut through the air, cold and commanding. "Enough! Still your tongues and ready yourselves. The Skyrunner stands prepared for departure."

The disciples stilled, their eyes darting toward the sleek silhouette of the Skyrunner docked at Cloud Sea Pier. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, a silver-hued vessel that gleamed faintly under the sun's caress—a workhorse among the sect's fleet of flying ships, its hull a testament to both elegance and utility.

Beyond the sect's towering gates sprawled the Eastern Wilderness, an untamed expanse that stretched into the horizon like a living tapestry. Jagged peaks clawed at the sky, their tops shrouded in mist while shimmering rivers wove through shadowed forests alive with whispers of wonder and peril.

This boundless realm had cradled countless creatures and dynasties, their legacies rising like waves only to crash and fade into the annals of time.

Among them, the Xuantian Sect stood as an unshakable colossus, its dominion stretching across hundreds of dynasties and a vast web of vassal states. Each year, these lands paid homage with tributes—glittering spirit stones, fragrant herbs plucked from hidden groves, and enchanted ores pried from the earth's depths—all offered in exchange for the sect's protection.

In return, the sect dispatched its scouts, sharp-eyed seekers of talent, to comb the territories for prodigies destined to bolster its ranks.

Qin Ting was one such prodigy, a scion of the illustrious Qin Family—a clan that bent the knee to the Xuantian Sect in name, but in spirit stood as a power unto itself. Their tribute flowed freely to the sect, yet much of it was diverted into Qin Ting's hands, fueling his relentless ascent through the ranks of cultivation.

The rest lined the pockets of sect leaders, securing their favor and ensuring his path remained unobstructed. The Qin Family was no mere vassal; it was a force tethered to the sect by tradition rather than true subservience, a dynasty whose ambition burned as fiercely as their prodigy's own.

For short trips—leaping across valleys or soaring through the skies—a cultivator's own power sufficed. But this expedition aimed for the heart of the Lian Yun Mountain Range, a mist-wreathed enigma far beyond the sect's central holdings. To traverse such a distance alone would demand months, draining even the most resolute disciple's reserves.

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The Skyrunner, swift and tireless, could span thousands of miles in a single day, its hull slicing through the clouds with the grace of a blade parting silk. Such vessels were no trifling feat, their creation a blend of ingenuity and wealth that lesser sects could only covet. To a titan like the Xuantian Sect, they were merely standard fare.

As the disciples shuffled toward the pier, their robes rustling in the morning breeze, Qin Ting stepped forward. His presence was a quiet storm, parting the crowd as effortlessly as a river cleaves stone.

A faint, confident smile curved his lips, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, he spoke, his voice smooth yet resonant. "There's no need for the Skyrunner. The Lian Yun Mountains are too distant, and even that ship might leave us scrambling to catch up. The other sects already have days on us. We'll take my Auric Celestial Skyspire instead."

The words hung in the air, igniting a spark of awe that flickered in the disciples' wide eyes. The Auric Celestial Skyspire! Whispers rippled through the throng, a tide of excitement swelling in their chests. This was no sect-issued craft, no utilitarian vessel churned out for the masses. It was Qin Ting's personal flagship, a radiant symbol of his status as the Qin Family's young master.

The sect had bestowed upon him a specialized Skyrunner when he ascended to True Disciple, but he'd dismissed it with barely a glance. Why settle for adequacy when his family had crafted him a masterpiece?

The Auric Celestial Skyspire was a wonder that defied comparison. Its speed eclipsed even the finest Skyrunners, and its opulence was the stuff of whispered legends. The disciples had only ever glimpsed it from afar—a golden silhouette shimmering against the horizon—and their hearts had ached with envy. Now, the chance to step aboard sent a thrill racing through their veins.

'When the others hear we rode the Skyspire, they'll choke on their jealousy!' one disciple thought, a grin tugging at his lips as he pictured the scene unfolding back at the sect.

Even Elder Zhou, a man of iron resolve whose stern demeanor rarely wavered, couldn't suppress the flicker of longing that danced in his dark eyes. He'd heard the tales—how the Qin Family had poured rivers of wealth into the Skyspire's creation, summoning master artificers and scouring the Eastern Wilderness for the rarest materials.

It wasn't merely a ship; it was a floating fortress, its firepower said to rival an entire army, capable of reducing a kingdom to cinders with a single, devastating volley. Zhou, a cultivator of the Divine Platform Realm and an elder of the Inner Sect's Law Enforcement Hall, wielded authority that could quake mountains. Yet beside Qin Ting's masterpiece, his own sect-allocated vessel seemed a drab, childish trinket.

Masking his envy with a gruff cough, Elder Zhou barked, "Well? Are you all struck mute? Show your gratitude to your Senior Brother Qin!"

The disciples snapped from their reverie, hastily clasping their fists and bowing low. "Thank you, Senior Brother Qin!" they chorused, their voices ringing with genuine fervor.

Many were older than Qin Ting in mortal years, but his rank as a True Disciple and his cultivation at the Divine Spirit Realm rendered such trivialities meaningless. In this world, strength was the only coin that carried weight, and "Senior Brother" fell from their lips as naturally as breath.

From the sidelines, a cluster of onlookers—disciples who'd come merely to gawk—overheard the exchange. Their jaws dropped, and a groan of dismay escaped one of them. "The Auric Celestial Skyspire? If I'd known that was on the table, I'd have fought tooth and nail to join this trip! What a blasted waste!"

Nods and murmurs of regret rippled through the group. They'd written off the expedition as mundane, a routine slog through the wilds. Who could've guessed Qin Ting would helm it—and bring his legendary ship into play? The sting of missed opportunity gnawed at them as they watched the chosen few trail after him.

Unperturbed by the sidelong laments, Qin Ting led his entourage toward Cloud Sea Pier, where the Skyspire awaited.

From a distance, it had been a shimmering mirage; up close, it stole the breath from their lungs. The vessel loomed a thousand feet long and rose hundreds high, a golden colossus that seemed less a ship and more a palace adrift in the heavens.

Its surface gleamed with intricate carvings—dragons coiling around pillars, phoenixes soaring across pavilions—each detail a testament to the artisans' unparalleled skill. Within, hundreds of maids and Death Guards stood ready, residing aboard the vessel year-round to serve Qin Ting whenever he deigned to travel. This was the might and wealth of a great clan laid bare.

At the pier's edge stood Nie You, Qin Ting's head steward and Commander of the Death Guard. Clad in black robes that seemed to drink the light, he was flanked by rows of maids and guards, their movements synchronized as they bowed in unison.

"We humbly welcome aboard the Young Master!" their voices boomed, a thunderous wave that stilled the very wind. The air quivered as if bowing to Qin Ting's presence.

These disciples were no strangers to grandeur. Entry into the Xuantian Sect demanded excellence—many bore the blood of noble clans or mortal royalty, their lives steeped in privilege. Yet the Skyspire's majesty humbled even them.

'To witness this splendor in one lifetime—what more could I ask before the end?' one mused, his chest tight with awe.

Qin Ting strode forward, his figure tall and commanding, the golden light of the ship bathing him in an almost divine glow.

The female disciples lingered a step behind, their gazes tracing his form—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hearts fluttering with unspoken yearning. To stand at his side, even for a fleeting moment, felt like a dream too lofty to grasp.

Elder Zhou lingered at the pier, his stern facade cracking as he watched Qin Ting ascend the ramp. "Truly, this is what it means to be touched by the divine. Fortunate indeed that he's ours," he murmured, his voice a faint whisper carried away by the breeze.

The Skyspire's engines thrummed to life, a low, resonant pulse that vibrated through the pier. As the disciples boarded, their steps reverent, the vessel rose into the boundless sky—golden, glorious, and unstoppable.

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Two days had passed since the Auric Celestial Skyspire lifted off from the Xuantian Sect, its golden hull cutting through the heavens with relentless grace.

Qin Ting stood atop the flying citadel, his flowing purple robes billowing in the wind—an elegant cascade of silk that spoke of nobility and power. His demeanor was extraordinary, an aura of quiet supremacy radiating from him as he gazed outward, hands clasped behind his back.

The endless expanse of clouds stretched before him, a sea of white pierced by the occasional peak of a distant mountain, yet his thoughts were elsewhere, adrift in the currents of his ambition.

The disciples, meanwhile, had settled into the rhythm of the journey. The initial thrill of boarding the Skyspire—a vessel that had once been a distant dream—had tempered into a quiet reverence. After all, each of them was a budding talent, their wills forged in the crucible of the Xuantian Sect's exacting standards.

Seizing the rare chance to travel alongside Qin Ting, many sought his guidance, eager to glean wisdom from a True Disciple whose cultivation towered above their own.

Qin Ting didn't lavish effort on teaching. His responses were measured, delivered with a mild indifference that belied his mastery. Yet even his offhand advice carried weight, sparking insights that propelled the disciples forward in their practice.

To him, these young cultivators were more than mere companions—they were the foundation of his future strength. 'One day, they'll be my soldiers, my pawns,' he thought, his gaze distant. 'They must be strong, capable. A weak tool is no tool at all.'

When they approached him with questions—obscure riddles and perplexing knots that plagued their daily meditations—he listened with a faint tilt of his head. After brief contemplation, he unraveled their dilemmas with insights that laid bare his command of the Principles of the Dao.

What seemed an insurmountable wall to them was, to him, as trivial as remarking on the breeze. The disciples departed in awe, their reverence for him deepening with every word.

The Outer Disciples, in particular, were beside themselves with delight. The Xuantian Sect's vast dominion teemed with followers—hundreds of thousands of common disciples toiling on the outskirts, their days spent earning merit points through menial tasks or crowding into Dao Lectures, dreaming of ascension.

Above them stood the tens of thousands of Outer Disciples, the sect's formal backbone, each granted a monthly stipend of resources and a mentor—though a single elder might oversee hundreds, leaving little room for personal guidance. The Inner Disciples, numbering only in the hundreds, were geniuses handpicked by eager elders, their resources lavish by comparison.

And then there were the True Disciples—rare as stars at noon, no more than seven across the sect's sprawling ranks, each a heaven-defying talent of their generation. With Song Changge's fall, one slot now lay vacant, a silent testament to the fragility of even the mighty.

Amid the hum of cultivation discussions, a bold voice broke through. Zhang Xiaoxiao, a spirited Outer Disciple, stepped forward, her cheeks tinged with nervous determination. "Senior Brother Qin, I still don't fully grasp the Essence Channeling Method you explained earlier. I'm sorry for being so dull. Could you... personally guide me to mastery?"

A soft chuckle drifted from Zhou Pingyue, a True Disciple whose presence carried a quiet authority. She cast a sidelong glance at Zhang Xiaoxiao, shaking her head with an amused smile. "Why trouble Junior Brother Qin over such a trifling matter? Junior Sister Zhang, why not come with me instead? I'll demonstrate the technique for you."

Zhang Xiaoxiao's smile stiffened, her eyes flickering with unease. "I wouldn't dare trouble Senior Sister. I'll figure it out on my own when we return."

Zhou Pingyue's smile faded, her voice dropping into a stern, velvet-edged tone. "What's this? Does Junior Sister Zhang look down on me, Zhou Pingyue?"

When she smiled, her warmth was disarming, a gentle breeze; when her expression darkened, it was as if the air thickened, pressing down with suffocating force.

Zhang Xiaoxiao's breath hitched. Zhou Pingyue's status as a True Disciple loomed over her like a mountain, unassailable and untouchable. Even her own mentor bowed in her presence. Defiance wasn't an option.

"I'll follow Senior Sister Zhou's instructions!" she stammered, her voice trembling.

Zhou Pingyue's smile returned, bright and radiant. "In that case, Junior Sister, come along. I'll make sure to teach you well." She turned with a graceful sweep of her robes, and Zhang Xiaoxiao trailed after her, cautious steps betraying her trepidation.

The other disciples exchanged glances, a silent pang of sympathy passing between them. It seemed Zhang Xiaoxiao's boldness had earned her a daunting lesson.

The exchange dampened the group's enthusiasm, and one by one, they bid Qin Ting farewell, retreating to their quarters with newfound reluctance.

Qin Ting watched them go, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Zhang Xiaoxiao's fate didn't concern him. 'If she falters or dies, what of it?' he mused. 'One broken tool among many makes no difference.'

Qin Ting pivoted smoothly, his gaze settling on Nie You, the steadfast figure who shadowed his every step. "Leave me," Qin Ting commanded, his voice calm yet edged with authority. "I'm going into seclusion for a while. Let nobody disturb me."

"My lord," Nie You responded, his tone clipped and reverent. He dipped into a bow, the motion sharp and precise, before retreating with the soundless grace of a wraith vanishing into the dark.

Fifteen days remained until they reached the Lian Yun Mountain Range, and Qin Ting had no intention of squandering them.

In the path of cultivation, diligence was the bedrock of progress. Others would strive while he rested, and the pursuit of the Dao was a relentless current—pause, and you drifted backward.

Qin Ting understood this truth with a clarity that bordered on obsession.

As the Skyspire hummed beneath him, he strode toward his private chambers, the golden walls casting his silhouette in sharp relief. The journey had only begun.