Even Qin San-shao, usually brimming with arrogance and confidence, stood dumbstruck. Alongside him, Li Xiaoye, Qiao Wei, and Uncle Li were equally frozen in place.
Because at the end of the VIP room's enormous gambling table—crafted from the finest agarwood—sat a woman.
Not just any woman.
She was a vision of seduction incarnate, a being of such overwhelming allure that merely looking at her felt like gazing into the sun—painful, blinding, yet impossible to turn away from. One would rather risk burning their eyes than miss even a second of her presence.
She wore red. Every inch of her.
Hair dyed a deep violet-red shimmered like silk. Her eyelids were brushed with crimson shadow, and her lips—plump, glossy, and saturated in a dangerously vivid scarlet—seemed to promise ecstasy and oblivion. A sheer, near-transparent pink gauze gown clung to her form, revealing more than it concealed. A deep red bustier, like freshly spilled blood, gripped her chest tightly. Her fingertips, as delicate as spring buds, were painted flame-red with swirling fire totems etched into each nail.
Amid the sea of red, a flash of white shimmered.
That was the flawless skin from the curve of her jaw down to the swell of her bust, exposed beneath the scandalously low neckline. Her forearms, bare to the elbows, rested lightly on the table—smooth as jade, dazzlingly pale, like frost-laced moonlight.
Red and white—fire and snow—blended in perfect harmony. She was a living contradiction, a flame-wrapped goddess seated in stillness.
She didn't speak. She didn't move.
Yet she radiated a presence—one that couldn't be named.
It wasn't just beauty. It was a blend of cold and heat, ice and fire. Her aura was that of a queen commanding both elements, making it impossible for anyone—man or woman—to look upon her and not feel utterly conquered.
Even Li Xiaoye, whose own beauty would turn heads anywhere, found herself entranced. Her gaze locked onto the woman, utterly helpless.
The enchantress had a fatal allure, not only to men—but to all living things.
Qin San-shao was lost. Li Xiaoye was entranced. Even Qiao Wei and Uncle Li were bewitched.
The four of them stood stupidly at the doorway—neither stepping in nor backing away. They were statues of flesh, paralyzed.
The bodyguard who had led them here stood with his head bowed, too terrified to so much as lift his eyes. Sweat poured from his brow, soaking through his shirt. He trembled uncontrollably.
He dared not peek. He knew that even the slightest glance could shatter his mind and leave him a drooling fool.
Within San-shao, desire surged like molten lava. He had never experienced anything like it. The woman hadn't even moved, yet a savage, primal hunger raged within him, as though he were being roasted alive at the mouth of a volcano.
His throat was parched. Sweat streamed down his face. And below the waist… he was already standing at full attention.
In his dazed vision, the red-clad woman was no longer seated. She was on the table now, dancing—swaying with the seductive grace of a siren, stripping reality away with every motion.
Every part of her body, especially the hidden places that drove men mad, were on full display—beckoning, whispering wicked invitations with each glance from her soul-piercing eyes.
San-shao wasn't the only one falling apart.
Li Xiaoye was breathing heavily, her face flushed, eyes hazy with lust. One hand had cupped her own breast, gently kneading it. The other had slid between her thighs—and when that didn't suffice, she reached into her pants to stimulate the damp, quivering core beneath.
The match hadn't even begun, and San-shao's side was already losing.
But no match is truly decided until the final move.
Just as San-shao imagined the crimson temptress gliding toward him, fondling herself while closing the distance, something inside him snapped.
A flash of primal instinct, as sharp as a wild beast sensing a hidden predator.
Something's wrong.Damn it, I came to gamble, not to watch a strip show! he snarled inwardly.
With a growl of resistance, San-shao slammed his eyes shut.
The moment he did, the woman on the chair—who had, in truth, done absolutely nothing—tilted her head ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing through her eyes. Then came a curious glint of interest. Amusement.
And then—San-shao opened his eyes again.
But now, they were different.
The lust was gone. Replaced by something colder. Darker. An unrelenting cruelty burned within them.
The crimson woman stared into his pupils and was stunned by what she saw.
A barren, frozen plain. A battlefield drenched in blood. Mountains of bones. Storms of shadow. Lightning like wounds torn in the heavens. And atop a peak of skulls stood a mad demon-king—hair flying wildly, crimson palms raised in laughter that split the sky.
She shuddered.
In that moment, the temptress felt fear. Genuine, soul-chilling fear.
His gaze held no warmth, no life—only the certainty of death.
Her breathing faltered. Her qi scattered. She gasped—and vomited a mouthful of pink blood.
The spell broke instantly.
Li Xiaoye jolted awake, horrified by her own actions. Face burning, she scrambled to fix her clothes. A quick glance at San-shao reassured her—his terrifying demon eyes were still locked on the crimson woman, not on her. She exhaled in relief.
Qiao Wei and Uncle Li's expressions darkened.
"The highest charm technique of the Devil Sect's Mi Xin Branch—Dream of a Fallen Kingdom," Qiao Wei hissed. "Girl… you're the Nine Yin Saintess of the Demonic Path."
The woman didn't reply. Seated still and straight, she suddenly glided backward—chair and all.
Behind her, a section of the wall split open soundlessly.
"Time spares no one," Qiao Wei muttered like a curse. And then he moved.
In an instant, he was airborne—light as a feather, fluid as mist. Everything froze: air, time, sound. The world stopped turning.
But it wasn't that time itself halted—it was an illusion, created by the sheer dominance of his martial power.
And then—Uncle Li moved too.
"Phantom Demon Palm!" he growled, body vanishing in a blur of lightning.
His hand gleamed like crystal, transparent yet solid, glowing like a diamond. That hand defied all logic—piercing through space as if boundaries didn't exist.
It struck at once—reaching four enemies from four different angles.
The illusions, like those of San-shao's Heaven-Covering Palm, weren't mere tricks of the eye. They were illusions so real, they became indistinguishable from truth.
And then—BOOM!
The gambling table exploded.
From its shattered remains leapt eight black-robed swordsmen. Eight glowing blades howled through the air, each forming a blade aura a foot long, intercepting Qiao Wei and Uncle Li.
The clash was instant.
Qiao Wei's foot tapped one opponent's hand, his other leg stepped on a second's shoulder, brushing past the third's blade, and finally—he flicked the fourth's sword tip.
All four attacks failed.
The fourth sword's aura flickered and vanished. A gray energy flowed along the blade, corroding it instantly—rust bloomed like flowers.
Uncle Li's counter was even cleaner.
His Phantom Demon Palm struck all four opponents—who stood in completely different positions—simultaneously, as if space itself bent to his will.
But despite their success, the delay was enough.
The crimson woman reached the opening in the wall.
She was about to escape.
And that's when San-shao moved.
He launched into the air like a soaring eagle, then twisted mid-flight like a diving hawk, targeting its prey with murderous precision.
His palm extended slowly.
The world darkened.
A vast curtain of shadow descended from the heavens.
From above, Qin San-shao came crashing down—his palm now the size of mountains.
Heaven-Covering Palm.
One hand… to blot out the sky.