Boom!A sudden tempest tore through the small courtyard. Stone tables and chairs trembled under the forceful wind, saplings quivered in fear, and fallen leaves swirled in chaos. Mo Tianyu's face flushed crimson, his pupils contracting in sheer disbelief.
The person inside the house had yet to reveal their face, and yet the pressure emanating from within was overwhelming—like a deity descending upon the mortal realm.
The immense force made Mo Tianyu's very blood feel as though it were freezing in his veins. In that moment, he had the illusion of standing before an enraged Master.
Mo Tianyu was no ordinary man. As a Grandmaster of the Seventh Resonance, his strength at such a young age was already formidable, and the foundation of his arrogance.
Yet, in the face of that palm thrust from within the house, his mighty cultivation felt utterly insignificant, like a candle before a tempest.
His robe clung tightly to his frame, his hair fluttered wildly behind him. The hand formed of pale blue energy—middle finger folded over the index, as if placing a piece on a chessboard—struck forth.
Boom!His wine gourd exploded instantly. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose. Above his head, the Confucian righteous aura he was so proud of shattered under that single strike. That very aura, once enough to suppress Jing Yue with ease, now crumbled like fragile parchment.
Crack.An unassailable pressure, like a towering mountain, pressed upon Mo Tianyu's skull, bending his neck with its weight.
Boom!The invisible shockwave burst outward. Mo Tianyu felt the ground beneath his feet collapse, a searing pain tearing through his body. Darkness consumed his vision, and all that remained was a bloody mess of flesh.
The terrifying pressure subsided in the courtyard. Gradually, the wild winds stilled…
Within the courtyard, Jing Yue's face was flushed red. He knelt on the ground, his expression full of grief.
"Young Master… we're on the same side!" he cried out hoarsely, his voice laced with grievance.
The pressure vanished. Jing Yue felt the crushing force finally lift from his body, allowing him to slowly raise his head.
Moonlight bathed the courtyard in a cold, silvery glow. Fallen leaves blanketed the ground, and shattered stone chairs lay strewn about.
But the most horrifying sight wasn't the debris—it was the head protruding from the center of the courtyard.
The owner of that head… was none other than Mo Tianyu, the Confucian sect's foremost disciple.
Now, he looked utterly wretched. Gone was his previous arrogance and carefree charm, replaced by a tragic, humiliated ruin.
He had been driven into the earth like a carrot, only his bloodied head left above ground.
Jing Yue inhaled sharply, his body trembling slightly. A chill crept into his heart.
Thank heavens he had surrendered quickly and decisively. Otherwise, his fate might have been no better than this half-dead Mo Tianyu.
The Young Master's methods—truly beyond human comprehension.
Mo Tianyu, a man of upright Confucian virtue, a Grandmaster of the Seventh Resonance—his words could stir wind and cloud, his righteous aura could shake the world.
And yet, such a man, a dominant force in the Grand Zhou Dynasty, had been flattened like a scallion under a slap.
Ning Zhao descended lightly, her cicada-wing sword glowing with a faint radiance. She glanced indifferently at Mo Tianyu, without the slightest trace of pity.
This was a fate he had brought upon himself.
She had warned him, yet he had arrogantly placed his faith in his strength, attempting to divine the Young Master's fate.
And now, this was his punishment.
What surprised Ning Zhao, however, was that with the Young Master's notorious vindictiveness, he hadn't outright killed Mo Tianyu.
Blood continued to stream from Mo Tianyu's nose and mouth. His entire body was buried underground by a single finger strike, only his head remaining exposed.
His consciousness began to blur.
Lu Fan had asked if he had ever divined his own fate. Truth be told, before leaving the capital, he had.
And the divination had shown great fortune…
Now, recalling that omen, Mo Tianyu's heart filled with bitter sorrow. "Great fortune"? What nonsense!
He had danced at death's door but a moment ago.
Though wracked with pain, his mind remained unusually lucid.
He suddenly recalled the melancholic expression on the Grand Preceptor's face when discussing life and death while seated in his rocking chair.
So… this was death. And it was truly terrifying.
Mo Tianyu looked toward the pitch-black house.
From beginning to end, the man inside had not appeared. He had spoken but three sentences and dropped three pieces… and Mo Tianyu had ended up like this.
He drew in a breath—only for blood to flood his throat, sending him into a violent coughing fit.
"Is the Young Master… truly of divine and demonic origin?"
"Young Master, how shall we deal with him?" Ning Zhao asked, holding the cicada-wing sword, her white robes fluttering in the moonlight.
Jing Yue, having just gotten to his feet and sheathed his sword, found his heart tightening once more.
The room remained silent, shrouded in darkness without a single glimmer of light.
A long pause. Then a faint voice floated out.
"Kill him."
The words, light as a whisper, echoed through the courtyard.
Ning Zhao's expression didn't change. She nodded, sword in hand. "As you command."
Jing Yue, however, couldn't stop his face from twitching.
This was Mo Tianyu! The foremost disciple of the Confucian sect… the Grand Preceptor's own student!
Was Lu Fan truly unafraid of provoking the Preceptor's wrath?
Jing Yue opened his mouth to intercede—then closed it.
If the Young Master took his plea as a challenge and struck him down in a fit of rage, wouldn't that be a greater loss?
And so, Jing Yue wisely held his tongue.
Ning Zhao raised her sword, moonlight dancing on her porcelain skin. She lifted her sleeve and reached out, prepared to harvest Mo Tianyu's head like cutting a stalk of chive.
Suddenly—
A hunched black figure descended like a shadow.
"Young Master, you mustn't!"
Old Huang landed, his heart pounding, his voice hoarse with urgency.
Ning Zhao froze.
Outside the courtyard, the sound of armor clashing echoed as several figures sped toward them.
Lu Changkong strode in, helmet in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of his blade, his expression sharp and imposing.
Luo Yue followed behind.
The moment they entered, they saw Mo Tianyu's head half-buried in the ground.
Both men froze.
Had it not been for the slight movement of his neck, they would've thought his head had already been severed.
"Sister Ning, please… stay your hand."
Lu Fan's voice floated from the room, calm and weightless. He had sensed Lu Changkong's approach long ago.
"Fan'er, are you well?" Lu Changkong called out with concern.
As for the half-buried Mo Tianyu… he paid him no mind.
If not for the Grand Preceptor's protection, the mere act of trespassing into the Lu estate at night would've been enough for Lu Changkong to execute him.
Inside, soft rustles echoed. Ning Zhao sheathed her sword and entered the room. Moments later, she reappeared, pushing a wheelchair.
Moonlight illuminated the young man seated there—red lips, white teeth, ethereal in his beauty.
"Thank you for your concern, Father. I'm in good spirits today. My thoughts are clear and unclouded—it's been a rather pleasant evening," Lu Fan said with a gentle smile.
Mo Tianyu, buried in the earth, finally laid eyes upon the terrifying force that had nearly slain him.
And what he saw… was a pale, delicate youth in a wheelchair.
Lu Changkong chatted amiably with his son under the moonlight, seemingly having forgotten Mo Tianyu entirely.
"Father, though he is the Grand Preceptor's foremost disciple, disturbing my dreams is no light offense. While death may be spared, punishment is necessary.
Let him remain buried here. He shall be unearthed only when the Grand Preceptor arrives."
Lu Fan's voice was calm, leaving no room for debate.
With that, he allowed Ning Zhao to push him back inside.
Lu Changkong merely smiled, offering no aid to Mo Tianyu. He cast a half-amused glance at the man planted like a scallion in the earth before departing with Luo Yue and Old Huang.
Outside, he instructed Luo Yue to inform the waiting coachman.
In the courtyard, Jing Yue, carrying his sword case on his back, finally let out a breath of relief. He quietly rejoiced at his decision not to flee.
Just then, a faint voice once again stirred the air around him…