Chương 107: Ants

Cheng Ergui's eyelid gave a sharp, involuntary twitch. Though he had never laid eyes on Reyn before, the youth standing at the threshold of the great hall possessed an aura so utterly restrained he appeared as a common mortal. Yet, the Nether Fire Snake—a creature nurtured by Cheng's own essence blood—was convulsing. It recoiled toward his fingertips, shivering as if it had encountered its natural predator.

"You are Reyn?" Cheng Ergui narrowed his eyes, his small, beady orbs flickering with a predatory light, like a rat sizing up a cat. Reyn did not offer a word. He crossed the threshold, his boots grinding against the jagged shards of shattered porcelain with a rhythmic, crystalline crunch. Each step was deliberate, measured, and agonizingly slow, as if he were merely strolling through a private garden.

His gaze swept across the carnage: Lei Wanjun's sallow, waxen face; the mangled, bloody stump of Lei Wanhe's arm; Caiyun's bloodless lips; and the dark, viscous pools of gore still steaming on the floor. His expression remained a mask of chilling indifference. If anything, the corners of his mouth curled into a faint, mocking tilt, as though he were critiquing a particularly amateurish painting. Despite his status, Cheng Ergui took a reflexive half-step back.

A primal chill lanced through him—not a drop in temperature, but something far more existential. He felt like a frog pinned by the lidless stare of a viper, or a hare locked in the sights of a soaring hawk. It was a soul-deep, uncontrollable tremor that bypassed his reason.

"Elder Cheng," Reyn spoke, his voice as light and airy as a greeting between old friends.

"Did I hear correctly? Did you just claim to be the architect of my parents' demise?" Cheng Ergui's Adam's apple bobbed as he fought to swallow his rising dread. He was a Foundation Establishment cultivator; the boy before him was, by all accounts, merely at the Qi Condensation stage. No matter what tricks he possessed, how much could they truly avail him?

"And what if I did?" He puffed out his chest, the Nether Fire Snake flaring back into existence at his fingertips.

"Boy, I am the Third Elder of the Jinshan Sect, a master of the Early Foundation Establishment realm! Your Xuanxiao Sect may be formidable, but today I represent the Jinshan Sect. If you have any sense—""The Jinshan Sect?" Reyn tilted his head, the gesture inquisitive, as if trying to recall the name of some insignificant insect. Then, he smiled. It was a faint, fleeting ripple of an expression, yet it made the hair on Cheng's neck stand on end.

"Never heard of it." Before the last syllable could fade, Reyn vanished. There was no flash of light, no ripple of a movement technique—just speed so absolute it defied the human eye. Cheng Ergui felt a blur in his vision, and in the next heartbeat, an iron-grip hand had clamped around his throat. He was hoisted off the ground, his feet kicking uselessly at the empty air. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Flushed a deep, bruised purple, Cheng desperately channeled his cultivation. The Nether Fire Snake lunged for Reyn's face, a streak of emerald flame— Reyn merely tilted his head. The serpent hissed past his ear, incinerating a hole into a massive support pillar behind him. His face didn't even twitch; it was as if he were swatting away a particularly persistent fly.

"Early Foundation Establishment?" He mused, watching Cheng's face bloat into the color of a pig's liver. His fingers tightened. The sickening creak of shifting bone echoed from Cheng's throat—the sound of rotting wood being snapped in slow motion.

"With such pathetic skill, you dare speak of 'arranging' my parents?" Cheng's eyeballs bulged, laced with a lattice of burst capillaries like overripe grapes. He clawed frantically at Reyn's forearm, his fingernails splintering and bleeding as he tore at the skin. Yet, it was like scratching at divine steel; he couldn't even leave a mark. He tried to beg, to scream, but his windpipe was crushed flat. A dark, pungent stain spread across his crotch, the stench of urine filling the air.

Reyn's brow furrowed in distaste, as if he had just stepped in something foul. With a casual flick of his arm, he hurled Cheng Ergui away. The Elder flew like a discarded sack of refuse, crashing through a stone wall and embedding himself into the decorative rockery in the courtyard. A cascade of rubble buried him in dust.

"Weak. Utterly brittle." Reyn muttered, shaking out his hand. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and began to meticulously wipe his knuckles. His movements were as graceful as a scholar performing a tea ceremony, betraying none of the violence he had just unleashed. Inside the hall, the silence was absolute. Lei Wanjun slumped in his chair, his own robes soaked with the same shameful moisture as the Elder's.

He stared at the youth's back, seeing the ghost of the scrawny boy who had crawled out of a haystack on that snowy night a year ago. Back then, he thought the boy was an ant to be crushed at whim. Now, the ant had ascended as a dragon, and he no longer even possessed the right to look him in the eye.

"Rey... Reyn..." he stammered.

"Cheng Ergui... he is... he is of the Jinshan..."

"I am aware." Reyn turned, his gaze falling on Lei Wanjun. It was a cold, detached look, treating the man as nothing more than a piece of broken furniture.

"Therefore, the Jinshan Sect shall be erased from existence this day." He stepped toward the courtyard, his boots leaving faint, glowing depressions in the bluestone floor—a byproduct of overflowing spiritual energy he didn't even bother to suppress. Cheng Ergui dragged himself from the debris, his face a mask of gore and his front teeth shattered. He looked at the approaching Reyn as if staring at a demon-god birthed from the abyss.

"You... you cannot kill me!" he wheezed, his voice a ragged rasp through his broken throat. He scrambled back until his spine hit the rockery.

"Our Sect Leader, Jin Sansheng, is at the Pseudo-Core realm! He will never let you—" Reyn paused, tilting his head again.

"Jin Sansheng? Pseudo-Core?" Then he chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth, like the wind howling across a polar wasteland.

"Let him come." He raised a hand. No mudras were formed, no incantations whispered, no spiritual tools summoned. It was a simple palm strike, as if brushing away a speck of dust. Lightning erupted. This was no common bolt; it was Tribulation Lightning, refined to an absolute, crushing zenith of destructive power. It was as black as ink, yet pulsed with a blinding violet core. The moment it left his palm, it coalesced into a zhang-long lightning dragon that roared as it lunged!

"No—!" Cheng's shriek lasted less than a heartbeat. The dragon tore through his chest and erupted from his back in a spray of vaporized blood and pulverized organs. His body convulsed violently in the discharge, skin charring and peeling away to reveal scorched muscle that turned to ash in seconds. Three breaths later, the light faded. Where the Elder had stood, only a human-shaped cinder remained, curled in a fetal position with fingers still hooked into the crevices of the stone.

Reyn lowered his hand, watching a thin wisp of acrid smoke rise from his palm. He frowned at the smell of burnt flesh and wiped his hand once more with the silk.

"Ants." The word was barely a whisper, yet it rang with terrifying clarity in the ears of every survivor.