Chapter 19
Chapter 19: A Sudden Change
Hong Qi Sheng adored his daughter to the marrow. He refused to marry her off lightly. His requirements alone cut down the pool of candidates to almost nothing.
First: the man must have no parents, no ties, no burdens to drag Hong Qian into trouble.
Second: he must have proper features and a healthy build.
Third: he must possess spirit roots, so he could inherit Hong Qi Sheng’s cultivation arts.
With those conditions, there were fewer than a handful of suitable men left.
Two of them were biological brothers. Hong Qi Sheng feared his daughter would suffer gossip in the future if she chose between them. He offered them heavy gifts until the brothers backed away of their own accord.
In the end, only two candidates stood before everyone.
One wore dark green and introduced himself as Sun Xiao. His family ran two herbal shops. He had a broad forehead, a thick nose, and an honest, steady look.
The other wore a sapphire robe and was more handsome—but his behavior was frivolous. The moment he entered, he tilted his eyes and openly sized up Hong Qian, who sat there for the selection.
Zhao Chun watched quietly and thought: It’ll be Sun Xiao.
As she expected, Hong Qi Sheng gave them both a quick, weighing scan and seemed to come to the same conclusion. He was about to keep Sun Xiao when a servant ran in from outside, face pale.
“Master! Someone’s arrived. He claims to be an Immortal Master and demands to see you!”
“An Immortal Master?” Hong Qi Sheng frowned, unsettled, then lifted his hand. “Let him in.”
“Fellow Daoist Hong!” the man called cheerfully as he strode in.
He wore plain Daoist robes and had a long face and narrow brows. He moved lightly, almost as if the floor carried him. His eyes swept the room, pausing only briefly on Meng Han before sliding away.
“I heard Fellow Daoist intends to recruit a son-in-law,” the newcomer said with a smile. “So I’ve come to recommend myself. What do you think?”
Zhao Chun couldn’t read his cultivation at a glance, but Hong Qi Sheng’s expression immediately turned wary and dark. “Senior, I don’t know your name or your background. Who are you, exactly?”
“Liu Feng Yan,” the man replied, still smiling. “A rogue cultivator, nothing more.”
If Meng Han weren’t present, Zhao Chun thought, this could already have ended in blood.
Hong Qi Sheng’s cold sweat beaded. He forced his voice steady. “Senior is at late Qi Refining Stage. My daughter is a mortal. She cannot match you. Please leave.”
Liu Feng Yan had never expected an easy answer. Today, he had come prepared to strike.
His original plan was simple: seize Hong Qi Sheng’s wife and daughter, take all three, then torture out the cultivation arts at leisure. If anyone interfered, he would kill them. Once he had the arts, he would flee beyond Ji City’s reach. The Ling Zhen Sect might be powerful, but it could only control the land before its own gates. If he escaped into the territory of another major sect, he could vanish and live freely.
He had even intended to slaughter the Ling Zhen Sect disciples Hong Qi Sheng hired—until he walked through the door and saw Meng Han.
Late Qi Refining Stage.
The same realm as him.
Two cultivators of equal cultivation didn’t guarantee an even fight. Sect disciples had countless spells, layered techniques, and resources a rogue cultivator could only envy. A rogue cultivator like Liu Feng Yan, with only three or four crude arts despite his realm, would not come out ahead easily.
Worse, Liu Feng Yan cultivated a crooked method that traded lifespan for explosive power. He had already burned away more than half his life. He didn’t dare squeeze more out, and his progress had stalled. Desperation had driven him into madness: he needed an orthodox method—one that could carry him into Foundation Establishment Stage.
That was why he’d set his sights on the Hong Family.
Behind him was only death. Ahead was a single gamble for life.
Liu Feng Yan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. In a heartbeat, he moved—straight for Hong Qian’s throat.
“How dare you!” Meng Han thundered.
He lunged forward and slapped Liu Feng Yan’s strike aside. He had sensed something wrong the moment Liu Feng Yan entered. He hadn’t relaxed for even a breath.
So he chose today to make his move, Meng Han thought, fury flashing through him.
“Everyone, get back!” Meng Han barked.
He stamped once, then whipped his leg out, kicking Liu Feng Yan bodily out of the hall. “Hong Qi Sheng! Watch your wife and daughter!”
“And if they get hurt,” he added viciously, “don’t you come crying to me!”
Hong Qi Sheng’s wife and daughter screamed the moment the two men clashed. Hong Qi Sheng grabbed both of them and hurried them into the inner courtyard, then shoved the two remaining candidates in after them as well, unwilling to let innocents be swept up.
Zhao Chun and the others didn’t dare approach, but they watched from the side. A battle between late Qi Refining Stage cultivators was rare learning—every move worth remembering.
Outside, Liu Feng Yan staggered from the kick and spat a mouthful of blood. He didn’t dare hesitate. Rolling to his feet, he twisted aside as Meng Han’s fist cut through the air—wind howling so hard it made Liu Feng Yan’s ears ring.
Liu Feng Yan had survived decades by clawing and scrambling. He retreated, widening the distance, then thrust a finger forward and shouted, “Black Water Binding Feet!”
The stone beneath Meng Han’s boots turned pitch-black in an instant. Two or three watery, hand-shaped shadows surged upward and clamped around his ankles.
Liu Feng Yan seized the opening. His hands swept across his chest, then snapped together. He mimed a blade cleaving forward.
“Sever!”
A black-purple crescent of light formed in midair and screamed toward Meng Han.
“Cheap tricks!” Meng Han snarled.
He didn’t even look down at the hands binding his feet. He crossed his arms over his chest, and a layer of glossy white armor flowed over his body like lacquered jade. The crescent struck. Meng Han rocked back a fraction—and the armor remained unbroken.
Liu Feng Yan’s expression tightened.
Two of his four arts, and he still hadn’t drawn a single wound.
What kind of monster is he?
He drove his spiritual energy hard and prepared the most vicious of his methods—Wicked Seed Spirit-Devouring Art.
The technique was cruel. He condensed spiritual energy into tiny, insect-sized “seeds,” scattering them around his body like invisible dust. In close combat, he would drive the seeds into an opponent’s skin, where they would latch on and devour spiritual energy. In the space of a blink, they could drain someone dry.
He had killed many sect disciples with this trick. They were often inexperienced, too careless in the chaos of a real fight. That was how he had survived.
He snarled, “Big idiot—let’s see if you can defend against this!”
Keeping the seeds hidden, Liu Feng Yan charged.
Meng Han didn’t notice the tiny parasites. He assumed Liu Feng Yan had abandoned long-range attacks and was coming in to trade blows. He laughed, wild and fearless. “Come on! This is what I’m best at!”
He stomped, shattering the black water bindings with sheer brute force, then seized Liu Feng Yan’s arm with one hand and drove a punch straight into his face.
The impact hurled Liu Feng Yan back two or three meters. Bone crunched. Half his face caved in.
“You fell for it!” Liu Feng Yan shrieked through blood.
One breath passed.
Meng Han didn’t move.
Two breaths.
Meng Han lowered his fist and stared at him, cold as iron.
Three breaths.
Meng Han lifted an arm and flicked—casual as brushing dust from a sleeve. The wicked seeds that had swarmed toward him scattered away, unable to cling.
Liu Feng Yan’s eyes went wide, almost splitting. Meng Han’s skin looked like it had been cast from bronze and steel. The seeds couldn’t bite. They couldn’t attach.
Impossible.
Zhao Chun, watching, felt her heart jump in a different way.
That defense—if she could learn it, her close-range protection would be complete.
If it was a technique housed in the Ling Zhen Sect’s archives, perhaps she had a chance. If it was Meng Han’s private method… then it would be far harder.
Meng Han had no idea what Zhao Chun was thinking. He strode forward, grabbed Liu Feng Yan by the front of his robes with one hand, and lifted him like a sack.
“You don’t know a damn thing,” Meng Han growled. “But you dared to strike in front of me anyway. That takes guts.”
“Spare me!” Liu Feng Yan sobbed, blood and tears sliding together down his shattered face. “Spare me!”
“I’ll give you Cui Stones—my techniques—everything! I’ll give you everything! Just let me live! I won’t dare again!”
Meng Han wasn’t naive. He understood the lesson of cutting weeds by the root.
He twisted his fingers.
A crisp snap sounded.
Meng Han flung Liu Feng Yan’s corpse to the ground and turned to Hong Qi Sheng, who stood frozen in shock. “Clean it up yourself.”
“Yes—yes!” Hong Qi Sheng stammered.
After escorting his wife and daughter back, he returned to find Liu Feng Yan dead at his feet. Relief flooded him—then fear followed close behind. Meng Han was terrifyingly strong. If Hong Qi Sheng offended him by mistake…
Hong Qi Sheng clasped his hands and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Senior Meng. You saved my family. I will repay you heavily—truly, heavily!”
Meng Han poured himself a mouthful of water and turned as if to refuse. Then his gaze snagged.
A thin red line had appeared across Hong Qi Sheng’s neck.
Meng Han frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
Hong Qi Sheng’s head suddenly leapt into the air.
Blood sprayed in a roaring arc.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Then a murderous pressure descended over the Hong Family estate like a vast, invisible shroud.
Zhao Chun felt as if a giant hand had clenched around her heart. Her breath hitched, sharp and fast, and her chest tightened until it hurt.