His voice, a low rumble like grinding tectonic plates, echoed across the Grand Sanctuary. The assembled elders and disciples of the Qimen Star-Pavilion, still reeling from the resurrection and the spatial array, froze. Wuyuan’s obsidian armor seemed to drink the light, making the blood-red sky above appear even more vibrant. His jade eyes, sharp as winter shards, fixed on Song Moyou, a flicker of genuine interest sparking in their depths. Moyou, however, was already recalculating the force vectors required to propel an eighty-kilogram mass through the outer stratosphere. The Abyssal sigil on her wrist pulsed faintly, a warm hum against her skin, a familiar, complex rhythm that momentarily eclipsed the irritation of Wuyuan’s theatrics. Hundun, the void-swallowing spirit badger, finished licking the last vestiges of a spirit-grade ceremonial dagger it had pilfered from a grieving elder’s sash. It blinked its pearlescent eyes, then let out a tiny, high-pitched burp, drawing a glare from Wuyuan. “The badger is… new,” the Sovereign noted, his grin widening. “It’s here to consume the spoils of my rejected suitors,” Moyou deadpanned, her gaze still distant, focused on invisible schematics. “You’re about to be added to the pile.” Wuyuan threw his head back and laughed, a resonant sound that vibrated through the very stone of the floating peak. “A bold declaration, little cultivator! I expected a withered husk, not… *this*. Your aura, it sings with the logic of primal forces, a glorious mathematical fury I haven’t encountered in centuries.” He flexed a gauntleted hand, obsidian claws clicking. “Come, let us dance, and let the Cangxi Realm witness the return of true chaos!” Without preamble, Wuyuan lunged. The air around him shrieked, compressed by raw demonic Qi. His attack wasn’t a mere punch; it was a collapsing void, a fist wrapped in a shroud of crackling, inky blackness that devoured all ambient light. It was designed to pulverize, to erase, to leave no trace. It was a strike meant for a world-ending entity, not a recently deceased junior sister. Shen Tulie, still dazed by his own violent re-entry into the temple, stumbled forward, a cry caught in his throat. He saw the world slow, saw the absolute devastation hurtling towards Moyou, his tragic junior sister, who now seemed utterly unconcerned. Moyou watched the approaching obliteration with the weary sigh of someone observing a poorly executed equation. The strike's dispersion pattern was crude, inefficient. A waste of good potential. She lifted a hand, not to block, not to counter, but merely to tap the ground beneath her left foot, a delicate, almost imperceptible contact. A shimmering, translucent octahedron of force materialized beneath Wuyuan’s charging form, utterly unnoticed by him in his bloodthirsty exhilaration. It was a precise, localized gravitic array, not for defense, but for displacement. Its activation was instantaneous, silent. One moment, Zongzheng Wuyuan was a blur of midnight armor, a harbinger of doom. The next, he was a rapidly receding speck against the crimson sky, launched upwards and then outwards, accelerating through the atmosphere at an incomprehensible speed. The ground where he’d stood cratered, not from his impact, but from the backlash of his sudden, violent departure. A faint, almost comedic *whoosh* followed in his wake, the sound of a super-sonic object parting the air. The elders gasped. Shen Tulie’s jaw went slack. The entire peak fell into silence, broken only by Hundun’s delighted chittering as it eyed the residual demonic miasma Wuyuan had left behind, licking its lips. Far below, plummeting through the layers of the Cangxi Realm’s upper atmosphere, Zongzheng Wuyuan found himself in a state of unparalleled euphoria. The wind, screaming past his armored form, stripped away the chaotic Qi he had conjured, leaving him exposed to the raw, unadulterated sensation of falling. He spun, an undignified tumble, through wisps of cloud and errant spiritual currents. Below, the true maelstrom of chaotic Qi churned, a dizzying, swirling abyss of raw turbulence. No grand battle. No intricate spell duel. Just… *yeeted*. At Mach 3, no less. It was magnificent. The sheer, utter contempt in that simple gesture, the dismissive wave of her hand, the implied calculation that he wasn't even worth a proper fight. He had never encountered such delightful, cold, glorious ruthlessness. The realization bloomed in his chest, a dark, incandescent flower. He was irrevocably, utterly, masochistically in love. Back on the Qimen Star-Pavilion, the silence stretched, thick with disbelief. Moyou had already turned her attention back to the glowing brand on her wrist, her brow furrowed in concentration. The Abyssal cipher demanded her full attention; Wuyuan was a momentary, irrelevant distraction. “Moyou! What… what was that?!” Shen Tulie finally stammered, rushing forward, his face a contorted mask of confusion and humiliation. “The prophecy… it said you would be a tragic, dying maiden! It said *I* would avenge you! This isn’t… this isn’t the script!” He clutched a jade slip, its surface glowing with an internal, ethereal light, the script inscribed upon it now flickering erratically. Its characters, usually fixed and immutable, warped and reformed like liquid gold. This was the Heavenly Decree of Fates, the rigid narrative that governed the Cangxi Realm, passed down through generations of prophecy-keepers. Moyou didn’t even glance at him. “Your ‘script’ is a poorly constructed set of variables that doesn’t account for an awakened consciousness, Senior Brother,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Her finger traced the complex lines carved into her wrist. The first glyph wasn’t merely a symbol; it was a condensed spatial key, an architectural blueprint of profound power. The numerical sequences, the quantum fluctuations, the inherent probability fields… she felt the familiar joy of a truly challenging problem. Her eyes glazed over, not with emotion, but with the dizzying clarity of pure computation. She saw past the surface of the rune, through the layers of its protective enchantments, and into the raw, elegant truth it concealed. A hidden vault. Deep beneath the primary peak of the Qimen Star-Pavilion, locked away by ancient dimensional wards. A repository of knowledge, perhaps even more forbidden diagrams. Her past self had truly been brilliant. As Moyou internally mapped the vault’s location and bypass sequences, the jade slip in Shen Tulie’s hand suddenly flared with blinding intensity. The ethereal light pulsed, then coalesced, twisting violently. The delicate jade cracked, not shattering, but reforming, melting into a vortex of pure, crackling radiance. From the heart of the swirling chaos, a single, enormous eye formed. It was composed entirely of brilliant, searing lightning, its iris a tempest of cerulean sparks and silver. It pulsed with ancient, terrible power, a raw, sentient force that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself. The eye fixed its gaze, unwavering, unblinking, directly onto Song Moyou.

The Art of the Yeet