Dead silence choked the courtyard. A cold wind rustled the banquet silks, the only sound besides the drip, drip, drip of blood onto the pristine white stones. The Hua Shan Sect’s elite guard lay motionless, a fist-sized hole burned clean through his chest plate and his heart. There was no wound, only a cauterized void where his life had been. Not by a sword. Not by a fist. By a snort. Young Master Hua Shan’s face, once flushed with arrogant pride, was now a ghastly shade of white. His body trembled uncontrollably, his eyes wide with a terror that fought a losing battle against his disbelief. This was a servant. A dog. Trash that had knelt in the dirt for three years. How? Ye Yao stared, her perfectly painted lips parted in shock. The torn engagement contract felt like a burning coal in her sleeve. She had seen Lu Feng as nothing more than an insect to be crushed under her heel. But the insect had just vaporized a wolf. The servant she’d despised held an aura of terrifying, silent power she had never once glimpsed. “You…” The Young Master’s voice was a ragged whisper, cracking with fear. Then, the fear was consumed by a tidal wave of humiliation. He, the glorious heir of the Hua Shan Sect, had been terrified by a servant. In front of his fiancée. In front of the entire Ye family. His reputation was in tatters. His face contorted into a mask of pure fury. “You dare!” he shrieked, his voice sharp and hysterical. “You worthless dog, you dare kill my man! You dare attack the Hua Shan Sect!” He jabbed a trembling finger at the Ye family patriarch. “Master Ye! Is this how you manage your household? Your servant has committed a capital crime! Are you all blind? Are you going to let him defy the Hua Shan Sect?!” The Ye family elders snapped out of their stupor. Their faces paled. Offending the Hua Shan Sect was a death sentence for a minor family like theirs. The power Lu Feng had just displayed was terrifying, but the wrath of a major Martial Sect was world-ending. “Kill him!” the Young Master roared, his courage returning as he hid behind the strength of others. “I want him dismembered! I want his meridians shredded and his limbs torn from his body! Do it now!” Master Ye’s face hardened. He gave Lu Feng a look of cold fury mixed with a sliver of fear. “Lu Feng! You have brought a catastrophe upon this family! Experts of the Ye clan, heed my command! Seize this traitor!” *Swish! Swish! Swish!* In an instant, a dozen figures moved. They were the core strength of the Ye family, martial artists whose inner qi was honed and deadly. They surrounded Lu Feng, their swords drawn, the air crackling with a collective killing intent. Each man’s true essence flared, creating a pressure field that would have crushed a normal man into paste. Lu Feng did not even glance at them. His gaze remained fixed on the Young Master of Hua Shan, a look of profound, almost lazy contempt in his dark eyes. He stood as still as a mountain, the immense pressure washing over him like a gentle breeze. “Another step,” he said, his voice quiet yet carrying to every corner of the courtyard with chilling clarity, “and the Ye family line ends today.” The threat was so absolute, so calmly delivered, that the advancing experts froze in their tracks. They felt a primal fear grip their souls. It wasn't a boast; it was a statement of fact. His killing intent, though barely released, was a tsunami held back by a thread—ancient, vast, and utterly merciless. “What are you waiting for, you cowards!” the Young Master screamed, his face purple with rage. “He is one man! You are dozens! Attack! Kill him for me! The Hua Shan Sect will reward you handsomely!” Spurred by greed and fear of their master, the Ye family experts gritted their teeth and prepared to strike. Their sword-qi began to coalesce, shimmering in the air. Lu Feng sighed. It was a soft sound, full of boredom, as if dealing with these ants was a tiresome chore. He didn't draw a sword. He didn't even raise his hands into a fighting stance. He slowly reached into the folds of his worn, gray servant's robes. Everyone tensed. Was he reaching for a hidden weapon? A secret scroll? Ye Yao held her breath, a strange, unwelcome hope flickering in her heart. *Show me,* a voice whispered in her mind. *Show me what you really are.* He pulled out a small, dark object. It looked like a piece of rusted scrap iron, no bigger than his thumb, covered in the grime of ages. It had no shine, no aura of power, nothing to distinguish it from a common rock. “Hah! Is that your trump card?” the Young Master sneered, bursting into laughter. “A piece of junk? You think that will save you from death? You are truly insane!” With a flick of his wrist, Lu Feng tossed the iron token. It flew through the air in a lazy arc, not aimed at anyone, but at the grand, red-lacquered banquet table in the center of the courtyard. *Clang.* The token landed on the tabletop, skittering across the polished wood and clattering against a fine porcelain wine cup before coming to a stop. It lay there, unimpressive and utterly mundane. The Ye family experts hesitated for a second, then charged, their patience finally broken. But they never reached him. A presence, ancient and vast as the heavens, suddenly descended upon the courtyard. It was not Lu Feng. It came from the seat of honor at the head of the banquet. The Old Sect Master of Hua Shan, the Young Master’s father and a renowned Grandmaster, had been observing the entire scene with narrowed, calculating eyes. He had seen the servant’s impossible display of power. He had watched with detached interest as his foolish son demanded retribution. But now, his eyes were locked on the small, rusted token lying on the table. His face, which had been a picture of dignified calm, was instantly drained of all color. His pupils shrank to pinpricks. His Grandmaster’s aura, a lifetime of cultivated power and prestige, shattered like glass. What replaced it was a raw, primordial terror that shook him to his very soul. He saw the carving on the token, a design obscured by rust but unmistakable to those who knew. A divine dragon, coiling around a celestial sword. The sacred emblem. The Order of the Dragon God. Before anyone could comprehend what was happening, the Old Sect Master moved. He moved with a speed that belied his age, a blur of motion born not of aggression, but of sheer, unadulterated panic. He hurled himself from his chair, not towards Lu Feng, but towards the ground. On his way down, he lashed out with his foot, a brutal, merciless kick that slammed into his own son’s knees. *CRACK!* The sound of breaking bone echoed as the Young Master of Hua Shan screamed, his legs buckling as he was forced to the floor. The Old Sect Master ignored his son’s cry of agony. He slammed his knees onto the cold stone floor directly in front of Lu Feng, prostrating himself completely. Then he began to kowtow. Frantically. Desperately. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* He smashed his forehead against the unyielding ground again and again, his movements jerky with terror. Blood streamed down his face, matting his white hair, but he didn't stop. Seeing the dragon-god carved on the token, the Old Sect Master of Hua Shan — the Young Master's father, seated in the place of honor — loses every drop of color from his face. He hurls himself down, kicks his own son flat onto the floor, and kowtows before Lu Feng until his forehead bleeds: “Spare your wrath, Dragon God! The Hua Shan Sect deserves death!”