Elder Teng Jian, still reeling from the public humiliation of his prized head disciple, first scoffed. The notion was preposterous, an insult to his intelligence. Yet, as Mo Luan remained prostrated, her gaze fixed with unwavering devotion on the stooped figure below, a cold dread began to seep into the Elder’s heart. Every slight, every casual dismissal, every cutting critique Zongyi had ever uttered regarding improper drainage or over-fertilized roots rebounded through Teng Jian's skull. It wasn't the ramblings of a simple gardener. It was the disdain of a primordial power.
“Demonic scum!” Teng Jian shrieked, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and outrage as he finally connected the dots, his face contorting into a mask of pure horror. “The Blood-Bramble master! Here! Among us!”
The accusation tore across the viewing tiers. Sect elders and disciples surged to their feet, pallid skin flushing crimson with rage. A cacophony of gasps, curses, and shouts of alarm erupted, drowning out the lingering silence of the arena floor. The air crackled as hundreds of disciples, from the lowest Ember-Vein strivers to venerated Spirit-Vault masters, reached for their armaments.
From every corner of the grounds, from training fields to private meditation chambers, a blinding torrent of flying steel burst into the sky. They converged over the arena, a shimmering flock of honed metal and concentrated Qi. Thousands of pointed instruments, some etched with intricate wind-runes, others radiating searing heat, formed an impenetrable canopy above the stadium, all aimed at the single figure on the sand.
Kuang Zongyi, who had remained oblivious through Jinxi’s semi-final match, was just about to apply a fresh layer of topsoil to the arena, intending to re-establish proper nitrogen levels before the finals. He had even brought a small selection of his prized, recently blooming Verdant-Kiss Orchids, delicate things with petals like spun moonbeams, to display at the edge of the raked sand. They were meant to offer a touch of refined beauty to the otherwise brutish proceedings. He had tended these particular specimens for decades, coaxing them into flawless, symmetrical blooms.
Now, as panic erupted and spectator ranks stampeded for a better vantage point, heavy boots stamped upon delicate petals, grinding intricate roots into the coarse grit. A low, guttural growl rumbled in Zongyi’s chest. His gaze, usually placid and preoccupied with soil composition, hardened into something ancient and terrifying.
“Idiots,” he muttered, his voice quiet amid the rising din of orthodox fury, yet ringing with unsettling resonance. He looked down at the ruined orchids, their vibrant colors now bruised and torn. “They’ll never recover from this root damage. The pH is already completely off. What kind of barbarian crushes a living thing without a care for its natural form?”
Elder Teng Jian, bellowing orders for the compound's grandest formations to trigger, leveled a shaking finger downward. “Annihilate him! The old monster must not escape!”
Zongyi slowly, almost reverently, lowered his rake to the ground, letting it fall with a soft *thud* against the arena sand. He took a single, deep breath, not of fear, but of profound irritation. A faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated from his being, a ripple in the fabric of existence that went utterly unnoticed by the screaming cultivators.
Then, he exhaled.
It was not a roar or an explosion of aura. It was merely a fraction, an exhalation of dormant intent seeping from his bones. But that whisper was enough.
The suspended airborne blades, previously gleaming with killing intent, sputtered. Their Qi flickered, then thinned. Like unwatered stalks, their vigor desiccated. The forged steel, tempered through centuries of refinement, bowed and warped. Runes faded, edges dulled, and the very metal seemed to age and corrode in an instant, twisting into grotesque, brittle forms. Within heartbeats, a rain of decaying scraps showered across the arena floor. The martial artists shrieked as their bonded armaments collapsed into flakes of rust and slag before their sight.
Stifling stillness smothered the tiered stone stands, heavier than any silence before it. The air grew stale, as if all life had momentarily held its breath. The disarmed sect disciples trembled where they stood, cheeks draining of color, staring downward in total paralysis. They looked upon Zongyi, no longer a mere gardener, but an unfathomable entity whose mere annoyance could unravel their very foundations.
Just as the first terrified screams began to bubble up, a new disturbance rent the air. From the bruised, overcast sky, a host of shadowy figures descended, wreathed in plumes of crimson miasma. Mo Luan, now fully recovered from her prostration, led the charge, a cruel smile gracing her lips. Behind her, dozens of Iron-Petal Synod assassins, cloaked in midnight robes and wielding curved, obsidian blades, landed silently around Zongyi, forming a protective circle.
“Sovereign!” Mo Luan cried out, her voice a triumphant clarion. “We have come to extract you from these impotent weeds! The Synod is ready to reclaim its rightful ruler!” She gestured grandly at the paralyzed cultivators, then turned to Zongyi with an expression of devoted anticipation.
Zongyi, however, merely scowled. He glanced at the assassins, then at Mo Luan, then back at his decimated orchids. A vein pulsed in his forehead.
“Pests,” he snapped, his voice dangerously low. With a casual, almost dismissive flick of his wrist, he backhanded Mo Luan across the arena, sending the interim-leader of the demonic Iron-Petal Synod tumbling end over end through the air, crashing into a scrapheap of corroded steel with a grunt of shock and pain.
“I told you I hate unexpected pests in my garden,” Zongyi grumbled, glaring at the remaining demonic assassins. “And now look. You’ve brought more dirt into my clean soil.”