Silence. A dead, suffocating silence gripped the grand banquet hall of the Imperial Hotel. The air, once filled with celebratory toasts and arrogant laughter, now tasted of ozone and fear. A moment ago, Young Master Murong's elite guard, a man whose fists could shatter stone, had lunged at the useless son-in-law, Lu Feng. Now, that same guard was a crumpled heap on the marble floor, his chest caved in, his eyes wide with an eternity of shock. He hadn’t even touched Lu Feng. Not a single finger. An invisible force, a terrifying surge of Inner Qi, had erupted from the silent man and simply erased him. Xue Yao stood frozen, the divorce papers in her hand suddenly feeling as heavy as a mountain. Her beautiful face was a mask of utter disbelief. Grandmaster? This trash, this servant she had scorned for three years, was a martial Grandmaster? It was impossible. It was a nightmare. Beside her, Madam Su’s jaw hung slack, her carefully applied makeup unable to hide the ghastly pallor that had overtaken her. The mockery on her face had curdled into pure, unadulterated terror. Young Master Murong’s hand trembled, the priceless jade wine cup within it shattering into a thousand pieces. Wine and blood dripped from his clenched fist. Fear warred with a deeper, more profound emotion: humiliation. He, the glorious heir of the Hua Shan Sect, was being publicly shamed by the very man he had intended to crush for sport. The fear vanished, consumed by a volcanic eruption of rage. “You hide your strength?” Murong snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “You dare kill one of my Hua Shan men? You think being a Grandmaster makes you untouchable?” His roar echoed through the hall. “Everyone! All martial experts present! Surround him! I want him dead! I want his meridians ripped out and his body torn to shreds!” For a heartbeat, no one moved. The sheer pressure radiating from Lu Feng was a physical weight, pinning them in place. But the name of the Hua Shan Sect held immense power. Several burly men, guest elders from affiliated families and Murong’s own security detail, exchanged glances. Offending the Young Master of Hua Shan meant ruin. With guttural shouts, they drew their swords and closed in, their collective killing intent a palpable storm. The guests scrambled back, overturning tables and chairs in their haste to escape the impending bloodbath. At least a dozen experts, each a respected master in their own right, formed a tight circle around Lu Feng. Their blades gleamed under the crystal chandeliers. They were a force that could level a minor sect. And at the center of it all, Lu Feng stood unmoved. He didn't even glance at the swords aimed at his throat. His expression was one of profound boredom, as if swatting flies was a more engaging task. He let out a soft sigh, a sound of utter weariness that somehow cut through the tension like a razor. His eyes fell to the household register on the floor near the dead guard's body. He had only come for that. This was all so tedious. Xue Yao watched, her heart hammering against her ribs. A part of her screamed for him to run, a forgotten instinct from a time before her shame had poisoned everything. Another, colder part of her watched with morbid fascination. Who was this man she had shared a roof with for three years? Madam Su clutched her daughter’s arm, her nails digging in. “He’s dead,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “He’s a fool. He can’t fight the entire Hua Shan Sect!” As the circle of experts tightened, Lu Feng finally moved. He slowly, lazily, reached into the pocket of his cheap, worn-out jacket. The experts tensed, expecting a hidden weapon, a desperate last stand. Lu Feng’s fingers emerged, holding not a dagger, not a talisman, but a small, dark piece of metal. It looked like rusted scrap iron, worthless and crude. With a flick of his wrist, as casual as skipping a stone across a pond, he tossed it. The piece of metal flew through the air in a lazy arc, landing on the head banquet table with a dull, unimpressive clatter. It spun once, then lay still amidst the scattered plates of untouched delicacies. Silence descended again. The experts paused their advance, confused. Young Master Murong sneered. “What is this? Are you trying to surrender by offering us junk?” He took a step forward to get a better look. So did his father, the Old Sect Master of Hua Shan, who had been observing the entire scene from his seat of honor with a frown of cold authority. The token was unremarkable in every way but one. Carved into its pitted, rusted surface was a dragon. It was not a stylized, artistic dragon, but a creature of terrifying vitality. It coiled as if alive, its claws sharp enough to tear the heavens, its five-clawed divinity an ancient symbol of absolute power. Its eyes, though just pits in the metal, seemed to stare into the very soul, judging, and finding all unworthy. The Old Sect Master’s eyes widened. The regal composure he had maintained for decades shattered like glass. The color drained from his face, leaving it the color of ash. The wine cup in his hand fell, spilling its crimson contents like a river of blood. His entire body began to tremble violently, not from rage, but from a primordial terror that gripped his very soul. He recognized that carving. Every Sovereign in the Jianghu, every leader of every major sect, had seen drawings of it in their most secret archives. It was a ghost story told to frighten children, a legend of a bygone era. A symbol that meant only one thing: judgment. Before his stunned son could react, the Old Sect Master of Hua Shan moved with the speed of a phantom. He didn't rush Lu Feng. He hurled himself from his chair and landed on the floor in a posture of utter submission. He saw his son Murong, still standing tall with a furious, confused sneer on his face. Without a second’s hesitation, the Old Master spun and delivered a brutal kick to the back of his own son’s knees. “Kneel, you insolent fool!” he shrieked. Murong’s legs buckled with a sickening crack, and he crashed onto the marble floor, his face slamming into the cold stone. The Old Sect Master ignored his son’s cry of pain. He threw himself forward, performing the deepest, most reverent kowtow imaginable. He slammed his forehead into the ground. Once. Twice. Thrice. The sickening thud echoed in the silent hall. When he looked up, blood was streaming from his broken brow, mingling with tears of pure terror. His voice, once a majestic boom, was a reedy, pathetic whimper. “Hua Shan deserves death! Please… please spare us your wrath, Dragon Sovereign!” The title—‘Dragon Sovereign’—hit the room like a thunderclap, sucking the very air from everyone's lungs. The Su family, Madam Su and Xue Yao, looked as if their spirits had been ripped from their bodies. This wasn't a Grandmaster. This was a god from the legends. Lu Feng’s cold, indifferent gaze finally lifted from the token. It swept past the bleeding, prostrating Old Sect Master as if he were nothing. It bypassed the groaning Murong. His eyes, deep and cold as a winter abyss, landed directly on Xue Yao. He spoke, his voice quiet, yet it boomed in her ears louder than any shout. “You seem to have dropped something.” At that exact moment, the grand double doors to the banquet hall burst open with a deafening crash, slammed inward by a force that was not human. A chilling wind swept through the hall, extinguishing half the candles and making the crystal chandeliers sway wildly. A figure stood silhouetted against the stormy night, clad in immaculate silver armor that seemed to drink the light. Her voice, sharp as a divine sword and laced with a terrifying killing intent directed at everyone in the room, rang out. “My Lord, you are unharmed?”

Chapter 3: The Dragon Order Appears