[Featured ×4]
Du Rui, an exceptionally forgetful reader, finds himself transmigrated into one of the top male harem stallion novels, but as the antagonist. Now inhabiting the role of Xue Xinyu, the cunning villain, Du Rui struggles to maintain his s...
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Just as the situation seemed to stabilise, the demon threw a curveball by choosing Huai Xiaozhun as its opponent for the soul scale showdown. The air grew thick with astonished gasps, and even Lan Yunlong, who usually maintained a sage-like composure, looked as though he had swallowed a lemon. He had previously assured Huai Xiaozhun that the soul scale could be easily broken, much like a cheap vase in a rambunctious household, but now that seemed overly optimistic.
With a gleeful cackle, the demon began to manipulate Huai Xiaozhun's essence, transforming the battle from a tense standoff into a chaotic nightmare. Under the demon's control, Huai Xiaozhun moved like a marionette, his body a horrifying extension of the demon's dark will. The disciples watched in dismay as their comrade turned against them, his sword slicing through the ranks with a chilling precision. It was as if a sinister puppeteer had taken the stage, and Huai Xiaozhun was forced into a grotesque dance of death. Each swing of his blade was a macabre reminder that the battlefield could turn into a theatre of the absurd at any moment, where one's allies could become their greatest threat in the blink of an eye.
The disciples, who had once been as grateful as kittens with a saucer of milk, were now in a state of absolute bedlam, scattering like confetti in a hurricane. Their once harmonious chants had turned into a cacophony of hysterical screams, ringing out like the world's most disorganised symphony as they attempted to flee the unending assault.
Some, in a futile display of courage, tried to mount a defence, waving their swords with all the determination of a toddler with a plastic spoon. Others simply ran, their cries of terror echoing across the battlefield like the wails of a thousand banshees at an opera night.
Despite their frantic pleas and increasingly inventive appeals for mercy, Huai Xiaozhun continued his rampage with the dedication of a man who had promised to slash through every last disciple and was determined to keep his word. It didn't matter if they begged, bartered, or promised him their firstborn children; he mowed them down like a particularly aggressive gardener dealing with an overgrown hedge. Even the most valiant of them, standing their ground with as much resolve, were dispatched with a mere three slashes—precise, swift, and as inevitable as an unwanted gift from a relentless aunt.
Huai Xiaozhun, a man who had trained for years and could now probably disassemble a warrior with his eyes closed, seemed incapable of stopping himself. His strength was so overpowering that even Lan Yunlong, who had known him since he was a young lad with more dreams than sense, could do little more than watch in slack-jawed disbelief. There he was, forced to witness his once-pupil-now-wrecking-ball slicing through the disciples like a hot knife through butter—except this butter screamed and bled a lot more.
Lan Yunlong, usually a paragon of discipline and control, stood there with a face that was part astonishment and part "I cannot believe this is happening." He had drilled countless lessons into Huai Xiaozhun, only to now find himself the unwilling audience to this gruesome performance.
