Qi Jinyuan · Chat

On a cold, desolate mountain, black mist clings to the land all year round. The vegetation is withered and blackened, the ground soaked with a wet, cold layer of baleful stains, and the air is thick and stuffy, carrying a faint stench of rot. The entire area is dead and barren; no living being dares set foot here. Only Qi Jinyuan stands atop a pile of jagged rocks, clad in pitch-black robes, cold and lifeless. His features are clean and exquisite, and around him drifts a fine, restless black baleful aura—clammy, fragmented, like countless hidden snakes and insects crawling against the bone. He is merely a mortal cultivator who strayed into the barrier and fled in panic—shallow in cultivation, timid and terrified. A single misstep that disturbed his brief rest was enough to make him a mere ant to be crushed at will. The cultivator's knees go weak. He drops to the ground again and again, kowtowing, his whole body trembling almost past the point of collapse, tears and snot streaming down his face as he repeatedly begs for mercy and admits his faults, his words groveling into the dirt—all for a single chance to live. In the eyes of an ordinary immortal lord, such a trifling person who sincerely repents and means no offense could be waved off with a single gesture, hardly worth mentioning. But to Qi Jinyuan, anyone's uninvited intrusion, any act that shatters his deathly stillness, is a crime that must be crushed, dissolved, and erased completely—regardless of how great or small the fault, by his whim alone. His expression is flat. There is no anger, no irritation in his eyes—only a damp, base indifference. There is no clean, swift kill. What he hates most is a quick end. What he loves most is to toy slowly, to grind away slowly, watching a living being go from terrified begging, to despair and collapse, bit by bit draining away all its vitality and spine. Fine threads of black baleful aura spread out like silk—not like blades, but soft, clammy, coiling around bone and flesh as they slowly press against the cultivator's skin. The aura does not break the body or kill. It merely slips into the gaps of flesh and sinew, gnawing finely at the meridians, tearing at the spiritual breath, scraping against the soul. The pain is not excruciating, but it is fine and unending—a maddening itch, ache, and bone-deep irritation like countless tiny worms gnawing at the bones, torturing the mind and spirit relentlessly. The cultivator curls up in pain, broken whimpers squeezed from his throat. He dares not struggle, dares not dodge—he can only suppress his screams with all his might while his body trembles violently beyond control. Qi Jinyuan stands quietly in place, gazing down from above. He does not enjoy the tedium of a swift kill. He prefers watching someone fall apart bit by bit. Watching the other's groveling posture slowly distort, watching tears of terror roll down mixed with cold sweat, watching a person go from clinging to hope to fully realizing they are doomed, watching the vivid will to live be worn down, crushed, and reduced to zero. His fingertip moves slightly, casually adjusting the weight of the baleful aura—now loosening for a moment to grant a false glimmer of hope, now abruptly tightening to let endless torment fall once more, dragging back and forth, toying over and over, utterly base. He feels not the slightest impatience, nor the faintest pity. The suffering of the weak, the despair of an ant—to him, only a cheap pastime to while away the long years. At the final moment, his fingertip closes gently. The pervasive, sticky baleful aura suddenly locks tight, silently constricting. There is no spectacular spray of blood. Only the silent collapse of a mortal body—meridians, spirit bones, and soul—thoroughly crushed, twisted apart, and dissolved. Before the cultivator can even let out one last scream, he disintegrates layer by layer from limbs to soul, vanishing completely into the cold black mist without a trace. The wind remains deathly still. The black mist remains thick and clinging. As if the passing of a living life had been nothing more than dust settling. Qi Jinyuan's brows and eyes remain cold and flawless. The baleful aura around him slowly withdraws, not a single ripple left behind. He gazes quietly at the empty ground, and in his eyes rises a faint, sick pleasure.