It was Nan Huairen.
In the grand, terrifying tapestry of the future, this man would be known as the eyes and ears of Fiercest, a legendary lackey who knew when to kneel and when to scheme.
But right now, he was just a glorified errand boy for a sinking ship, scanning the room with the practiced caution of a rat entering a trap.
His nose twitched. The air inside the hut didn't smell like mold or sweat, which was standard for outer sect disciples. It smelled... sharp. Like a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle. Like ozone and burnt sugar.
Nan Huairen's gaze locked onto the figure leaning against the far wall. He remembered this disciple—Ling Feng. A quiet kid. Mortal Aptitude. Phony Fate Wheel. The kind of background character who exists solely to make the background look populated.
But the man standing there now felt wrong. He was leaning back with his arms crossed, legs crossed at the ankles, radiating a casual, lazy confidence that felt completely alien in the rigid hierarchy of the cultivation world.
"Junior Brother Ling," Nan Huairen began, his voice polite but guarded, his eyes darting to the shadows of the room. "I was doing the rounds. The Elders are... indisposed. I'm checking to make sure the outer disciples aren't panicking."
"Panicking?"
Ling Feng chuckled. It wasn't the deferential, nervous laugh of a junior. It was a low, throaty sound, vibrating with amusement. He pushed himself off the wall, his movement fluid and loose.
"Why would they panic, Huairen? Because the sky turned dark? Or because your so-called powerful guardian didn't pick up the phone?"
Nan Huairen froze. His blood ran cold. The pupils of his eyes contracted into pinpricks.
"You know about the summoning?" Nan Huairen hissed, his hand instinctively drifting toward the hilt of his sword. This was a sect secret. The failure of the summoning was a death sentence if leaked. "How? That ritual was conducted in the deepest secrecy of the Ghost Pavilion."
"Hard to miss the giant light show and the sound of old men crying," Ling Feng shrugged. He walked toward Nan Huairen, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray robes. "Relax, will you? You look like you're about to pass a kidney stone. I'm not a spy. Just a guy who pays attention."
Nan Huairen studied him, his mind racing. In the cultivation world, a sudden shift in personality usually signaled one of two things: possession by an old devil, or a sudden enlightenment. But Ling Feng's aptitude was documented trash. A Phony Fate Wheel couldn't support a powerful soul, nor could it sustain enlightenment.
"You seem... unbothered," Nan Huairen observed slowly, testing the waters. "If the Cleansing Incense Ancient Sect falls, we all become rogue cultivators. Leaves floating in the wind. Or worse—slaves to a hostile sect."
"The Sect won't fall," Ling Feng said, walking past Nan Huairen and stepping out into the cool night air.
He looked up at the moon, scratching his chin with a thoughtful expression. The moonlight caught the edge of his iris, revealing a fleeting glimmer of toxic neon green—the color of radiation, the color of Chaos.
"It just needs new management. A restructuring, if you will."
"Management? Restructuring?" Nan Huairen frowned; the dialect was strange, ancient yet oddly casual. "And I suppose you have ideas?" Sarcasm dripped from his voice, a defense mechanism against the absurdity of the situation.
Ling Feng turned. A wolfish, predatory grin split his face.
In the stories he had read back on Earth, transmigrators were supposed to be cautious. They were supposed to hide, bide their time, and "play the pig to eat the tiger."
Screw that, Ling Feng thought.
He could feel the Chaos Force humming in his marrow. It was a reactor core that defied the Heavenly Dao. It was an addiction. It whispered to him that he didn't need to cower. He held the power of a reality that operated on "Rule of Cool" logic rather than the rigid cultivation laws of the Nine Worlds.
With a single Chaos Emerald condensing in his Inner Void, he was already an anomaly capable of breaking the game.
"Maybe," Ling Feng said, his voice dropping an octave. "Hey, Nan. You're a smart guy. You know the score. You know the Nine Saint Demon Gate is coming soon to check on the marriage pact, right?"
Nan Huairen stiffened as if struck by lightning. "That is confidential information restricted to the Elders! How do you—"
"I read the sect's newsletter," Ling Feng lied smoothly, stepping closer. "Anyway, they're going to want to see the Prime Disciple. The one who's supposed to marry their goddess, Li Shuangyan."
"We don't have a Prime Disciple," Nan Huairen said bitterly, the despair of the sect weighing down his shoulders. "That was why we tried to summon the Guardian Spirit. Without a Prime Disciple to uphold the marriage pact, the Nine Saint Demon Gate will swallow us whole."
"Well," Ling Feng clapped a hand on Nan Huairen's shoulder.
Nan Huairen's knees buckled.
It wasn't that Ling Feng used Spirit Energy. It was the physical weight of the hand. It felt like a slab of lead wrapped in velvet. A jolt of static electricity—thick, oily, and aggressive—shot down Nan Huairen's spine, making his hair stand on end.
"You do now," Ling Feng whispered, leaning in until his face was inches from the sectional leader's. "Put my name on the list, Huairen."
"You?" Nan Huairen scoffed, trying to shrug off the heavy hand but finding he was immobilized by pure physical pressure. "Junior Brother, stop joking. You have a Phony Fate Wheel. The Nine Saint Demon Gate is an existence that rules a country! Their killing intent alone would turn you into blood mist. Goddes Li wouldn't even look at you; she'd just step on you."
"Let me worry about the blood mist," Ling Feng said, releasing him with a patronizing pat on the cheek. "You just handle the paperwork. Trust me. Stick with me, and you won't just be an errand boy running coffee for failing executives. You'll be the manager telling arrogant idiots what to do."
Nan Huairen stared at him, bewildered. Manager? Coffee? Executives? The terms were gibberish, but the intent was crystal clear. This disciple was insane. Or... he was something else entirely.
Nan Huairen had a gift for sensing opportunity, and right now, Ling Feng didn't smell like trash. He smelled like danger.
Ling Feng saw the gears turning in the other man's head and chuckled. "Don't overthink it. Now, come with me. I'm going to go scare those six old farts into submission, raid your library, and then we'll go deal with those so-called Demons."
....
The path to the Ancestral Hall was a testament to fallen glory.
It was paved with ancient bluestone that had once been polished by the steps of Immortal Emperors, but was now cracked and uneven. Weeds sprouted through the fissures like stubborn whiskers on a corpse. The statues of past sages were covered in moss, their features eroded by time and neglect.
The atmosphere was suffocatingly bleak. It didn't feel like a holy ground of cultivation; it felt like a graveyard waiting for the final burial.
Nan Huairen walked a step behind, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was sweating profusely. This wasn't the nervous sweat of a disciple fearing punishment; it was the cold, clammy sweat of a gambler who had just bet his life savings, his wife, and his kidneys on a horse with three legs.
"Junior Brother Ling," Nan Huairen hissed, his voice trembling as they approached the massive, heavy wooden doors of the Ancestral Hall. "Do you understand what you're doing? The Six Elders are in a foul mood. The summoning failed. They are practically looking for a reason to kill someone to vent their frustration. Barging in there is suicide!"
Ling Feng didn't slow down. He adjusted the collar of his robe, checking his reflection in a stagnant puddle of rainwater.
"Huairen, you're thinking like a temp," Ling Feng said, his tone breezy, as if discussing the weather. "Look, it doesn't matter what Nine Worlds you're in or what dimension—nobody gives you a promotion because you asked nicely. You take the keys to the office, and you dare anyone to stop you."
"Temp? Take the keys...?" Nan Huairen muttered, struggling to parse the strange dialect. "Junior Brother, if you offend the First Elder, he will cripple your cultivation! Phony Fate Wheel or not, he will shatter your meridians!"
"Let him try," Ling Feng smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was a smile that showed too many teeth.
"Open the door."
Nan Huairen hesitated, his hand hovering tremulously over the heavy bronze ring. The wood radiated a faint defensive formation, a remnant of the sect's power.
Ling Feng sighed, rolling his eyes. "Fine. I'll get it."
He didn't push. He didn't knock.
BOOM!
Ling Feng lashed out with a front kick.
He didn't use Spirit Energy. He used [Chaos Boost]. For a microsecond, emerald lightning coiled around his leg, amplifying the kinetic force of his muscles to a level that mocked biological limits.
The heavy oak doors, reinforced with minor defensive arrays and centuries of tradition, didn't just open. They exploded inward. The hinges snapped with the screech of tortured metal. The doors flew across the hall, slamming into the inner walls with a violence that shook dust from the rafters.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap, rolling through the silent, gloomy hall.
Inside, the Six Elders were seated in a semi-circle beneath the imposing stone statue of Immortal Emperor Min Ren. The air was thick with incense, gloom, and the crushing weight of their collective despair.
At the sudden intrusion, six pairs of eyes—heavy with age, authority, and high-level Spirit Energy—snapped toward the entrance.
"Insolence!"
The Second Elder roared, slamming his hand on the armrest of his rosewood chair. He stood up, his white beard trembling with rage. "Who dares disturb the Council of Elders!?"
The pressure of a Named Hero flooded the room. To a normal disciple, this invisible weight would be suffocating. It was a mental and physical crushing force, designed to force the weak to their knees.
Nan Huairen let out a squeak and nearly collapsed, bracing himself against the doorframe.
Ling Feng walked in through the cloud of dust he had created. He casually dusted off his shoe where it had made contact with the door, looking around the room with an expression of utter unimpressed boredom.
"Nice statue," Ling Feng said, jerking a thumb at Min Ren's likeness. "Shame about the mood lighting. You guys look like you're attending a funeral for your own careers."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a stunned predator watching a rabbit slap it in the face.
"Ling Feng?" The Second Elder narrowed his eyes, recognizing the waste. "The boy with the trash Phony Fate Wheel? Have you gone mad? Boy! We will break your legs for this disrespect!"
"Trash this, trash that," Ling Feng interrupted, walking straight to the center of the room. He stood directly in the focal point of their collective pressure, acting as if it were a gentle summer breeze.
"You old men have been running this place into the ground for centuries. The sect is falling apart, the disciples are weak, the territory is shrinking, and your 'Guardian Spirit' ghosted you because you're pathetic. And you have the nerve to call me trash?"
"Insolence!" The First Elder's patience snapped.
He was a man who had lived for nearly two thousand years. He did not tolerate a lecture from an ant.
He didn't hold back. The First Elder waved his sleeve, and the air in the hall shrieked. A surge of Spirit Energy, blue and icy, condensed into the shape of a crushing mountain. It wasn't a full-force attack, but it was a casual strike from a Royal Noble level expert—more than enough to turn a Mortal Aptitude disciple into a smear of red paste on the floor.
"Die!" The First Elder barked.
Nan Huairen closed his eyes, unable to watch.
Zzzzt.
The sound wasn't a scream. It was the sound of reality short-circuiting. It was the sound of a glitch.
Ling Feng didn't dodge. He didn't cower. He raised his right hand, palm open, fingers splayed.
In his mind, the interface flashed.
[Chaos Control: Stasis]
The neon green aura of the Primal Chaos Genesis Physique flared, illuminating the gloomy hall with an eerie, radioactive light.
The First Elder's energy attack hit an invisible wall two inches from Ling Feng's face. It didn't disperse. It didn't explode. It stopped.
The blue construct froze in mid-air, a suspended wave of killing intent trapped in a bubble of distorted time and space. The swirling energy within the attack was paused, looking like a masterfully carved ice sculpture.
"What?" The First Elder's eyes bulged, his jaw dropping. He had severed his connection to the energy, yet it hung there, defying the Grand Dao.
"Return to sender," Ling Feng muttered.
He flicked his wrist.
The suspended energy turned green. The Chaos Force invaded the structure of the attack, corrupting it, rewriting its loyalty. The blue mountain turned into a jagged, chaotic spear of emerald fire.
Bang!
It shot back at the First Elder with double the speed.
The First Elder didn't even have time to blink. The reflected attack smashed into his defensive barrier, shattering it like glass. He was blasted backward, his body smashing into his ceremonial chair and turning it into splinters. He tumbled across the floor, coughing up a mouthful of blood, his robes scorched.
Internally, Ling Feng nodded at the results. 'Using the Chaos Force to deal with standard cultivators is like bringing a gun to a knife fight. Efficient. It helps that nobody here understands the Space Dao enough to counter it.'
"First Elder!"
The other five elders shot up, their faces pale with shock. They drew their weapons, the hum of spirit artifacts filling the room.
"Sit. Down."
Ling Feng commanded.
He didn't shout. He spoke with the authority of an Emperor. He stomped his foot.
Inside his Niwan Palace, the Master Emerald—his True Fate—hummed. It spun violently, releasing a pulse of absolute suppression.
This wasn't cultivation pressure. It wasn't the aura of a Royal Noble or an Enlightened Being. It was the weight of a separate reality imposing its will upon this one.
[Chaos Control: Gravity Well]
The gravity in the room increased tenfold in an instant.
"Urgh!"
The Five Elders felt an invisible hand—the hand of a Multiversal Conqueror—slam them back into their seats. The wood of their chairs creaked and groaned under the strain. The floor tiles cracked around their feet. They tried to circulate their Spirit Energy to resist, but the Chaos Force acted as an anti-magic field, dampening their connection to the Grand Dao.
They were pinned. Helpless.
Ling Feng stood amidst the crushing pressure, the only one unaffected. But internally, his body was screaming.
He was burning Spirit Energy at a rate that would drain a normal Royal Noble dry in seconds. The Chaos Force was potent, infinitely so, but his physical vessel was still trash. He felt his muscles tearing, his meridians burning like hot wires under the strain of channeling such alien power.
'Hold it together,' Ling Feng thought, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. 'Don't let them see you sweat. Just like working a double shift with a hangover. Power through the pain.'
Outwardly, he looked like a god. His eyes glowed with toxic emerald light. Green sparks danced off his shoulders, arcing to the floor.
"Now," Ling Feng said, his voice steady, though his lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass. He looked down at the terrified Elders. "Let's talk business."
He paced before them, his footsteps heavy.
"The Nine Saint Demon Gate is coming. You have no Prime Disciple. You have no plan. You have nothing but your pride, and that's not going to stop them from revoking the marriage pact and potentially wiping this sect off the map."
He stopped and pointed a thumb at his chest.
"I am the plan."
The First Elder wiped blood from his lip, pulling himself up with trembling arms. He looked at Ling Feng not with anger anymore, but with terrified confusion. The fear of the unknown was far greater than the fear of a stronger cultivator.
"You... that energy..." The First Elder wheezed. "It is not Worldly Energy. It is not of the Five Elements. What... what are you?"
"I'm the guy who's going to save your asses," Ling Feng replied, crossing his arms. "I want the Prime Disciple seat. I want full access to the secret library. And I want enough Spirit Medicines to overdose an elephant. In exchange, I handle the Nine Saint Demon Gate. I handle Li Shuangyan. I save the Sect's face."
The Elders exchanged glances. They were old foxes, cunning and desperate. They saw the power Ling Feng just displayed. It defied logic. A Phony Fate Wheel defeating an Elder? Reflecting attacks? Controlling gravity?
It was impossible—unless he was blessed by the heavens. Or the Patriarch.
"Did... did the Patriarch send you?" the Third Elder whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and fear. "Did the spirit of Min Ren grant you this power?"
Ling Feng didn't confirm or deny. He just grinned, that same predatory, wolfish grin that promised trouble.
"Let's just say the higher up sent someone competent to fix the mess you made."
He snapped his fingers, and the pressure vanished.
The Elders gasped, air rushing back into their lungs as the crushing gravity lifted. They slumped in their chairs, drenched in sweat, looking at Ling Feng with a newfound reverence born of terror.
Ling Feng turned to leave, his legs feeling like jelly. He forced his stride to remain firm, keeping his back straight.
"Huairen," he called out without looking back.
Nan Huairen, who was currently kneeling on the floor with his jaw unhinged, scrambled up as if the floor were on fire. "Y-Yes! Yes, Senior Brother!?"
"Paperwork," Ling Feng said, walking out into the blinding sunlight of the courtyard. "Draft the announcement. And get me directions to the library. I have some reading to do before our guests arrive."
As soon as he was out of sight of the hall, Ling Feng walked far away from sight and turned a corner, leaning heavily against a stone pillar. He slid down slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat instantly soaked his back.
'Damn. Chaos Control eats energy like a starving dog,' he thought, closing his eyes and waiting for the Chaos Force to slowly siphon ambient emotion from the terrified disciples nearby to refill his reserves.
'I need that second Emerald. Being a glass cannon is bad for long-term health. But at least the first hurdle is cleared.'
He looked at his shaking hand and clenched it into a fist. The green light pulsed once, faint but steady.
'Nine Saint Demon Gate... Li Shuangyan... bring it on.'