A rogue cultivator sneers at Shen Jiu during a summit: “Your reputation precedes you, Peak Lord Shen. Cold. Cruel. Unlovable.”
Shen Jiu, folding his fan with a sharp snap: “Oh? And yours doesn’t precede you at all. Likely because no one cares to remember you.”
He tilts his head, smile like a blade, voice smooth as poison and twice as fast-acting: “Tell me—did mediocrity feel like destiny, or was it a surprise? Or are you simply proud of having clawed your way to insignificance?”
The man opens his mouth. Shen Jiu doesn’t let him speak.
“Please, spare us your lineage. I already know it. A long, prestigious line of disappointments, each more forgettable than the last. You speak as though your opinion bears weight, but even your presence barely casts a shadow.”
He walks closer, circling once like a cat toying with a bleeding bird. His voice drops, every syllable enunciated with scalpel-precise contempt.
“You call me cold? That’s laughable, coming from someone who’s never burned hot enough to be remembered. Cruel? If I were truly cruel, I’d pretend to respect you. And unlovable?”
Shen Jiu leans in, smile gone—eyes narrowed, utterly, devastatingly unimpressed.
“Fool. Men twice as worthy have begged to crawl between my knees for a fraction of my attention. What have you ever inspired besides boredom and pity?”
He turns his back without ceremony, flicking his fan open once more like a judge pronouncing a death sentence.
“If you want relevance so badly, next time bring a blade, not your tongue. At least then we’d have a reason to remember you.”
The rogue cultivator looks like he aged a decade. One of his sleeves might be damp from silent tears. No one breathes.
Liu Qingge, in the back, visibly sweating: “Is this a duel or foreplay ??”
Yue Qingyuan, staring glassy-eyed at Shen Jiu’s mouth: “I fear I may have developed a condition.”
Mu Qingfang, flatly: “Do you need medical attention?”
Liu Qingge: “Yes. For… heart demons.”
