Master Xuan Yin’s voice still echoed through the woods, viscous and foul. A sharp, tearing sound suddenly erupted—piercing, urgent, stabbing in from at least three directions at once. This was followed by a chaotic surge of spiritual energy, greedy, making no effort to conceal its killing intent. More figures flickered among the gaps in the trees, like hyenas catching the scent of blood. The excruciating pain in Lin Yi’s left arm flared violently. Mo Chen’s face tightened. His left hand pressed against the wound on his right shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers, dark enough to appear black. His eyes swept over the northeast corner, where the fluctuations of spiritual energy were most chaotic, a riot of colors like an overturned dye shop. “We can’t wait.” Mo Chen’s voice was pressed low, each word like shards of ice forced through clenched teeth. “Before they encircle us—the northeast corner. Charge through.” Every breath tasted of rust, his throat felt stuffed with scalding grit. His left arm no longer felt like his own—from elbow to fingertip, every inch of bone screamed, as if a red-hot iron rod was being twisted inside it. This was the backlash of the "First Theft's Privilege," the price that must be paid for stealing the rules. How much spiritual energy was left? His dantian felt hollow, like an emptied well. But his legs could still move—he pushed the last of that thin, almost imperceptible warmth into the soles of his feet. Shi Meng was three steps to his left. The big man had a deep, bone-exposing wound on his right arm, blood soaking half his sleeve, sticking it clammily to his skin. Hearing the shouts, he didn’t even turn his head, just tightened his grip on the iron rod he’d seized from an enemy. “I’ll clear the path!” Shi Meng roared, his voice raspy like a broken bellows. It wasn’t a straight line. Shi Meng’s charge carried a beast-like intuition—he suddenly ducked low, a crossbow bolt grazing his scalp and thudding into a tree trunk behind him, the fletching trembling with a hum. At the same time, his iron rod swept horizontally, smashing toward the bushes on the left. Lin Yi followed at an angle behind him. His eyes were fixed ahead, but his perception spread out like a spider’s web—not using spiritual energy, but using the lingering echoes left by "Theft." He could "hear" the flow trajectories of spiritual energy, like glowing threads in the darkness. To the left. Three golden blade spells were taking form, the spiritual energy nodes trembling. He charged straight toward the spells, raising his left arm at the last instant—not to block, but to feint a grab. His five fingers splayed, aiming for the weakest point in the spiritual structure of those three golden blades, and gave a vicious pull. No sound. But the excruciating pain in his left arm exploded instantly, as if countless needles were piercing out from deep within his marrow. His vision went dark for a moment, a coppery sweetness surging into his mouth. The three golden blades twisted and disintegrated in mid-air. The young cultivator casting the spell froze in place, then the backlash of the spell’s power surged back into him—a spray of blood mist erupted from his chest, and he was flung backward. Mo Chen flashed past his right side, a withered palm striking out. No radiance, no sound, but two enemies ahead who had tried to flank them suddenly stiffened—their eyes widened, pupils dilated, then they went limp and collapsed. Blood seeped from all seven orifices. “Three steps left!” Mo Chen’s voice was like a blade’s edge. “Avoid the golden blades!” Lin Yi’s body reacted instinctively—he sidestepped three paces to the left. A dark golden blade of light grazed his right ribs, slicing through his robe and leaving a burning, bloody welt on his skin. If he’d been half a beat slower, that strike would have split his ribs. Here, the enemies were fewest, but the most varied—three of Master Xuan Yin’s disciples in uniform green robes, plus two men dressed like wandering cultivators, a crossbowman hiding behind a tree taking potshots, and further away, the figure of a woman in a pink skirt flashed past. “Get lost!” Shi Meng bellowed, swinging his iron rod in a wide arc as he brought it crashing down. A green-robed disciple raised his sword to block. The sword snapped. The iron rod shattered his shoulder, the sound of breaking bones crisp enough to set teeth on edge. The disciple screamed and fell. Shi Meng didn’t even glance "Three left!" Shi Meng wiped his face, blood and sweat mingling, making him look like a demon clawing its way out of hell. The three remaining blue-robed disciples closed in. They were young, their faces still bearing the naive arrogance unique to sect disciples untouched by the world. But there was fear in their eyes—they had seen their fellow disciples fall, had seen Shi Meng's blood-reddened gaze. The three quickly drew together, sword tips pointing in the same direction. Spiritual energy began to resonate, a cyan halo spreading from their blades like ripples across water, connecting into a single sheet. This was the simplest Three Talents Formation, but with coordinated teamwork, its defensive power would multiply. He was gasping for breath, his chest heaving violently. The excruciating pain in his left arm had grown numb, turning into a persistent, heavy torment. His spiritual energy was completely depleted—the emptiness in his dantian ached. And there was the pathological sensitivity to spiritual energy structures left by "Theft." Those three swords. The nodes of spiritual energy flow were at the mid-sections of the blades. The three nodes connected through resonance, forming a stable triangular structure. Very sturdy. But if... His five fingers trembled. Every tiny movement brought piercing agony, but he forced his fingers open, aiming at the point of densest resonance between the three swords—not the blades themselves, but that invisible spiritual energy tether linking sword to sword. "Lin Yi!" Mo Chen's low shout carried a warning. He made a grasping motion with his left arm—not to "steal" the complete spell structure; he couldn't manage it, his spiritual energy and body couldn't sustain it. He just "pulled" at it. Like using a finger to pluck a taut zither string, a gentle flick. No sound. But the three blue-robed disciples grunted in unison. The cyan halo on their sword blades flickered violently, then burst like soap bubbles. The spiritual energy resonance was forcibly severed, the backlash surging back into their meridians—the three paled, blood seeping from the corners of their mouths. Shi Meng seized the opportunity. He charged into the midst of the three like a wild bull, his iron rod sweeping left and right. Two dull thuds, two disciples' ribs shattered as they collapsed. The third disciple tried to flee. Shi Meng reversed his grip and smashed the rod against the back of his neck. Lin Yi's legs gave way, nearly buckling. Mo Chen reached out to steady him—the old man's hand was cold, like stone in winter. There were still pursuers behind them—Xuan Yin Zhenren's furious roars, chaotic footsteps, the shrill whistles of spells cutting through air. But the distance was widening. The defensive line at the northeast corner had never been tight to begin with; now torn open, it would take time to seal. Beneath their feet were rubble and withered grass. The air was cold—not ordinary cold, but a stagnant, freezing low temperature that seemed to congeal even time itself. Spiritual energy here was in chaotic disarray like a pot of boiling porridge, fragments of energy from various attributes colliding randomly, emitting faint, teeth-grating friction sounds. The stone platform was just thirty paces away. Now they could see clearly—it really was Xiao Han. That face hadn't changed much in three years. Still gentle, still bearing that perfectly measured, almost meticulously calculated serenity. But the eyes were different. Three years ago, when Xiao Han looked at Lin Yi, his eyes always held a layer of feigned concern, like poison coated in honey. Icy scrutiny. As if looking at a tool, or an error that needed correction. Xiao Han wore a moon-white long robe, its cuffs embroidered with silver-threaded hidden patterns. He stood with hands clasped behind his back at the edge of the stone platform, looking down at the three who had rushed into the clearing. No expression. No movement. Lin Yi steadied himself. He used his sword as a crutch—the blade dug into the rubble with a grating sound. His right arm shook, his left arm already numb. He took a deep breath, the cold air stabbing into his lungs, bringing a brief clarity. The man on the stone platform tilted his head slightly. The movement was slow, as if appreciating some interesting sight. He did not speak, merely waited. Lin Yi's fingertips dug into his palms. The sharp pain kept him conscious. "The entire Lin family, over three hundred souls." He spoke word by word, each syllable like a blood clot torn from his throat. "My father, Lin Zhenyue... was it your hand?" The wind ceased. Even the chaotic spiritual energy fluctuations seemed to still for a moment. Xiao Han looked at him. Those eyes were like deep pools, reflecting no emotion. His voice was clear and melodious, his tone calm, The light around the stone platform seemed to freeze, the air so stagnant it couldn't be drawn into the lungs. Xiao Han slowly turned around, his blue robes utterly still in the dead silence. That face was exactly as it had been in memory, warm and smooth as jade, the corners of his mouth even carrying a perfectly measured curve. Those were not human eyes. No emotion, no warmth, only a kind of appraisal, as if evaluating the worth of an object, or deciding which trash heap to toss it into. "Lin Yi." Xiao Han spoke, his voice clear and melodious, calm, each word as if soaked in ice water. "Three years apart, you have... progressed quite a bit." He was rotating the jade thumb ring on his left hand. One turn, then another. "Where is my father?" Lin Yi cut him off, voice pressed extremely low, each word squeezed out from between his teeth. "The Lin family, over three hundred members... was it you, or that bullshit 'Heavenly Dao' behind you, who did it?" In the distance, True Master Xuan Yin's roars and the explosions of magic were closing in. Time was running out. "The Lin family," he finally spoke, his tone still composed, "violated the Heavenly Dao contract. Attempted, with mortal flesh, to spy upon and tamper with the established trajectory of fate." He took a step forward. The moss at the edge of the stone platform instantly withered and died. "Rules backlash, cleaning house." Xiao Han looked at Lin Yi's abruptly pale face, his tone even carrying a trace of... pity? "I am one of the Law Enforcers. Responsible for ensuring the contract is fulfilled, order not disturbed." These three words—Law Enforcer—were like red-hot iron rods, brutally stabbing into Lin Yi's brain. He remembered those late-night sighs in his father's study, remembered the icy fingertips of his mother gripping his wrist on her deathbed, remembered three years ago when the Heavenly Punishment descended, the fleeting glimpse of... relief in the eyes of the clan elders. "So," Lin Yi heard his own voice trembling—not from fear, but something colder spreading through his veins—"My innate full spiritual roots were also part of the contract? Fatted for the slaughter?" "Your very existence was originally a 'variable test' permitted by the contract. Unfortunately, the test results exceeded the safety threshold." He paused, his gaze falling on Lin Yi's left arm hanging at his side, trembling slightly. "And now, by stealing authority, you have become a 'Fate-Defier.' This is an even greater desecration of the rules." He raised a hand, palm upward, as if displaying some kind of grace. "Lin Yi, out of regard for our past friendship, I give you a choice." Xiao Han's voice softened, as if persuading a lost child. "Submit. Hand over the power you stole, and I can ensure your remnant soul enters the cycle of reincarnation, sparing you the suffering of soul dispersion and eternal damnation beyond rebirth." He took another step forward, now standing at the very edge of the stone platform, looking down from above. "Continue to defy fate..." Xiao Han shook his head gently. "Today will be the day your form and spirit are utterly destroyed." The moment his words fell, Lin Yi felt an invisible pressure bearing down from above. Not spiritual pressure, but something more fundamental—as if the entire world were issuing him a warning: *You should not exist.* But he bit through the tip of his tongue. The taste of blood exploded in his mouth, the pain steadying him. "Past friendship?" Lin Yi laughed, the laughter dry and cracked, flecked with blood foam. "Xiao Han, when you ate at my house for over a decade, called my father 'Uncle'... were you always calculating in your heart, which day you should come to clean us out?" "The rules are supreme. All who defy them bear the blame." He said calmly. "Personal emotions are insignificant before order." Lin Yi jerked his head up, eyes bloodshot. He raised his trembling sword, its tip pointing directly at that perfect face on the stone platform. "My life, I'll change it myself!" He roared, each word torn from his chest. "The rules you set, what right do they have to decide who should live and who should die?! The blood of the Lin family's three hundred... today, you'll repay a little of it first!" No spiritual energy infusion, relying purely on muscle memory and a surge of ferocity, his entire body shot toward the stone platform like an arrow from a bow. His left arm hurt as if about to shatter, but he ignored it—fingertips digging into cracks in the stone, using the leverage to surge upward! Xiao Han watched him pounce, a ripple finally appearing in his eyes. He raised his right hand, Consciousness began to blur. A sharp ringing sounded in his ears, darkness at the edges of his vision surged up like a tide. Am I going to die… just like this… treated as a mistake… and eliminated… A hunched figure suddenly crashed through the solidified space. Gray-white flames ignited around the old man, flames with no temperature, only a heart-palpitating aura of decay. He formed seals with both hands, blocking in front of Lin Yi, enduring the invisible crushing pressure of the rules with sheer force. Mo Chen’s back bent even more, a broken, rasping sound escaping his throat. But he did not retreat. Instead, he took another step forward. The gray-white flames surged violently, tearing Lin Yi out of the solidified space! Lin Yi fell to the ground, blood still seeping from his seven apertures, his vision a sea of crimson red. He saw Mo Chen turn around and open his mouth toward him. In the next second, Mo Chen vomited a large mouthful of blood. Mixed within the blood were dark red fragments—internal organs. The gray-white flames extinguished completely. The old man, like a marionette with its strings cut, collapsed limply backward. Shi Meng’s furious roar exploded from the side. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, his face a mix of grief and rage. Catching the falling Mo Chen with one arm, he yanked Lin Yi back fiercely with the other! “What are you spacing out for!” he roared, his voice hoarse like a broken gong. “Hold onto Teacher Mute! I’ll fight a way out for us!” He grabbed Mo Chen’s icy wrist; the touch felt like clutching a piece of dried wood. The old man’s breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible, the patch of blood on his chest still spreading. He watched Mo Chen fall, watched Shi Meng catch him, watched Lin Yi struggle to get up. On that gentle, refined face, for the first time… a faint frown appeared. “Burning your origin, forcibly resisting the rules.” Xiao Han sighed softly. “Mo Chen, you truly… chose this path in the end.” He raised his hand, and a trace of pure, transparent fluctuation began to gather in his palm. That fluctuation had no color, but wherever it passed, space distorted slightly. “Since you insist on defying fate,” Xiao Han’s voice grew cold, “then I’ll clean you all up… together.” In that moment of silence, Lin Yi heard the sound of his own heart pounding against his chest, like a trapped beast ramming its cage. In the distance, the shouts of Master Xuan Yin and sporadic sounds of fighting were approaching, like a tide overflowing a dike. But at this moment, he only stared at Xiao Han’s face—the face that had once, at a Lin family banquet, kindly placed food in his bowl and instructed him on the basics of sword techniques. Xiao Han finally spoke slowly, his voice clear and even, as if stating a common fact unrelated to himself. “The Lin family violated the Heavenly Dao contract, attempting with mortal bodies to pry into and alter the trajectory of fate.” He paused, each word carrying a strange, faint vibrational resonance with the surrounding spiritual energy, as if not issuing from his throat but directly condensing from this solidified air. “The backlash of the rules demands the cleansing of the household.” Sharp pain pierced through flesh—the only sensation capable of opposing the icy chill in his heart right now. He heard the grinding of his own teeth. “I am one of the Law Enforcers.” Xiao Han continued, his gaze falling on Lin Yi’s suddenly pale face, as if looking at an item awaiting evaluation. “Lin Yi, you carry the blood of defiance in your veins, and you have stolen authority. You have already become a ‘Fate-Defier’.” He tilted his head slightly, the jade thumb ring on his left hand emitting a gentle glow in the dim light. “Submit, surrender the stolen power.” Xiao Han’s voice even carried a trace of something akin to concern in its sigh. “I can ensure your remnant soul enters the cycle of reincarnation, sparing you the suffering of soul dispersion.” “Continue to defy fate—” Before his words finished, the roar of a fireball spell exploding in the distance interrupted his final syllable. Xiao Han didn’t even lift an eyelid. The shockwave dissipated soundlessly three zhang away from the stone platform, as if crashing into an invisible wall. He looked back at Lin Yi, waiting for an answer. He wanted to speak, but his throat felt scraped by sandpaper, the sound he made hoarse and broken: “My father… Lin Zhenyue… did he know?” The question blurted out, startling even himself. The corner of Xiao Han’s mouth seemed to curve upward ever so slightly, the arc so precise it "So..." Lin Yi's voice dropped to almost a whisper, a breath of sound, "I'm that... 'variable' that needs to be cleansed?" "Yes." Xiao Han admitted frankly. "You should have been utterly annihilated in the heavenly punishment three years ago. But your bloodline... or rather, that little thing your mother left you, allowed you to survive. That in itself is a loophole in the rules." The moss at the edge of the stone platform instantly withered, turning into ashen powder. "Lin Yi, don't you understand yet?" Xiao Han's voice carried a trace of something akin to pity for the first time. "Your so-called 'defiance of fate' was, from the very beginning, just an allowable margin of error within the rules. Like in a torrential downpour, a few drops of water will always splash where they shouldn't. But when the rain stops and the sun comes out, those drops will eventually evaporate—that is order." He stared into Xiao Han's eyes. Deep within them hid something familiar yet strange—not the fanatical hatred of Xuan Yin Zhenren, but something colder, more absolute, an indifference. Like a craftsman looking at a piece of jade that needs polishing, or a butcher looking at livestock awaiting slaughter. "The rules are supreme." Xiao Han said finally, each word like an ice spike driven into Lin Yi's eardrums. "All who defy them bear the consequences." The laughter started softly, then grew louder and louder, finally becoming a near-wretched, shrill cry. He laughed until he bent over, his left hand pressing hard against the excruciating pain in his abdomen, while his right hand slowly raised the sword he could barely hold. "Submit? Reincarnate?" He lifted his head, a twisted smile still on his face, but his eyes burned with a light verging on madness. "Fuck your heavenly way!" "My life—" Lin Yi ground out the words one by one, each syllable seeming to be squeezed from between his teeth, "I'll change it myself!" The last shred of feigned warmth vanished from Xiao Han's eyes. He spoke no more, simply raised his right hand, pointed his index finger at Lin Yi, and gave a light tap. But Lin Yi instantly felt the space around him solidify—not a metaphor, but truly solidify. The air turned into transparent amber, sealing him firmly within. He tried to breathe, but his lungs felt clamped in iron tongs; not a shred of air could enter. Immediately after, pressure crushed in from all directions. It wasn't physical force in the ordinary sense, but something more fundamental—as if the entire world was rejecting his existence, trying to completely erase him from the very concept of "being." His bones groaned under the unbearable strain, his internal organs churning and squeezing within his chest. He heard the sound of his own ribs cracking, faint, like branches snapping. Warm liquid slid down his cheek, into the corner of his mouth, metallic and sweet. He couldn't even scream. His consciousness, like a candle flame in the wind, rapidly dimmed. Darkness began to encroach from the edges of his vision, surging from all sides to completely swallow him. Not a thunderbolt, not fire, but a direct denial of your right to "exist." The last thing Lin Yi saw was Xiao Han's still-calm face, and those eyes looking down with indifference. Like a deity looking down upon an ant. A stooped figure suddenly slammed into the solidified space. He had rushed before Lin Yi at some unknown moment, his withered hands forming an intricately complex seal before his chest. The next instant, gray-white flames erupted from every pore of his body—not scorching fire; these flames were cold, dim, emitting a heart-chilling aura of decay. There was no explosion, only a muffled, heavy sound, as if something had been forcibly torn apart. He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say something, but what gushed out was a great mouthful of blood—dark red, viscous, mixed with fine fragments of internal organs. The gray-white flames dimmed at a visible rate, like a candle in the wind. Those eyes, always turbid, were now frighteningly bright, fixed unwaveringly on Xiao Han, his lips moving soundlessly. A fine crack appeared in the solidified space. The pressure abruptly lessened. Lin Yi sucked in a sharp breath, icy air flooding his lungs, bringing knife-sharp agony. He staggered backward, watching helplessly as the gray-white flames around Mo Chen were completely extinguished. The stooped figure swayed, like a puppet with its strings cut, and crumpled backward. "Mas...ter..." A shattered syllable was forced from Lin Yi's throat. He lunged forward, catching Mo Chen before he hit the ground. The old man's body was frighteningly light, like an empty shell. There was almost no rise