Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!

The suffocating pressure that accompanied Chen Feng’s descent did not merely crack the polished floorstones of the grand audience chamber; it seemed to arrest the natural flow of spiritual qi throughout the entire palace.

The players who had stood at the side and acting like servants stumbled backward, their hands trembling against the hilts of their weapons, their systems flashing frantic notifications of an unmeasurable, supreme entity in their immediate proximity.

Yet, as the dust settled and the golden radiance coiling around Chen Feng’s broad shoulders receded into his pores, the heavy, defensive tension in the room did not detonate into violence.

Instead, from behind the ranks of wary Nirvana Rebirth Realm experts, four figures stepped forward into the clear light of the chandeliers.

Sword Saint of Sacred Sword Pavilion, Wind Emperor of Divine Wind Palace, Xuan Yuan Saint of Xuan Heavenly Sect, and the Nine Lives Demon King of the Murong Clan, they are the head of the Four Sacred Grounds, and the strongest experts in the world besides Chen Feng.

To the eastern borders of the continent, the Sword Saint of the Sacred Sword Pavilion was revered as the solitary pillar of orthodox sword dao, a man who had honed his blade for three thousand years until his physical form was indistinguishable from an unsheathed divine artifact; he stood tall, clad in ascetic gray hemp robes, a simple wooden scabbard resting against his hip, his eyes sharp enough to slice through solid stone.

Beside him stood the Wind Emperor of the Divine Wind Palace, draped in fluttering azure silks embroidered with silver tempest glyphs, his long hair swaying in an invisible, localized gale that constantly whispered around his slender frame.

To his left was the Xuan Yuan Saint of the Xuan Heavenly Sect, an imposing, broad-shouldered elder whose dark crimson robes were weighed down by ancient talismans, his weathered countenance etched with the solemnity of ancestral mountains.

And completing the quartet was the Nine Lives Demon King of the Murong Clan, a striking figure with untamed scarlet hair, feline slit pupils that gleamed with untamed, primeval ferocity, and black beast-fur armor that barely concealed the terrifying draconic tattoos writhing across his muscular arms.

Across the vast history of this lower realm, these four men commanded the ultimate reverence of hundreds of millions of mortal lives and tens of thousands of sects.

In an era where supreme experts rarely showed themselves to the mundane world, they represented the absolute pinnacle of martial might, the unyielding guardians of heaven and earth whose words were treated as celestial decrees.

They were his friends, and right now, they stood there, staring at him.

For eight long years, during his bitter imprisonment within the chaotic dimensional void, Chen Feng had carried the weight of their uncertain fates.

When he had returned to find Glorious Heaven City empty and his sect soaked in blood, the darkest dread in his heart had whispered that these brothers-in-arms had already been ground into dust.

Now, seeing their familiar silhouettes standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of this alien palace, the ice around Chen Feng’s soul shattered completely.

”Hahahaha! You old bastards!” Chen Feng’s booming, full-throated laughter rolled through the grand hall like summer thunder, rattling the crystal sconces and dispelling the lingering gloom in an instant.

His chest heaved with profound, unbridled joy as he spread his arms wide, stepping across the shattered floorstones.

”You’re all still breathing! Every single one of you stubborn old dogs is still standing on two feet!”

”Pah! Listen to this arrogant brat!” the Nine Lives Demon King bellowed, his fangs flashing in a wide, ferocious grin as the tension washed from his wild features. ”You think a few stray cracks in the sky are enough to drag us into the Yellow Springs?! We haven’t seen you fall yet, Chen Feng! As if any of us would be pathetic enough to die before you do!”

”Indeed,” the Sword Saint rasped, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at the corners of his stern, razor-thin lips.

His hand, which had remained locked around the hilt of his wooden blade, relaxed entirely.

”We knew that if anyone had the thick skull required to claw their way out of a spatial collapse, it would be the White Dragon Emperor himself. You took your sweet time, Brother Chen.”

”Eight years, you lunatic,” the Wind Emperor chuckled, shaking his head as his ethereal tempest aura smoothed into a gentle, welcoming draft. ”We almost held a memorial service for your family’s sake!”

The Xuan Yuan Saint gave a deep, rumbling laugh that sounded like shifting boulders, his aged eyes glistening with rare warmth.

Chen Feng stepped forward, his right hand shooting out to grasp the forearms of his ancient companions one by one in a series of bone-crushing, resolute grips. Iron met iron; flesh met flesh.

The raw, physical contact carried centuries of shared campaigns, life-and-death excursions into primordial tombs, and an unspoken brotherhood that had weathered the rise and fall of entire dynasties.

The other Nirvana Experts in the room also breathe a sigh of relief, including the players standing on the side.

”Jesus Christ... I thought the raid boss followed us home,” a player whispered in the party channel, his hand slowly easing off his quick-slot teleport scroll.

”Thank god,” another player muttered, sheathing his twin daggers with a faint, trembling metallic click. ”If he aggroed inside the main faction hall, the whole city would’ve been wiped off the map. That aura alone was dealing passive spiritual pressure damage!”

The chaotic rustle of unsheathed weapons and defensive talismans finally settled into an orderly stillness.

Moving toward the head of the conference table, Chen Feng pulled back a heavy, high-backed chair carved from deep-mountain ironwood and took a seat.

His posture was imposing, naturally commanding the room without the need to raise his voice as he rested his forearms on the polished dark stone, his sharp golden gaze sweeping across the four masters.

”Alright, time for serious business,” Chen Feng said, his tone dropping from boisterous warmth into grave, unyielding focus. ”I just returned only hours ago. Glorious Heaven City is a ghost town managed by a weeping Elder Hu. My wives and parents are missing. And my sect has been completely destroyed. How did our realm fall into this state, and why does it seem like all experts in our realm are gathered here?”

The smiles on the faces of the four experts faded completely, replaced by dark, suffocating gravity.

The Nine Lives Demon King spat a mouthful of bitter saliva onto the stone, while the Xuan Yuan Saint heavily rested his palms against the edge of the table.

”It started the very day we planned our ambush,” the Xuan Yuan Saint began, his deep voice heavy with lingering dread. ”When that spatial turbulence swallowed us, it scattered millions of miles apart—the Sword Saint landed in the scorched canyons of the West, the Wind Emperor was deposited into the frozen seas of the Extreme North, the Demon King was trapped in the subterranean caverns of the Southern Rift, and I was stranded among the decaying marshes of the East.”

”And that’s not all,” the Sword Saint continued, his voice cold as a winter gale. ”Those demons who were scattered with us started hunting us down.”

”They showed us no mercy,” the Wind Emperor added, his fingers tightening until the wood of the table groaned beneath his grip. ”My entire Divine Wind Palace... thirty thousand disciples, four Grand Elders... slaughtered or captured. Whenever we attempted to mount a defense, an invisible, terrifying sword intent would rain down from the clouds, tearing through our grand guardian formations as if they were made of rotten parchment. We were hunted like stray dogs across our own lands, bleeding from our cores, unable to stop and tend our wounds for even an hour.”

”I burned six of my nine demonic lives just to break through their three-fold void encirclement in the south,” the Nine Lives Demon King growled, his red pupils flaring with raw, venomous hatred. ”Every sect connected to us was uprooted. It was a slaughterhouse, Chen Feng. If we had remained scattered, every single one of us would have been executed or branded into soul-slaves by now.”

Chen Feng listened in stony silence, his knuckles turning pale against the surface.

”Then why have you chosen to gather here?” Chen Feng asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The Sword Saint turned his gaze toward the far end of the hall, gesturing with a respectful nod.

”It was Sect Master Yun Ming,” the Sword Saint stated with profound sincerity. ”When my sword core was on the verge of collapsing under the pursuit of three demons, a squad of scouts from the Rising Dragon Sect tore through the perimeter, using strange, sacrificial tactics to break the enemy’s formation and took me through ancient spatial transfer arrays. One by one, Sect Master Yun deployed his disciples to the four corners of the continent, tracking our fading spiritual signatures through the wilderness and pulling us out from the jaws of certain death.”

”Not only us,” the Wind Emperor affirmed, sweeping his arm toward the bustling courtyards visible through the tall palace windows. ”Look outside, Chen Feng. The surviving elders of the Pill Valley, the assassins of the Hidden Mist Sect, the remnant of twenty-seven top-tier clans, and even the survivors of your White Dragon Sect... Sect Master Yun provided us with this sanctuary. He brought the fragmented, broken remnants of our world together under one banner, forging a unified coalition all so we can launch a decisive counterattack against those demons and reclaim our homeland!”

Hearing this comprehensive account, the cold suspicion that had gripped Chen Feng’s heart since his arrival finally melted away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of profound debt and respect.

To stand firm against the apocalypse, to risk his own sect to shelter the hunted masters of the world, and to forge an army capable of resisting the high heavens—this was the deed of a true, selfless hero.

Chen Feng rose from his seat, stepped out from behind the table, and faced the young man seated upon the dragon-wood throne.

Before the wide, stunned eyes of the gathered players, the nirvana experts, and sacred ground sect masters, the legendary White Dragon Emperor—a figure whose pride had never allowed him to lower his head to mortal or spirit—clasped his hands together and bowed deeply from the waist, his voice carrying the full, resonant weight of his sincere gratitude.

”Sect Master Yun,” Chen Feng spoke, his voice vibrating through the grand rafters. ”For eight years, I was trapped in the void, unable to shield my brothers, my people, or the sacred lands of this world. In my absence, you stepped forward to shoulder the heavens. You rescued my dearest friends from the gates of the Netherworld, gave shelter to our broken people, and stood as the final bulwark against those invading butchers. This favor is heavier than Mount Tai. On behalf of the Four Sacred Grounds, the White Dragon sect, and the countless living beings of this world, I, Chen Feng, offer you my deepest thanks!”

Upon his throne, Yun Ming’s posture remained relaxed, but beneath his sleeves, his fingers twitched slightly at the sheer cinematic gravity of the moment.

The interface floating before his peripheral vision was practically exploding with faction loyalty notifications and world-event progression bars.

Yet, maintaining the flawless, charismatic facade of an enlightened leader, Yun Ming waved his hand, saying they are all from the same world, and this is what he should do.

”Brother Chen, please, stand up!” Yun Ming smiled warmly, his tone carrying an easy, magnanimous grace as he dismissed the grand gesture with a casual flick of his wrist. ”There is no need for such formalities between us. We are all children born of this very earth, drinking from the same rivers and cultivating beneath the same sky! When otherworldly demons descend to butcher our brethren and treat our sacred heritage as cattle, standing together is not an act of extraordinary virtue—it is our inescapable duty! As long as the Rising Dragon Sect draws breath, our home shall never yield to foreign devils!”

A murmur of genuine admiration rippled through the room.

Even the seasoned, battle-hardened masters of the Four Sacred Grounds nodded in solemn agreement, their eyes filled with renewed resolve.

Seeing the resolute fire burning in the eyes of his companions, a fierce, triumphant smile slowly carved its way across Chen Feng’s chiseled features.

The heavy gloom, the desperate uncertainty, and the bitter sorrow that had weighed down the chamber were swept away by an incandescent blaze of supreme, absolute confidence.

He threw his head back, his spine snapping straight as an ancient dragon soaring into the nine heavens.

The robes draped over his muscular frame suddenly billowed outward, lifted by an invisible, divine tempest that did not originate from the surrounding atmosphere, but burst forth from the very depths of his meridians!

”Brothers!” Chen Feng’s voice detonated across the audience hall like the roar of a primordial god awakening from ten thousand years of slumber. ”The days of our world being hunted like vermin are over! Those demons think they can descend to our plane, slaughter our people, and dictate our destiny because they view us as weak! But they have miscalculated!”

BOOM!

A blinding, celestial pillar of pure Saintly radiance erupted from Chen Feng’s dantian, tearing straight through the vaulted ceiling of the palace and piercing tens of thousands of feet into the upper atmosphere!

The spatial fabric within the room did not merely bend; it crystallized, humming with the terrifying resonance of a living Saint!

Massive phantom rings of divine dragon orbited his silhouette, their hum drowning out the gasp of every living soul in the compound.

The very earth beneath the Rising Dragon Sect trembled in profound, instinctual submission to his sovereign will!

”Eight years in the dimensional abyss did not break me—it forged me into a weapon capable of shattering the heavens!” Chen Feng roared, his irises blazing with unyielding, apocalyptic majesty. ”I have broken through the mortal threshold! I have seized the authority of the cosmos! I am now a Saint! Let those otherworldly devils come! Today, I shall use their blood to wash clean the graves of our fallen!”