Jiang Yu felt his body grow colder.
Yanwei’s gaze turned nostalgic.
“It was when I was a Rank 7.”
“I met an arrogant young master on the road. A boy from a Level 7 sect. He wanted me to bow. I was not in the mood.”
“So I killed him.”
“Naturally, his sect wanted revenge. They searched for me.”
Yanwei smiled. His grip on Jiang Yu’s neck loosened slightly—not out of mercy, but because he wanted him to hear every word.
“But they didn’t realize… their young master had stepped on something far worse than an iron plate.”
“He stepped on me.”
“And I am not made of iron.”
“I am made of something that does not break.”
Yanwei’s voice was soft, almost tender. “I started with the top. The elders. The sect master. The Rank 7 ancestor. One by one, they died without a sound. No one even knew they were dead until it was too late.”
“Once all the Rank 7s and Rank 6s were gone, I moved to the rest.”
His fingers flexed slightly. Jiang Yu let out a strangled whimper.
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“I didn’t just kill them.”
“I captured them.”
“Every Rank 5. Every Rank 4. Every single disciple.”
“Then I announced a fireworks festival in the Southern Continent.”
Yanwei laughed again, softer this time.
“Even other Rank 7s gave me face. They were curious. They gathered to see the show.”
Jiang Yu wanted to shut his ears.
He couldn’t.
Yanwei tilted his head, as if reminiscing.
“Do you know what the fireworks were?”
The people who had gathered back then—cultivators, sect leaders, wandering experts—all remembered the moment he unveiled his festival.
The captives were bound.
Thousands of them.
Their bodies were stripped of dignity, flesh branded with wounds, blood trailing in sluggish rivers beneath them. Some twitched, others whimpered, but none dared to struggle.
None dared to hope.
The air was thick with the stench of burning meat.
A massive pot bubbled at the center, flames licking hungrily at its base. Inside, human limbs—arms, legs, torsos—boiled in a grotesque stew.
The crackling of fat. The hiss of flesh meeting fire.
The sound of death cooking slowly.
Yet, no one moved.
Even the Rank 7 elders hesitated to speak.
Yanwei stood before them, his hands steady, his expression one of detached amusement.
Then, with an almost casual motion, he reached down, seized a struggling captive—
And with a swift chop, severed their arm.
A scream tore through the air.
The severed limb was tossed into the pot.
The rest of the body, still alive, convulsed in agony.
The smell thickened.
A few spectators gagged, some turned away, but none dared to interfere.
Then—Yanwei took the severed arm, its flesh still twitching—
And he bit into it.
The crunch of bone.
The wet tear of muscle.
The fresh, raw warmth of blood dribbling down his chin.
The world seemed to freeze.
Even those accustomed to slaughter felt their stomachs churn.
A Rank 7 elder, unable to watch any longer, moved—
A fatal mistake.
Before he could even complete his step, Yanwei vanished.
A flicker. A blur.
The next moment—
A dagger pierced through the elder’s back.
Deep. Precise.
A silent kill.
The elder collapsed, eyes wide, breath stolen before he could even comprehend his own death.
Yanwei exhaled, the amusement never leaving his face.
“This is the fireworks time.”
His fingers lifted.
Thousands of captives—limbless, broken, yet still clinging desperately to life—rose into the air.
Blood dripped in streams, painting the night in cruel splatters.
Their mouths opened in silent horror.
Yanwei smiled.
Then—
“Boom.”
One body exploded.
Then another.
And another.
Thousands burst apart in the sky like grotesque fireworks—
Flesh raining. Blood painting the heavens. Bones scattering like shattered stars.
A festival of carnage.
Yanwei stood there, arms still open, as if embracing the crimson sky.
And at the center of it all—
He laughed.