Chapter 415: A Young Man of Ordinary Appearance

In the central region of the Moonbone Plateau, Dongzhao City.

As countless flesh and blood exploded throughout the city, countless human cultivators drenched the main city road in blood.

Among them, the elder patriarch of the Bian family had his entire shoulder shattered, flung away like a broken kite, crashing through the glazed roof of a celestial mansion.

Before he could recover from the searing pain of his shattered shoulder, he saw the descendant who had destroyed it rise into the air, bringing down a pair of fists wreathed in overwhelming dark radiance.

Facing this deadly assault, the Bian elder patriarch let out a desperate roar of defiance, gathering every ounce of his qi to strike forward.

Puff!!!

A burst of sound—his arm shattered instantly.

The brutal fist continued its descent, smashing a gaping hole clean through his chest.

As blood sprayed wildly into the air, the Bian elder patriarch’s eyes dimmed abruptly, then collapsed like mud amid the ruins of the fallen command post.

Seeing this, the remaining clan disciples turned ashen-faced, losing all will to resist, fleeing southward in panic and terror.

As the first fled, a second followed, then a swarm scattered, wailing as they ran.

But the enraged descendants clearly had no intention of letting them escape—they surged forward like a black tidal wave.

Meanwhile, a descendant with profound aura turned back north, arriving at a vacant, dim tea house.

“Your Highness, there are no survivors left in the city. The remaining humans are fleeing in chaos—I’ve ordered Qirong to pursue them.”

Inside the tea house, Prince Mo Yuan lifted his head slightly.

This city held no weapon-bearers, no sacred artifacts, and no reinforcements came to aid their slaughtered kin—his eyes betrayed a flicker of disappointment.

It seems the Esha Minister was right: the human race differs from our descendants. Even knowing their own kin are being slaughtered, they remain indifferent, aloof.

“Capture those who fled. Take the higher-cultivation ones to Youzhou to serve as blood food for our newly formed bodies. As for the low-cultivation ones, force them to build the capital and altars my father requires.”

“Yes!”

Mo Yuan rose and walked toward the balcony, gazing far south across the Qingyun Heavens.

There lie three great immortal sects, each likely possessing a sacred artifact—but two are controlled by the Linxian Realm, while the third lies farthest south.

Neither he nor the Esha Minister could withstand a Linxian Realm cultivator wielding a sacred artifact, and reaching the southern sect would be extremely difficult.

Only when his two elder brothers and the remaining three Ministers form physical bodies can they truly break the immortal sects and seize the sacred artifacts.

For now, his goal is to find the Chen Shixian clan and the two weapon-bearers from the Tian Shu Academy.

But it seems these artifact holders are hiding even deeper.

But it doesn’t matter—Mo Yuan believed that as long as he kept killing, he would eventually reach their heads—or kill enough people they could no longer ignore, forcing them to reveal themselves.

At that moment, a figure appeared in the distant sky, heading toward the tea house.

Baler, a subordinate general under the Huoyang Minister, landed on the balcony and whispered urgently into the Esha Minister’s ear.

Soon after, the Esha Minister nodded, then turned to Mo Yuan: “Third Prince, the Second Prince’s physical body has formed, but he appears dissatisfied with its strength.”

Mo Yuan turned to look at the Esha Minister: “Issue orders. Mobilize all newly formed clan members to advance south. We must kill until those weapon-bearers can no longer hide.”

“As Your Highness commands.”

Huff—huff—

In the southwest of the Moonbone Plateau, the surviving members of the Bian and Gong families were desperately fleeing through the mountains and forests.

Behind them, countless descendants poured down like a storm, surging with murderous intent toward them.

Gong Buyi, the elder patriarch of the Gong family, was the highest-ranked among these refugees—cultivation at the Yingtian Initial Stage, once revered as an elder patriarch in Zhongzhou. Now, he fled like a stray dog, refusing to look back, racing forward with his son and the younger generation.

But despair struck him: just as they planned to use the vast forest ahead to conceal their trail, countless descendants descended from the sky before them.

The remaining members of the Gong mainline were four: three men and one woman, all at the peak of the Lower Three Realms. Seeing this, their faces turned white, their bodies trembling under the oppressive aura released by the enemy.

“Grandfather… Father…”

Gong Ning, the eldest daughter of the Gong family, looked at her grandfather and father in despair.

Gong Buyi had stopped running. After a long moment of stillness, he glanced at his son, Gong Cheng.

Gong Cheng understood immediately. He nodded, then turned to Gong Ning and the others and spoke softly: “Go—get behind us. Wait for the right moment and run. Scatter as much as you can. One survivor is one too many.”

“Father, no—”

“Don’t be foolish. If you stay, none of you will escape. Our entire Gong lineage will be extinguished.”

At the same time, Gong Buyi turned and exchanged a glance with the other remaining elders of the clans.

Cultivators of Qingyun Heaven were cold toward commoners, but deeply valued family ties—they feared bloodline extinction above all. A single glance was enough; they understood each other without words.

Boom!!!

A violent shockwave surged as Gong Buyi drew his broadsword and slashed with his sleeve.

The last of his qi, wrapped in spiritual energy, surged through his meridians, summoning the Four Symbols of wind and thunder into the blade, unleashing a deafening vibration as he swung. Gong Cheng charged forward immediately. The other clan elders rose and launched their strongest techniques, encircling their bodies with the full force of their lifetimes’ cultivation, shielding the younger generation as they charged into the forest.

With a thunderous explosion, Gong Buyi brought his blade down hard, striking a descendant. The colliding qi bursts erupted like air rupturing—the earth mound before them shattered, rocks and soil flying wildly through the night sky.

Amid the torrent of blade light, Qirong, a battle general under the Esha Minister, narrowed his eyes and let out a soft “tsk.”

Like his master, Qirong was fiercely warlike. After being reborn in the storm of flesh and blood, he volunteered without hesitation as vanguard, fighting his way here with the army.

Yet he was disappointed: aside from the few he’d encountered in the Ancestral Sacred Grounds, other humans weren’t even worthy of being called playthings.

Still, though his battle lust remained unsatisfied, he found something that stirred his interest: witnessing the despair and agony on these slaves’ faces.

Boom!!!!

With a burst of sound, Qirong clenched his fists, his aura exploding like a wild beast as he charged into the forest.

Swish—swish—swish—

In the forest, beside a quiet stream, Gong Buyi was struck down by a long spear, spewing a mouthful of blood into the water, which quickly turned pink and flowed eastward. Gong Cheng was soon pierced through the shoulder blade and slammed to the ground.

“Grandfather! Father!”

Seeing this, Gong Ning’s face turned white. She lunged forward to help.

But Gong Cheng only gave her a look, then gripped his sword with his left hand and charged after his father. His foot crushed the muddy green stone beneath him—it cracked with a loud bang, shattering into fragments.

Water sprayed everywhere from the compressed qi, and the droplets that struck Gong Ning turned her face pale.

She understood that look—he was ordering them to flee the moment they carved a path open.

“Miss Gong.”

Gong Ning turned to see Lian Feipeng and Lan Ruoruo watching her: “If we die here, our families are finished. Don’t waste the elders’ sacrifice.”

In this battle, the Lan and Lian families had also suffered heavy losses—their elder patriarchs had died in the city. Only a dozen mainline disciples remained, including themselves, and five or six elders still fighting the descendant soldiers.

They faced the same choice as Gong Ning—but they had accepted reality sooner, swords already drawn and ready.

Seeing this, Gong Ning trembled, reached out, and gripped her longsword, preparing to flee with her younger siblings, abandoning her father and grandfather.

It was a wise thought—their only chance. But the situation did not unfold as they expected.

For just as the five elders abandoned defense, letting their wounds multiply, sacrificing their lives to carve a brief path of blood, a colossal iron fist came crashing down.

Gong Cheng was coordinating with his father, slashing to suppress the descendant soldier before him. Seeing this, he froze in horror, gathering all his strength to swing his blade upward.

Clang!!

A metallic clash rang out—Gong Cheng’s sword was instantly shattered by the fist, then driven straight through his skull.

As if a thunderclap had exploded inside his head, Gong Cheng bled from all seven orifices and collapsed lifelessly.

Seeing this, the other clan elders turned ashen, despair rising anew.

They recognized him—the one who had punched the Bian elder patriarch to death in the city.