Feng Wuchen’s blood ran cold as he felt Feng Ning’s body scorching against his back. Her breathing had stopped.
“Ning’er?!”
He lowered her to the ground. Her face burned crimson, skin radiating furnace-like heat.
**Phoenix Inferno Constitution.**
The rare, cursed gift that made her a fire spirit prodigy—and a ticking time bomb without the Frost Essence to balance her flames.
Her pendant was gone.
“Where is it?!” His voice cracked.
Feng Ning’s eyelids fluttered. “Don’t… risk it… for me…”
Her whisper shattered him.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Memories exploded—the servants stealing her Frost Essence, the rushed marriage plot. All orchestrated by **Feng Xi**, the venomous cousin who’d tormented them for years.
**Rage ignited.**
---
**Feng Family Compound**
Feng Xi lounged in his courtyard, smirking as Feng Wuchen stormed in. “Here to beg, cripple? Your sister’s probably dead by—”
**CRACK!**
Feng Wuchen’s fist shattered Feng Xi’s wrist before he finished speaking. Bones jutted through flesh as the noble screeched.
“The Frost Essence. **Now.**”
“Y-you dare—”
**THUD!**
A kick pulverized Feng Xi’s dantian. Ribs snapped under Feng Wuchen’s boot as he rifled through the whimpering man’s robes.
**There.** The Frost Essence glowed faintly beneath bloodstains.
“**Filth.**” Feng Wuchen spat, tucking the pendant safely away.
“**MY SON!**”
Feng Changyi, Feng Xi’s father and a **Qi Manifestation Realm** expert, lunged with murderous aura.
**Too slow.**
The Blazing Sun Sword flashed.
**SHING!**
Feng Changyi’s head toppled, eyes frozen in disbelief. Around them, servants vomited or fled.
“**Sword… Cultivator…**” The patriarch gurgled his last words.
---
**Meanwhile, in the Main Hall**
Yue Qingyin sipped tea, unimpressed. Across from her, Feng Mo—the “heaven-blessed genius”—flinched as her sword intent brushed his throat.
“Weak.” She scoffed. “A peacock, not a phoenix.”
Feng Changyun, Feng Mo’s father, paled. “B-but his Heavenly Fire Vein—”
“**Worthless** without battle instinct.” She rose, sensing distant chaos. “Your so-called prodigy wouldn’t last three breaths against a real swordsman.”
As if on cue, screams echoed from the eastern wing.
