"You dare flaunt money at me?!" the shorty barked at Yu Xuan, but despite her outrage, she made no move to return the sect points he had transferred.
"Leave it. What about them?" Yu Xuan asked, gesturing casually toward the three battered figures.
"Tch. You’re making my work harder," the shorty muttered with a sigh. "I’ll talk to his master and smooth it over. Consider yourself lucky Lingluo is your sister."
Yu Xuan inwardly smirked. If she knew he was Peak Master’s disciple... how would she react?
A fleeting thought passed through his mind. Or perhaps if she knows about irregulars, how would she react to him being an irregular?
Turning his gaze toward Mei and Xiu Ying, Yu Xuan’s tone was distant.
"I won’t say I’m sorry about this. But remember this — control him. If you don’t, even if it isn’t me next time, someone else will crush him. And it won’t be nearly as merciful."
The two women stiffened. A dozen retorts filled their throats — If you’re so strong, why brutalize Ye Chen ? but no words left their lips.
They could only sigh. In the cultivation world, strength dictated everything. Even in order. Right or wrong didn’t matter. Even a misunderstanding could cost a life.
"Then I’ll take him to meet Master. You deal with the aftermath," Yu Lingluo said to the shorty. Without waiting for permission, she grabbed Yu Xuan’s hand and ran off in the direction of their master’s residence.
"Hey! Where are you two — stop!" the shorty yelled after them, but their figures quickly vanished, her voice fading into the distance.
Left behind, the shorty exhaled through her nose and glanced at Mei, Xiu Ying, and the still-unconscious Ye Chen.
"Fine. Let’s go to his master," she muttered, leading them away.
As for Jian, Ye Chan, and the other lackeys — they had long since fled the scene. None of them were stupid enough to linger when bigshots were involved. If they got caught in the crossfire, they wouldn’t even have bones left.
By the time the area quieted, only the ruined teleportation hub remained, half-collapsed and useless.
The sect disciples would now be forced to route most traffic through the main peak’s other hubs, and it was only a matter of time before the disciples stationed there took advantage of the sudden surge in business.
Amidst the rubble lay a single unconscious disciple, forgotten by everyone. No one stepped forward to rescue him.
...Until the faint sound of boots echoed.
The discipline committee had finally arrived, though here on Chaos Heaven Peak, their authority carried little weight.
Today was supposed to be a normal day for the four-man squad of the Discipline Committee on shift. Their routine was simple — train a few hopeful recruits, meditate in peace, and, if something cropped up, handle it before it got out of hand.
At the distress counter sat a particularly round disciple. His belly bulged against his robes, his cheeks carried two pink dimples, and right now he was shoveling noodles into his mouth like a starving beast.
"The taste... too good," he mumbled between slurps, attacking the bowl with otherworldly ferocity.
A distress message blinked to life on the device before him, but he didn’t notice.
In his mind, he was lost in a dream where senior and junior brothers praised him as a cultivation genius with six-pack abs and countless admirers.
Just then, his actual junior brother came running past. Short, skinny, and looking panicked, the boy shouted, "Senior brother, senior brother! A distress call just came in, what should we do!?"
The fat disciple froze mid-slurp, noodles dangling from his lips. "What!? Oh shit! Gather the other two senior brothers!"
He sprang up from his chair or rather, rolled off it — clutching his bowl in one hand as his bulging stomach jiggled with every step. Unfortunately, instead of heading toward the exit, he started running in entirely random directions around the room, shouting orders that made no sense.
The skinny junior brother could only stare blankly at him. Once, he had joined the committee with noble aspirations — bringing order, punishing evil disciples, upholding justice. But the reality was... this.
Worse, he’d signed a binding contract. He couldn’t even quit. With a soul-weary sigh, he turned and went to gather the other two "senior" committee members.
’Ancients were right, never sign a contract without reading them.’ the junior disciple thought.
The skinny junior finally dragged back the other two senior disciples.
One was tall with droopy eyes, a wine gourd dangling from his hand and robes that looked slept in for a week. He yawned, scratched his stomach, and muttered, "Why am I dragged here?"
The other was bald, with sharp brows and a permanent scowl and vein on his forehead.
Meanwhile, the fat disciple puffed his chest, noodle bowl still clutched in hand. "Brothers, the sect needs us. It’s a distress call."
The bald one rolled his eyes. "Ninety-nine percent of distress calls are just chickens being stolen." ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹⟡𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮⟡𝙣𝙚𝙩
The drunk said, "And the other one percent?"
The fat man coughed. "...We arrive late."
The junior disciple nearly fainted. So they know it!
Still, the four-man "elite" squad set out. Their formation was tragic: the fat one waddled ahead slurping noodles, trying to look heroic; the drunk staggered behind, tripping over his own robes; the bald one lectured about "discipline" to no one listening; and the poor junior carried everyone’s spare junk, close to collapse.
By the time they reached the teleportation hub, half an incense stick had burned, which the junior disciple was carrying.
The square was rubble, the teleportation hub shattered, the air thick with dust and some blood. Only one unconscious disciple lay groaning in the wreckage. Everyone else fighters, witnesses, culprits — long gone.
The fat man set down his noodles, stroked his chin, and said gravely, "Justice has once again arrived... late."
"Just a bit late," the bald one corrected.
"At least no paperwork," the drunk grinned.
The junior trembled. "Senior brothers, what do we do?!"
The fat man declared, "We search for witness."
The bald nodded. The drunk raised his gourd.
The junior buried his face in his hands. He regretted why he joined this committee.