System S.E.X. (Seduction, Expansion, eXecution)

Chapter 625: The Price of Filth

The noble youth spat a mouthful of blood and broken teeth onto the paving stones, using his sword to push himself upright. He glared at Ethan, his remaining eye blazing with a poisonous, entitlement-fueled rage.

"You arrogant commoner scum!" the youth screamed, his voice thick and slurred through his shattered jaw. "I am Lysander! My grandfather is the Head Elder of the Discipline Hall! How dare you lay your filthy hands on me! I will have you stripped of your cultivation and fed to the mountain beasts for this insolence!"

Ethan stared down at the trembling noble, his expression utterly detached, his piercing amethyst eyes radiating a freezing, absolute apathy. He didn’t even bother to draw his sword; he simply clasped his hands behind his broad back.

"To mercilessly hunt and humiliate a group of young, defenseless female disciples in broad daylight is not the action of a warrior, but a desperate, pathetic coward," said Ethan, his deep voice resounding across the silent plaza like the tolling of a funeral bell. "You drag your grandfather’s title through the mud with your existence. You should feel a profound, soul-deep shame, but a creature like you is incapable of understanding such concepts."

"You... you dare insult me again! You lowly, wretched cur!" Lysander shrieked, his face contorting into a mask of pure hysteria. "I will tear your tongue from your—"

Lysander’s mouth was wide open, his face flushed with the exertion of screaming his threats. He never even saw Ethan move.

Ethan’s right hand merely flicked. A single, microscopic thread of razor-sharp silver qi shot from his sword, moving at a velocity that completely defied physics. It penetrated the exact center of Lysander’s wide-open mouth, passing through the gap between his upper and lower teeth without brushing them.

With a soundless, surgical precision, the concentrated intent completely severed Lysander’s flailing tongue at the very root.

Slash.

Ethan hadn’t even taken a single step.

"If all you are capable of doing is screaming worthless, disgusting filth, then you have no logical need for that organ," said Ethan, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet whisper as Lysander clutched his neck, his eyes bugging out.

A fountain of dark, vibrant blood exploded from Lysander’s mouth, completely drenching his white robes. He let out a choked, desperate gurgle, collapsing onto his knees as he clawed at his face, trying and failing to contain the endless hemorrhage. Panic completely overcame his rage. Realizing he would drown in his own blood within seconds, Lysander turned and scrambled backward, fleeing the plaza with a terrifying, animalistic speed toward the distant, forbidding gates of the Discipline Hall.

Inside the monolithic obsidian fortress of the Hall, Head Elder Malachi sat behind a black slate desk, methodically reviewing disciplinary reports. The doors violently burst open, and a broken, gurgling, blood-soaked figure that barely resembled his grandson collapsed onto the floor, clutching his throat.

Malachi’s ancient face instantly contorted into a mask of pure, murderous rage. He was at Lysander’s side in a single burst of speed.

"What has happened? Speak to me!" Malachi roared, his massive spiritual pressure flaring, instantly crushing a dozen stone statues in the room. He reaching into his storage ring and pulled out a shimmering, blood-red medicinal pill, violently forcing it down Lysander’s throat.

The ancient medicine activated instantly. As Lysander painfully swallowed, the violent bleeding from his mouth finally ground to a sudden halt. Malachi didn’t hesitate. He pulled the severed, bloody tongue from his grandson’s hand, pressing it back into the raw stump. With his other hand, he poured a viscous, luminous green alchemical liquid over the wound.

Sizzle.

The powerful liquid knitted the flesh back together with terrifying efficiency.

"Do not attempt to speak a single word for the next three days, or the link will reject," said Malachi, his voice a dangerous, low rumble as he glared at his grandson’s pathetic condition. "Now... write down exactly who did this to you."

Lysander, his eyes still wide with raw terror, grabbed a brush and paper, his hand shaking uncontrollably as he scrawled out the messy words.

[A... a plebeian... a low-born cur... attacked me at the training plaza. He severed my tongue and insulted our family name.]

Malachi Vane stared at the pathetic message, and then he looked down at his grandson’s mouth, inspecting the surgical precision of the damage. Slowly, the murderous rage on his ancient face began to transform into something else—a strange, heavy layer of calculating caution.

The Head Elder stood up, his massive, dark presence looming over the injured youth.

"A plebeian?" said Malachi. He let out a cold, sharp huff of air. "I have pampered and spoiled you far too much, you wretched little fool. Your excessive arrogance has finally cost you. Go back to your inner quarters and spend the next full week in silent reflection on your actions. This time, you went far over the line, and you have officially lost your right to complain."

Malachi didn’t need to listen to a single word of explanation from his grandson. Minutes before Lysander had even crawled into the fortress, a deep-cover Discipline Hall subordinate had already submitted a full, detailed spiritual recording of the entire encounter.

Malachi knew exactly what Lysander had been doing—he was harassing the fresh female recruits again, and an extremely capable monster had decided to teach him a severe lesson. But what truly paralyzed the Head Elder wasn’t the attack; it was the precision of the wound.

The cut had been a single, flawless line. The silver qi had passed through the gap in the teeth, slicing only the muscular tongue without causing a single microscopic scratch to the enamel of the teeth, the gums, or the cheek lining. That level of absolute, exquisite, and terrifying control was completely beyond anything his grandson was capable of perceiving.

Malachi knew he could achieve that level of precision himself, but to say that such divine, delicate, and detailed sword control was ’easy’ to obtain was an absolute, lie. The person who did this was not merely strong; they possessed the unshakeable foundation of a true apex predator, a level far beyond his grandson’s pathetic capabilities.