Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

Mount Wuyi, Zhang Family.

The wind whispered through the bamboo forest, a symphony of rustling leaves and unseen murmurs. Amidst the jade sea of towering stalks, a lone figure stood, her presence like an ethereal wraith descending upon the mortal world.

Her raven black hair was now turned into silver hair that cascaded like moonlight, strands lifted by an unseen force, flowing in tandem with her pristine robes, embroidered with celestial patterns that shimmered under the dim glow of dusk. A mask of blackened silver adorned her delicate face, yet it did not conceal the radiance of her-now violet eyes—piercing, unwavering, as if the cosmos had woven the galaxies into her gaze.

Then, she moved.

Her right foot slid forward, toes barely grazing the earth. Her back straightened, shoulders relaxed, as she extended her arm, wrist rotating with liquid smoothness. In her grasp, a slender sword pulsed with an ethereal violet glow, its radiance breathing like a living thing, swirling around her in delicate wisps of luminous energy.

A soft hum resonated as she lifted the blade skyward.

With a flick of her wrist, the tip carved a perfect arc through the air. The motion, deceptively slow, carried a weight of precision—every shift of her fingers dictated the sword's rhythm, a melody of steel and wind entwined. Her robes rippled as she turned on her heel, the blade tracing a half-moon before flowing seamlessly into a spiraling slash.

A single leaf quivered in the air.

Another joined.

She exhaled, and the sword shimmered. Violet light ignited, coiling along the blade like sentient mist, wrapping around her entire being in luminous tendrils.

With a sudden pivot, she stepped forward—her sword spiraling in a seamless dance. The tip kissed the wind, slicing through the void with unerring grace. Each stroke left a trail of violet afterimages, as though time itself struggled to keep up with her.

A downward slash. A sweeping crescent. A flickering feint—so fast, the light itself fractured, bending to her will.

The bamboo quivered. The air trembled. The leaves gathered.

Dozens, then hundreds, spiraled into a vortex, drawn into the dance by the sheer force of her swordsmanship. They followed her motion, orbiting her in a mesmerizing display, lifted by the unseen currents of her energy. Her left hand guided them, fingers weaving through the air in a painter's flourish.

Then—she struck.

Her sword flashed in a crescent arc, the violet radiance exploding outward. The swirling leaves surged forward in a tidal wave of violet and green, folding into themselves—shifting, changing.

A single moment of stillness.

Then—the transformation.

From the cascading sea of petals, a bird emerged.

A divine phoenix, born from the storm of her swordplay, its wings unfurling in shimmering waves of pink and gold. It hovered, weightless, before tilting its head toward the sky.

Then—the cry.

A piercing, sorrowful wail echoed through the bamboo forest, rippling through the wind, causing the very stalks to tremble as if bowing before a divine presence. The sound carried for miles, a reverberation of an ancient art long thought lost but also the longing hidden in the depths of her soul.

Zhang Ruoyun's sword lowered, the violet glow fading.

The phoenix ascended, petals scattering, dissolving into the night wind.

Silence returned.

Only the lingering fragrance of fallen plum blossoms remained.

The echoes of the phoenix's cry had barely faded when a slow, deliberate clap broke the silence.

Pa… Pa… Pa…

Steady. Measured. A sound neither rushed nor hesitant.

Beneath the canopy of jade stalks, where mist curled in soft tendrils around the stone path, an elder stood, her presence no less striking than the young girl before her.

Silver hair, untouched by time, cascaded down her back like flowing silk. Her robes, though simple, carried an elegance that could not be replicated, embroidered with faint celestial patterns that mirrored the ones on her granddaughter's attire. A single violet gem rested upon her brow, glowing softly—an echo of the very eyes that now watched Zhang Ruoyun with quiet approval.

"Not bad."

The old woman's voice was like a flowing river—gentle yet firm, carrying the weight of untold years.

Zhang Ruoyun lowered her sword. With a single, fluid movement, she bent at the waist, her arms at her sides, bowing deeply. The very picture of reverence.

Her grandmother stepped forward, her hands resting within her sleeves, her gaze keen as she scrutinized the lingering remnants of violet mist.

"But not perfect."

The young lady straightened, her violet eyes flickering with intent.

"You lacked control in your final stroke," the elder continued, tapping a single finger against the air. "The energy scattered too soon. Had you been in battle, your enemy would have seized that moment of weakness."

A furrow formed between Zhang Ruoyun's brows.

"I will do it again."

She stepped back, ready to raise her sword once more, but her grandmother lifted a hand, palm outward—a silent command.

"There is no need," the elder said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You improve with each attempt. It is enough."

Zhang Ruoyun hesitated, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword before she finally nodded. The sword let out a final breath of violet light before vanishing, dissolving into the very air itself like morning mist under the rising sun.

"Come," the old woman said, turning toward the stone path leading through the bamboo forest. "The tea is waiting. We will speak more over breakfast."

Without another word, Zhang Ruoyun fell into step beside her.

The bamboo forest stretched endlessly, its towering stalks swaying as a cool morning breeze wove through the leaves, carrying with it the fresh scent of dew-kissed greenery. Golden sunlight pierced through the canopy in scattered beams, painting the stone path in shimmering patterns of light and shadow.

Their footsteps were light, the sound barely audible over the rustling leaves. The elder moved without effort, her posture straight, each step deliberate—as if she had long become one with the rhythm of the world.

Beside her, Zhang Ruoyun mirrored her movements, though there was a quiet restlessness in her gaze.

Ahead, where the path curved around an ancient maple tree, a pagoda stood, half-shrouded in mist, its red pillars rising like a forgotten relic of a time long past. The fragrance of tea drifted through the air, warm and inviting.

A single stone table sat at the center, a porcelain teapot resting atop it, its surface adorned with delicate plum blossom engravings.

Two cups sat beside it, steam curling from their rims.

The elder took her seat first, folding her hands neatly before her. Zhang Ruoyun followed, sitting opposite her, the light catching the edge of her silver hair as she exhaled softly. Stay updated via My Virtual Library Empire

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then—

"Tell me," the old woman said, lifting the teapot and pouring a stream of golden liquid into the cups. "What did you feel when you wielded your sword?"

Zhang Ruoyun's fingers tightened around the teacup, her gaze drifting toward the distant trees.

"…Not enough."

The elder chuckled, the sound rich with amusement.

"Then that," she said, "is something we shall correct in time."

With that, she lifted her cup. Of course that's not the answer she was looking for but it was enough. There was no need to pressure the young lady.

Zhang Ruoyun followed.

The tea was warm. The morning, still young.

'With all these changes and manifestations she's showing, it's now apparent... He's coming back!' the woman said in her mind.