Heavens' Laughter

The trial dragged on, each moment a monotonous blur.

Feng Shen, utterly uninterested, leaned back lazily, a picture of nonchalance amidst the tension.

He absently played with his fingers, tapping them together in a rhythm only he understood, his expression one of pure boredom.

Feng Shen cast an occasional glance at the other participants, their desperate struggles barely worth his attention.

To him, their fights were trivial, a pathetic display of mediocrity that only deepened his disinterest.

Feng Shen's gaze shifted briefly to the center of the platform, where the next match was set to begin.

With a faint sigh, he shifted in his seat and muttered under his breath, "still not my turn..."

Feng Shen's next fight—the final one—was the only thing worth his time, the only thing that could possibly hold even a shred of interest.

Until then, he remained as he was: indifferent, untouchable, and waiting for his moment to remind everyone why he stood leagues above them.

After all, Feng Shen relished the opportunity to remind everyone of his superiority.

It wasn't just a matter of pride—it was his nature.

The mere thought of others daring to compare themselves to him, as if they could ever measure up, filled Feng Shen with a mix of amusement and disdain.

He loved to crush their delusions, to strip away the façade and expose their weaknesses for all to see.

What Feng Shen despised most were those who concealed their strength, pretending to be sheep in wolf's clothing.

To him, it was an insult—a mockery of true power.

Why hide what should be displayed with pride?

Why cower in the shadows when the strong were meant to dominate the light?

No, Feng Shen would never stoop to such cowardice.

Instead, he made sure to shine so brightly, so overwhelmingly, that any wolf in sheep's clothing would be forced to reveal themselves—or burn in his brilliance.

It was Feng Shen's way of reminding the cultivation world who stood at the peak, and who belonged groveling in the dirt.

As even more time passed on…

Finally…

It was Feng Shen's turn.

Without warning, he found himself teleported onto the platform.

Feng Shen's gaze landed on his opponent.

Standing across from him was a massive, hulking figure—a man whose sheer size could rival a giant bear.

He was encased from head to toe in Dragon Turtle Armor, its scales glinting like polished stone under the light.

The only part of the man left exposed were his eyes, peeking out from beneath the heavy helm.

"Shit…" Pàng Guī muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible beneath the weight of his own dread.

He was the unlucky soul chosen to face the demon—the one opponent nobody wanted to meet on the platform.

It wasn't just a fight; it was a death sentence, plain and simple.

Pàng Guī's massive frame shifted uneasily beneath the Dragon Turtle Armor, the plates creaking as though echoing his growing fear.

He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself, but his eyes betrayed the truth.

Pàng Guī was staring into the abyss, and the abyss was staring back.

There was no reasoning with this madman.

No pleas for mercy, no surrender would sway this demon.

Pàng Guī swallowed hard, his mind racing for a strategy, though he already knew the truth: against this monster, even the toughest shell would crack.

Feng Shen's lips curled into a smirk. "A turtle pretending to be a dragon," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with mockery:

"This might actually be... mildly entertaining."

Feng Shen showed his teeth:

"Let's see how hard that shell really is."

Suddenly, the holographic timer materialized in the air, its numbers flashing brightly:

"3..."

"2..."

"1..."

"FIGHT!"

The moment the word: "FIGHT" was said by the mechanical voice…

Pàng Guī, without an ounce of shame or hesitation, dropped to his stomach, flattening himself against the platform.

His massive body thudded against the ground, the heavy Dragon Turtle Armor clanking loudly as it absorbed the impact.

Pàng Guī didn't care how pathetic it looked—his survival instincts screamed louder than his pride.

With his face pressed to the cold surface… Pàng Guī could only pray that the legendary resilience of his armor would hold against the onslaught that was surely coming.

The Dragon Turtle Armor, said to be nigh impenetrable, was his only shield against the demon.

"I just need to survive..." Pàng Guī muttered through clenched teeth, sweat pouring down his brow like a stream.

His heart pounded like a war drum, drowning out all other sounds as he pressed himself tighter against the platform.

"Hopefully this monster gets bored…" Pàng Guī whispered.

It was a desperate gamble, a fleeting hope that the demon's infamous disdain for weaker opponents might work in his favor.

Seeing this pitiful display, Feng Shen slowly shook his head, an air of disappointment settling over him.

But then, without warning, his expression twisted into something grotesque, a disturbing blend of mockery and malice.

A sinister smile stretched across Feng Shen's face, warping his otherwise handsome features into something almost inhuman.

He began to whistle—a haunting, eerie tune that echoed across.

Feng Shen's steps were slow, deliberate, as he walked forward.

The sound of his footwear hitting the platform rang out like a death knell.

Each step brought with it an oppressive weight.

"You know…" Feng Shen began, his voice carrying an unsettling calm as he stopped just inches away from the trembling mass of armor beneath him.

He sighed softly, almost wistfully, as his eyes glinted with nostalgia.

"The days when I was a mere child…" Feng Shen continued, tilting his head ever so slightly, his gaze piercing through the pathetic display before him:

"I would sing a song to comfort myself. A song to soothe my younger self, to remind me—no, to prepare me—for how cruel this cultivation world truly is."

Feng Shen crouched down slowly, his presence growing heavier, darker, as if the air itself bent under the weight of his words.

"It's funny, isn't it?" he said with a humorless chuckle:

"Back then, I sang it to escape the cruelty. Now, I think it's the perfect hymn for those who face it head-on… like you." Continue reading at My Virtual Library Empire

Coldness.

Absolute, unyielding coldness.

Feng Shen no longer wore the mask of madness or twisted amusement.

In its place was something far more terrifying—a void, a frigid emptiness that swallowed all warmth, all hope.

Feng Shen's eyes were no longer playful or mocking; it was the calculating stare of a predator, stripped of any emotion.

"This song…" he whispered. "Was never meant to comfort others. It's a dirge for the weak."

Nothing…

Pàng Guī didn't respond.

He couldn't.

There were no words that could pierce the demon, no response that could reach the coldness.

Everything seemed even more hopeless now.

How could Pàng Guī respond?

What could he say?

Pàng Guī was nothing but a trembling figure beneath the cold, unwavering gaze of a demon that was above all mortal comprehension.

There was no fight left in him, only the desperate hope that somehow—some miracle—would intervene.

But deep down, Pàng Guī knew the truth.

There would be no miracle.

And yet, despite knowing it was impossible, Pàng Guī whispered, "Please… I surrender... Spare me…"

Silence…

No response…

Seconds later…

A song began to drift from Feng Shen's lips:

"Despair~, you come to me~, with your poison and your misery. Oh~, oh~ death, you come to sting with your poison and your misery."

It was almost imperceptible at first, a whisper carried by the wind…

But to Pàng Guī, it felt as if it were echoing inside his very soul.

The song was delicate, and yet there was something about it that gnawed at the edge of his sanity.

As Feng Shen continued repeating the song over and over…

Slowly, he reached down and gently lifted his opponent's head.

Pàng Guī, lost in his own little world, had long since given up hope. His eyes glazed, his mind detached from the reality of his impending doom.

But then their eyes met.

For a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze.

Pàng Guī's eyes, wide with terror and resignation.

He felt the weight of his own helplessness.

"I—… I don't want to die—…" Pàng Guī's voice cracked.

His hands trembled, and for the first time in his life, his chest felt too tight to breathe.

Tears welled up in Pàng Guī's eyes, spilling over, rolling down his cheeks like rivers of despair.

This wasn't just the fear of death—this was the terror of never having a chance to live.

Pàng Guī's was so small, so weak in the face of something so final.

Tears—real, raw, and vulnerable—fell unchecked, and he didn't know how to stop them.

"Hush~ now~ everything will be alright, boy…" Feng Shen's voice was gentle, a complete contrast to the chilling indifference he had shown moments ago.

His cold expression shifted, almost unnervingly, into a warm smile—a smile so out of place:

"Don't cry... soon~ you'll be dead~ another worthless ant crushed beneath my feet, a speck of dust in the endless void, someone who never mattered, never made a difference. You're just another casualty in a world that couldn't care less—how deliciously laughable."