I Really Am A Villain

New Novel🪶

That single slash tore through the heavens, as though it had cleaved a chasm across the sky itself.

He Changkong’s charging figure was blown backward before even touching the blade’s intent, sent flying by the residual force alone.

He staggered back more than ten steps before managing to steady himself.

“You’re clearly a Grand Emperor,” He Changkong said, eyes narrowing gravely, “so why do you possess the power of Primal Dao?”

“I already told you,” Xu Zimo said calmly. “When I want something, no one can stop me.”

He Changkong snorted coldly, clearly displeased by Xu Zimo’s arrogance.

“And when I refuse to give something up,” he said, “no one can take it from me.”

He stood suspended in the air, surrounded by a faint purple glow, exuding a sense of dominance, as if he alone stood apart from the world, looking down on all things.

The violet mist around him gathered closer and closer, and his aura swelled rapidly.

In the blink of an eye, a sacred might spread from him, filling the heavens.

The sky howled, torn by raging winds and surging power.

“And now?” He Changkong said with a cold sneer.

“Look beside you,” Xu Zimo replied with a faint smile.

He Changkong turned his head, and his face changed instantly.

Standing next to the Soulflower of Ghost Faces was another man.

It was Paimon.

What truly terrified He Changkong was that he hadn’t even noticed when Paimon had appeared there.

He stared at the man for a long time before finally speaking. “A Sage Monarch?”

Paimon only smiled silently. His right hand, shrouded in infernal energy, slowly reached toward the Soulflower of Ghost Faces.

“Who are you, really?” He Changkong asked quickly, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

“I am nothing more than a minor Infernal Archon under my lord’s command,” Paimon said, shaking his head as if his name wasn’t worth mentioning.

“Don’t joke with me,” He Changkong snapped. “He’s just a Grand Emperor, how could he possibly have that kind of follower?”

“There are matters in this world beyond your understanding,” Paimon said softly.

“Enough of your theatrics,” He Changkong growled. “No matter who you are, you will not take that flower.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Paimon replied evenly.

His right hand closed around the Soulflower of Ghost Faces. The flower had already developed a spirit of its own, resisting fiercely against his grasp. Its petals trembled, releasing a powerful aura as it struggled to break free.

“Courting death!” He Changkong roared.

The violet aura around him surged for millions of miles, his cultivation soaring until it reached the peak of his past saintly power.

“I’ve heard,” Xu Zimo said with a light smile, “that your ancestor once sought to destroy the world, and in doing so created a technique. Tell me, how much of it have you mastered?”

He Changkong was a descendant of the Wind God Tianwu. Long ago, Tianwu had nearly destroyed the world and was ultimately slain. The details of that event had been lost to the passing of ages, no one living knew the truth.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” He Changkong said coolly, unprovoked by the remark.

He closed his eyes briefly in concentration. A faint current of wind flickered in his gaze when he opened them again.

“Wind is everywhere,” he intoned solemnly. “It may pass gently… or it may sweep across heaven and earth.”

His voice carried the weight of invocation. The winds around him swirled and thickened, transforming from a gentle breeze into a raging tempest.

“Apocalypse Storm.”

The very air changed. The wind turned pitch black, as though it carried the deathly stillness before the end of the world.

The wind brushed across Xu Zimo’s face like knives, burning and biting at his skin.

All the winds of heaven and earth gathered around He Changkong, forming a massive tornado.

The black storm tore open the sky itself, leaving the land below riddled with gaping wounds.

“Kill!” He Changkong shouted, sending the apocalyptic storm surging toward Paimon.

“A fine technique indeed,” Paimon said with rare approval. “You’ve grasped the Primal Dao of Wind to its utmost limit. If you had reached the realm of Sage Monarch, perhaps, by your ancestor’s grace, you might have even touched upon the trace of a Primordial Edict. But in the end,” he continued, “your realm is far too low. Without crossing into Sage Monarch, how can you fight me?”

Even in his prime, He Changkong had been no more than a Saint Sovereign, just one step short of Sage Monarch. He had spent countless years preparing for that breakthrough, seeking to obtain two Life-Death Soul.

Paimon raised his right hand. The infernal energy of despair condensed into a great scythe.

Gripping the weapon, he looked like the embodiment of death itself.

As the storm roared toward him, he swung the scythe once.

At first glance, it seemed an ordinary motion, but when it struck, heaven and earth split apart. The small world around them shattered.

For an instant, He Changkong felt the illusion that the blade had passed through his own neck, harvesting his very soul.

A chilling cold swept through his body in that instant, even though he knew it was only an illusion.

With that single swing, the world itself seemed severed.

The Apocalypse Storm was obliterated, scattered into nothingness beneath the strike.

That, He Changkong thought in shock, was true apocalypse. True annihilation.

He swallowed hard, unable to speak for a long time.

He could only watch as Paimon plucked the Soulflower of Ghost Faces from the ground and handed it to Xu Zimo.

Finally, He Changkong gave a bitter smile. “I never should have provoked you,” he said quietly. “I’ve only invited a wolf into my home.”

He had used the Wind God’s inheritance as bait, intending to draw the Ancient Demons into his schemes, only to learn that when power reaches a certain height, all schemes are nothing but jokes.

“When will you hand me the rest of the inheritance?” Xu Zimo asked.

“You still have the face to ask?” He Changkong shot back. “Do you really think I’d give it to you?”

“Why not?” Xu Zimo said lightly. “What if I could help you ascend to Sage Monarch?”

“You’d return the Soulflower of Ghost Faces to me?” He Changkong asked, surprised.

“To help you ascend doesn’t necessarily require that flower,” Xu Zimo said with a smile.

“Oh? Then I’d like to hear this,” He Changkong replied skeptically.

He thought Xu Zimo was boasting. Samsara and restoration were immensely complex. Without the aid of divine treasures like the Soulflower of Ghost Faces, it was nearly impossible.

Even he himself no longer held much hope.

“You’ve been reborn,” Xu Zimo said. “What you lack is merely the baptism of Primal Dao and a touch of the Power of Creation.”

“The Power of Creation would rebuild your body. The power of Primal Dao would push you across the threshold to Sage Monarch. The two are inseparable.”

“You say it so easily,” He Changkong said with a wry smile. “The Power of Creation gives birth to life itself, that’s the domain of the heavens. All we can do is search for divine objects that contain a trace of it.”

“The Power of Creation,” Xu Zimo said softly, raising his right hand, “isn’t so difficult.”

At first, He Changkong didn’t take him seriously. But when he saw the radiance swirling in Xu Zimo’s palm, his eyes widened in disbelief.

His breath quickened.

“Th… the Power of Creation…?!” he stammered.

Then he looked Xu Zimo up and down in shock. “Don’t tell me, you’re the embodiment of Heaven itself?”