SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

In the night, all the women of Kent were enjoying the effects of new treasures. Kent was guiding them one by one.

The night was heavy over Phoenix Range, stars veiled in thick clouds, yet the entrance of Kent’s pleasure residence blazed with torches. There, kneeling on the stone steps, the entire Han family had gathered—patriarch, elders, youths, women, even children. Over two hundred members, once proud and cruel rulers of Kulu Province, now knelt with foreheads pressed to the ground.

On both sides of the road, servants lined up with heavy chests, their lids open to reveal the glitter of jewels, spirit stones, ancient scrolls, beast cores, and rare medicines. The sight alone was enough to make the spectators’ mouths water—such treasures were enough to fund a sect for a century.

Yet none dared to step forward. They watched from alleys and rooftops, whispering.

“Is that… the Han family of Kulu nation? Kneeling?!”

“They once whipped the slave village for fun, and now… they beg before Kent!” A member of the Kulu nation answered.

“Look, even the patriarch himself is kneeling, knees bleeding into the stones!”

“This is karma. The heavens truly have eyes.”

At the center, Patriarch Han knelt with trembling hands pressed to the ground, face pale as paper. His knees, already torn, bled freely, staining the polished stone red. The elders behind him did not dare groan, though their bones cracked from kneeling for hours. Even the young heirs who once strutted through markets with arrogance were silent, their little foreheads pressed low.

But Kent never came.

He had returned from the secret treasury, eyes still calm from the weight of heavenly inheritance, and had a look from window without so much as a glance. The great doors of his pleasure house shut behind him, leaving the Han family to kneel in the cold.

The gossip swelled as the night deepened.

“Golden Heir does not forgive easily…”

“Will they kneel until death?”

“Perhaps he will never accept their pleas.”

By midnight, the blood from their knees painted the stone steps crimson. By dawn, their bodies swayed with exhaustion, yet none dared rise. The servants, pale and trembling, still held the heavy boxes aloft.

And then the great doors creaked open.

The crowd’s breath caught.

Kent stepped out, his white robes unstained, his hair falling loosely behind him. His face was calm, expression unreadable, yet the silence he carried pressed heavier than any storm. His wives stood behind him, their eyes sharp, watching.

Patriarch Han’s lips trembled as he raised his head just enough to see the figure before him. Tears fell unbidden. With a voice hoarse from sleepless night, he begged, “Golden Heir… forgive… forgive our arrogance. Our family was blind, unworthy. From this moment, we are dust beneath your feet. Please… grant mercy!”

The two hundred voices behind him echoed in pitiful unison. “Mercy! Mercy!”

Kent’s eyes flicked over them without warmth. He walked down the steps slowly, his footsteps echoing like hammer strikes in their hearts. When he stopped before the kneeling patriarch, he looked down, expression carved from ice.

“You brought wealth?” His voice was calm, but carried to every ear.

Patriarch Han pushed forward, nearly prostrating. “Yes! All our treasures, all our stores, every jewel and scroll… please accept it as proof of our repentance.”

Kent turned his gaze toward the rows of open boxes. Spirit stones glowed, scrolls pulsed faintly, artifacts hummed as if weeping. He gave a faint nod. “Very well. I accept.”

Relief washed over the Han family like rain after drought. Some wept openly.

But Kent’s next words cut like knives.

“Yet wealth is nothing. Blood is the true seal of loyalty.” His eyes turned sharp, voice like thunder rolling over the hills. “From this day, the Han family will swear blood slavery to Ai Ping, mistress of the slave village you tormented for generations. Your lives, your wealth, your children—belong to her word. This is the only path I offer. Refuse, and perish today.”

The crowd gasped. The slave village, once whipped and spat upon, now stood above the mighty Han clan. Karma turned in the span of a night.

Patriarch Han’s face went pale as ash. His lips trembled. “Golden Heir… blood slavery? Our lineage—”

Before he could finish, Kent’s voice cut him down, sharper than swords. “Your lineage is already broken. Do not pretend pride before me. Accept… or watch your clan erased here and now.”

The patriarch’s eyes wavered, then fell. With shaking hands, he bit his finger, his blood dripping into the sigil prepared by Kent’s spiritual aura. One by one, the elders, heirs, and children followed, their blood binding into crimson chains that wove themselves into a seal before Kent.

When the last drop fell, Kent lifted his sword lightly. The seal dissolved into air, flowing toward the direction of the slave village, where Ai Ping would awaken to find her authority bound in blood.

The Han family had become her slaves.

The patriarch collapsed forward, tears streaming, his forehead banging the ground. “We submit! We submit fully to your will, Golden Heir! Please… spare us.”

Kent’s eyes narrowed. For a long moment, he simply stared. Then, without warning, his hand whipped across the patriarch’s face.

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The sound rang through the entire street. The patriarch fell sideways, blood and teeth spilling from his mouth. Gasps erupted from the spectators; even the Han family members trembled harder.

Kent’s voice was low, deadly. “That slap is your reminder. Do not forget the weight of your sins. Do not forget whom you serve. If you stray even once… the tide will drown your clan completely.”

The patriarch did not dare rise. Blood ran down his chin, but he pressed his face into the stones and whispered, “We will never forget… never…”

Just then a small convoy of carriages rolled to the scene, and at its head was Ai Ping.

She stepped down gracefully, though her heart trembled at the sight before her: the once-mighty Han family—patriarch, elders, youths, even children—still kneeling on the blood-stained stones, their heads bowed, their faces pale with exhaustion and shame. Behind them, open chests of wealth shimmered in the daylight like spilled fragments of heaven.