Young Master Feather froze, his body stiffening. Slowly, he turned around and said,
"Brother, I didn't attack you just now. Do you really want to kill me too?"
From the way John Lopez had killed Gavin Wenson—so cleanly, so effortlessly—Young Master Feather had already realized one harsh truth: he was no match for this man. Not even close. And with that terrifying speed, escape would be nearly impossible.
There was only one option left.
Reason.
Yes, reason and civility.
John Lopez shook his head. His expression was calm, but his eyes were deadly cold.
"You're right—you didn't lay a hand on me," he said. "But the idea came from you. And worse, you made one fatal mistake—you dared to set your sights on my sister."
Of course, John Lopez understood how things truly were. Had Young Master Feather not seen his overwhelming strength, would he be trying to talk things through now? Not a chance.
"The moment you knew you couldn't win, you decided to negotiate. What kind of world do you think this is—where you plot and scheme, and walk away scot-free just because the tables turn?"
What enraged John Lopez most was Young Master Feather's intentions toward Tracy Linch. Gavin Wenson had been explicit: they wanted both the treasure and the beauty.
But Tracy Linch wasn't just anyone—she was someone sacred in John Lopez's heart. Someone who could not, and would not, be touched.
Letting Young Master Feather walk away after that?
Impossible.
John's eyes narrowed.
"Also, let me correct your assumption. I'm not a sorcerer."
Young Master Feather said nothing, his silence heavy with disbelief.
Not a sorcerer?
Then what the hell was he?
He'd just turned Gavin Wenson into a withered husk, drained like a ghost in the wind—and yet claimed not to practice sorcery?
Liar.
And it wasn't just Young Master Feather who didn't believe him. Nancy Loop and Jenifer stood frozen behind him, equally skeptical.
They believed what they saw—and everything about John screamed sorcery.
John Lopez sighed, shaking his head in helpless frustration. He couldn't explain the truth, and frankly, he no longer cared to.
He moved on, voice cool and commanding.
"You have two choices. One: you die. Two: hand over a drop of refined blood."
Everyone around him tensed. The words hit like a thunderclap.
The first choice needed no explanation. The second? Everyone knew exactly what he meant.
Cultivators were not like martial artists. For martial artists, ordinary blood could be used as a control mechanism. But for cultivators—those who had gone through a qualitative transformation—ordinary blood was worthless.
Only refined blood held value.
And to produce refined blood, a cultivator had to painstakingly condense their life essence over time. It wasn't just energy—it was their very potential. At critical moments, refined blood could mean the difference between life and death, unleashing latent power to escape even the deadliest of situations.
This was the same principle behind the Taboo Pill—a pill that could instantly condense refined blood in exchange for long-lasting side effects. That was why Nancy Loop had hesitated to take it so readily.
By demanding a drop of refined blood, John wasn't merely teaching Young Master Feather a lesson—he was issuing a warning. A leash. A way to ensure the man never stepped out of line again.
Young Master Feather's face turned grim. He blinked and said,
"Refined blood isn't so easily formed. Many cultivators don't manage to create more than a few drops in their lifetime... I haven't even formed one yet."
A blatant lie.
He didn't want to hand over refined blood because doing so meant surrendering control. With a single drop, John Lopez could suppress his cultivation, weaken him in an instant.
No, Young Master Feather wouldn't allow that.
John Lopez raised an eyebrow, smiling coldly.
"So your choice... is to die?"
Die?
Are you insane?
Young Master Feather's face contorted with fury. He clenched his jaw, then snarled,
"We'll meet again, sorcerer. I'll settle this debt later!"
He had made up his mind.
Burning with resentment, he consumed all three drops of refined blood that he had painstakingly cultivated over the years. A surge of wild power erupted from within him. His aura exploded, his body glowing with a violent radiance.
But he didn't turn to fight.
He ran.
He turned into a blur, a beam of light streaking across the sky, ten times faster than before.
He would flee to the Cloud School—seek reinforcements and come back to crush John Lopez.
But just as he reached the peak of his speed—
Hiss!
A red flash tore through the sky.
Bang!
The hilt of a glowing sword smashed directly into Young Master Feather's chest, knocking him out of the air. He spat a mouthful of blood as he crashed to the ground.
It was Excalibur.
"Damn it!"
He coughed violently, agony coursing through his ribs. But before he could react, a cold chill slid down his spine.
John Lopez was behind him.
He hadn't even heard him move.
"I respect your choice."
John's voice was low, like the final toll of a funeral bell.
But just as he was about to strike—
Boom.
A terrifying aura descended from above like a curtain of darkness blotting out the sun. The pressure made the very air heavy. Even the ground seemed to tremble.
Everyone froze.
Young Master Feather's eyes lit up in desperation and hope.
"Uncle Reuben! Help me!"
He bolted toward the approaching figure.
John Lopez halted, eyes narrowing as he studied the newcomer—a middle-aged man with a weathered face, walking calmly and confidently under that suffocating aura.
"Young man," the man said, his tone grave. "I don't care whether you're a cultivator or a sorcerer. I had no intention of interfering in your affairs... but you've gone too far. This level of aggression is unacceptable."
John Lopez gave a thin smile.
"And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
The middle-aged man remained unfazed.
"It doesn't matter who I am. I'm just a servant, assigned to protect my young master."
Young Master Feather, panting and clutching his chest, turned to him angrily.
"Uncle Reuben! If you've been guarding me all this time, why didn't you show yourself earlier? I lost three drops of refined blood because of you!"
Uncle Reuben shook his head, voice flat.
"Forgive me, young master. Your father instructed that you must not rely on me unless absolutely necessary. I've been following you since you left Cloud School. Had this sorcerer not pushed you to your limit, I wouldn't have acted at all."
Young Master Feather scowled, frustrated but helpless.
"Enough talk. Kill that bastard for me!"
His rage had reached the boiling point. Three drops of life-saving blood—gone. Just like that.
The only thing that could soothe the pain now was vengeance.
Uncle Reuben nodded.
"Of course, young master. Now that I'm here... I'll deliver you the sorcerer's head."