Stepping on one while elevating another—this will forever remain the quintessential practical trope of mockery.
It’s apparent that Orintel is desperately trying not to let Fu Qian’s words provoke his emotions.
But unfortunately, the very act of reacting signifies that those emotions have already been stirred.
It seems my earlier impression was accurate: within The Sect, the Hunters’ status appears rather… delicate.
Even amongst their own ranks, the feelings toward them seem rather complex.
“Regarding your earlier statement, am I to understand that, compared to The Sect, the Bloodline Clan is a group more favored by the Stars Association?”
Having exerted great effort to calm himself, Orintel finally speaks.
“The glory and blessings we pride ourselves on—are they, in your view, merely childish and laughable?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
Fu Qian displays a remarkably laid-back demeanor.
“Heh… It’s a shame that, aside from you—a self-important anomaly—I can’t see any of this supposed transcendence you speak of.”
Orintel is visibly reluctant to accept this, his chilling laughter spilling over.
“That’s right, you can’t see it.”
Fu Qian remains calm and poised.
…
“Are you implying that the very fact we know nothing about your inner workings is in itself evidence of our own immaturity?”
Apparently, love does foster growth, as the Orintel standing here now appears to have gained a newfound sense of enlightenment.
“No need for humility. Before I took the initiative to reveal myself, you weren’t even sure the Bloodline Clan existed, were you?”
Fu Qian confirms his deduction, generously fanning the flames of animosity toward Brother Jake’s clan without hesitation.
“It’s no fault of yours, really. After all, my kin can’t even be bothered to derive a sense of superiority from you anymore.”
“When you’re born with things others will never attain in a lifetime, envy or resentment—none of it really affects you anymore.”
This statement, however, isn’t entirely true. Yack and his clan clearly haven’t cultivated such magnanimity just yet.
Concealing their identity is one thing, but covertly chasing superiority still seems an undeniable pursuit—it’s the proverbial elegance of veiled contradictions.
But given the shared camaraderie of collaborative diagnostics, Fu Qian still opts for a touch of unreserved praise, further deepening the discord.
“For example?”
The effect is immediate. Orintel sneers coldly, as if demanding justification for his newfound insight.
“The Taboo Decree—you call it that, yes?”
This, of course, poses no challenge for Fu Qian, who effortlessly weaponizes the terminology.
“Regrettably, every member of the Bloodline Clan is born already mastering what you sanctify as the Saint’s threshold—we call it the Stars Association’s greeting gift.”
“And due to the purity of our existence, wielding it requires no cost whatsoever.”
“You think I’ll buy that—”
Orintel doesn’t manage to finish his sentence, interrupted by the sight of a spear materializing with deliberate grace—a crimson weapon etched in blood-tinged patterns, slowly forming.
“Spear of Fated Death.”
Fu Qian’s movements exude casual ease, as he boldly borrows Brother Jake’s infamous lines.
“Its target enters an unstoppable spiral of withering, no matter the efforts made to halt it.”
“But don’t get too nervous—even for the Bloodline Clan, the percentage of members who can wield it is quite low.”
“You’re lying. I don’t sense the presence of any decree emanating from it.”
As the intended target of the spear, Orintel struggles against his discomfort, grinding his teeth in skepticism.
“Indeed, you can’t sense it.”
The other doesn’t even bother refuting him, instead echoing his words with casual agreement.
…
This brief remark, however, naturally compels Orintel to recall his earlier inability to perceive the Bloodline Clan’s alleged transcendence.
Cross-referencing these impressions, his gaze momentarily flickers with doubt, his confidence shaken.
Of course, his judgment wasn’t wrong.
Despite trying his best to replicate it, Fu Qian has only managed to mimic fifty to sixty percent of the Spear of Fated Death’s appearance.
The material, unmistakably his own flesh and blood, further undermines its supposed efficacy, which remains entirely absent.
But that hardly matters—nuclear deterrence doesn’t require actual deployment.
Fu Qian doesn’t even offer Orintel additional time to marvel at the display, swiftly dissipating the spear in his grasp.
“I chose to showcase this merely for its straightforward impact. Additionally, I can reveal one more thing: I actually walked in here myself, and your people even opened the door for me. You can verify this later if needed.”
Faced with Orintel’s less-than-pleased expression, Fu Qian grows increasingly self-assured.