Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

Murong Qiudi

Murong Qiudi, the pride of the Murong family in Nanzhou, is twenty years old and at the peak of the Grandmaster level.

She was stunningly beautiful, dressed in purple, with a graceful figure and long, flowing hair. Her skirt swayed gently as she walked, like a walking painting.

But everyone who knows her knows that she is one of the most feared women in the martial arts world.

Because she was skilled in concealed weapons and poisons, she could kill people without them even realizing it.

Murong Qiudi didn't rush, but walked at a leisurely pace, a faint smile playing on her lips. In her hand, she toyed with a silver needle as thin as a cow's hair, deftly turning it between her slender fingers, shimmering with a cold, eerie blue light—the color of a potent poison.

Ahead, a rogue cultivator was bending down to pick a spiritual herb, completely unaware of the danger approaching.

Murong Qiudi stopped and tilted her head to look at him, a casual smile in her eyes.

"I want that spiritual herb too," she said softly, her voice gentle, as if she were talking to herself.

Then, she flicked her fingers.

The silver needle flew out silently, as fast as a streak of light, without making a sound as it pierced the air.

The rogue cultivator's body stiffened abruptly, letting out a short, painful scream before collapsing to the ground. His face still bore the joyful expression he had when picking the spiritual herbs, but his pupils were dilated, and black blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

He died instantly.

Murong Qiudi walked over, bent down to pick up the spirit herb, sniffed it, and nodded in satisfaction: "Not bad."

She tucked the herb into her sleeve and continued walking at a leisurely pace, as if she had just done something insignificant.

Her smile never changed from beginning to end.

独孤信

Dugu Xin walked through a desolate desert.

Yellow sand filled the sky, the sun blazed overhead, and waves of heat rose. The sand beneath your feet was scorching hot, and the sunlight overhead was blinding.

He was thin and stern-faced, his black robes remaining motionless in the sandstorm. A slender sword hung at his waist, its scabbard as black as ink, utterly devoid of any decoration.

The Dugu family's swordsmanship is known for its unpredictability; every strike draws blood.

Suddenly, three rogue cultivators appeared ahead, blocking his path. All three were at the late stage of the Grandmaster realm, each wielding a weapon, their eyes greedily fixed on the bulging storage pouch at Dugu Xin's waist.

"Hand over your treasures, and I'll spare your life," the leader shouted, his voice hoarse and roguish.

Dugu Xin stopped, raised his head, and looked at them coldly. There was no fear or anger in his eyes, only an extreme indifference—as if he were looking at three corpses.

"I'll say it again," the leader said impatiently, "Hand over the treasure, or else—"

He didn't finish speaking.

Because Dugu Xin drew his sword.

A flash of sword light.

A sword strike that was incredibly fast.

Before the three of them could even blink, they felt a cool sensation on their throats, and something warm gushed out.

They looked down—and saw a sea of ​​red.

That was my own blood.

The three slowly collapsed, never knowing how they died.

Dugu Xin sheathed his sword, not a drop of blood staining its blade. He stepped over the three corpses and continued forward, his pace unchanged.

The wind blew, and the yellow sand buried the bloodstains.

Long Aotian

Long Aotian, the prodigy of the Long family of the East Sea, is twenty-two years old and at the peak of the Grandmaster level.

He was tall and imposing, with a broad back and a strong waist, a resolute face, and long, casually flowing hair, exuding a wild and unrestrained air. His aura was domineering, and every step he took caused the ground to tremble slightly.

The Long family's secret technique, "Heavenly Dragon Manual," is a powerful and fierce fist style, known as "one punch can break ten thousand techniques."

Long Aotian was walking on a mountain road when a landslide blocked his way. Huge rocks and mud piled up like mountains.

He stopped, looked up at the pile of rubble, and frowned.

"The detour is too far," he muttered to himself. "Perhaps..."

He took a deep breath, clenched his right fist, and a terrifying power gathered in it. A faint dragon's roar emanated from his body, causing the surrounding rocks to fall in a rustling sound.

"open!"

He threw a punch.

The force of the punch, like the roar of a dragon and the howl of a tiger, slammed into the mountainside with a deafening boom. Rock fragments flew everywhere, dust filled the air, and the entire mountain trembled.

As the smoke cleared, a large hole, taller than a person, was blasted into the mountainside, and rocks were scattered all over the ground.

Long Aotian withdrew his fist, strode through, and continued forward. Not even a scratch was broken on his fist.

"Not bad." He flexed his fingers, his face expressionless.

Forget Me

The selfless little monk walked along a small river.

The river water was crystal clear, and the banks were covered in lush green grass, wildflowers in full bloom, and butterflies fluttering about. It seemed as if this place was isolated from the killings of the outside world, forming a tranquil world of its own.

He walked with an air of selflessness, each step creating a fleeting, golden lotus blossom beneath his feet. A warm, gentle Buddhist light emanated from him, dispelling the surrounding yin energy and killing intent.

Wherever he passed, restrictions automatically dissipated and traps automatically calmed down. Some withered flowers and plants even bloomed again after he passed by, as if they had been given new life by the Buddha's light.

"Amitabha Buddha." He chanted the Buddha's name softly, lost in thought, his gaze as peaceful as still water.

Behind him followed seven or eight rogue cultivators. These people stayed close to him, not daring to leave his side for even a moment—because following Wangwo was the safest option; wherever he went, all the restrictions were rendered ineffective, while the treasures remained intact.

I didn't chase them away, nor did I offer to lead the way; I simply walked my own path quietly, as if those people behind me didn't exist at all.

One of the rogue cultivators couldn't help but ask, "Little Master, why are you helping us? We're complete strangers. Aren't you afraid we'll steal your treasures?"

Wangwo smiled slightly, turned to look at him, and said in a clear, spring-like voice, "All beings are equal, and those with affinity will be rewarded. It is your affinity that you can keep up with this humble monk."

The rogue cultivator was stunned for a moment, then his eyes reddened slightly, and he clasped his hands in a fist and said, "Your kindness, little master, will be remembered forever."

Wangwo shook his head: "Benefactor, there's no need to thank this humble monk. Thank yourself."

Another rogue cultivator whispered, "Little Master, aren't you afraid someone will ambush you when you're not looking?"

His gaze was calm and selfless: "If someone wants to harm this poor monk, that is their karma; if this poor monk does not harm them, that is this poor monk's cultivation. One must bear the consequences of one's own actions, so why be afraid?"

Everyone was deeply moved upon hearing this, and their gazes toward Wang Zi were filled with even greater respect.

Guiyuan

Guiyuan, the young Taoist priest, walked through the mountains and forests, his feet treading on thick fallen leaves, surrounded by towering ancient trees.

He lightly swept his whisk, a pure aura swirling around him, his steps unhurried. He moved slowly and deliberately, each step landing precisely on the gate of life; the restrictions beneath his feet seemed to vanish, automatically parting to make way for him.

"The Tao follows nature," Guiyuan murmured, his gaze as deep as an ancient well.

Ahead, a massive black bear blocked their path. The bear was entirely black with scarlet eyes and exuded a savage aura, clearly a master-level demonic beast.

The black bear opened its mouth wide and let out a deafening roar, revealing its gleaming white fangs.

The rogue cultivator behind him turned pale with fright and retreated repeatedly.

Guiyuan, however, showed no fear. He stepped forward, bowed slightly, and said in a calm tone, "This humble Taoist priest is just passing by; please make way."

The black bear stared at Guiyuan with its scarlet eyes for a moment, and the ferocity in its gaze gradually faded, replaced by a kind of... awe?

It let out a low growl and actually stepped aside to make way, even lowering its head.

Guiyuan smiled and nodded: "Thank you."

He calmly walked past the black bear, his whisk lightly brushing its forehead. The black bear let out a low whimper and lay down on the ground like a docile dog.

The rogue cultivator behind him stared in disbelief, his jaw nearly dropping.

"What...what kind of magic is this?" someone stammered.

Guiyuan didn't turn his head, his voice drifting over: "All things have a spirit, treat each other with sincerity. If you have good intentions, it will not harm you."