I Was Forced to Marry a “Trash” Cultivator, But She Turned Out to Be a Reborn Empress!

The crisis of the demon souls had abated, leaving a lingering scent of ozone and scorched earth.

The survivors immediately sank into cross-legged meditation, desperately trying to circulate their Qi and restore their depleted reservoirs. These rogue cultivators weren’t like the pampered scions of the great clans or the inner disciples of major sects; they lacked the bottomless vials of [Spirit-Restoring Pills] that others took for granted. Every drop of spiritual power was precious, squeezed from the air through grueling effort.

A few of the more observant cultivators, however, didn’t close their eyes. They stared fixedly at Han Shan.

“Everyone, the fall of Fellow Daoist Zhang is a tragedy that weighs heavily on my heart,” Han Shan began. His voice was pitched low, thick with a performative grief that hit all the right notes. “But the ruins of the Sword Asking Pavilion are just ahead. We must honor his memory by pressing on.”

Shen Xian stood at the periphery, his gaze as sharp and cold as a winter morning. He noticed that as Han Shan spoke, the old man’s left hand never strayed far from a bulging [Storage Bag] at his waist—the very one he had liberated from Zhang Mingyu’s cooling corpse.

“Senior Han,” one rogue ventured, a deep frown creasing his brow. “That demon ambush felt… wrong. And when Fellow Daoist Zhang was overwhelmed, you were standing right beside him.”

Han Shan’s face didn’t just darken; it froze into a mask of pure malevolence. “And what, exactly, are you implying? The demonic remnants of this valley are fickle and lethal. Life and death are dictated by fate, not by my proximity. Am I, at my age, expected to be the nanny for every cultivator who lacks the skill to stay alive?”

To punctuate his point, he let his full Golden Core cultivation base erupt. The sheer pressure of his aura hit the air like a physical shockwave, rattling the soul of the mid-stage Golden Core challenger.

With Zhang Mingyu dead, the alliance no longer had a counterweight. Han Shan held absolute authority, and he intended to use it. The group fell into a cowed, heavy silence.

Han Shan snorted, his eyes scanning the crowd for further dissent. Seeing none, he turned and continued toward the pavilion, his gait noticeably lighter, his robes fluttering with a new, stolen wealth.

Shen Xian watched the back of the old man’s head with a faint, detached amusement. Deception and treachery were the lifeblood of the cultivation world. As long as the old fox didn’t try to bite him, Shen Xian was content to treat the journey as a front-row seat to a high-stakes theater production. It was certainly more honest than the polite backstabbing he witnessed at family banquets.

The group moved forward through the thinning mist until the bronze pavilion loomed large. The ancient structure was a testament to a forgotten age, its walls mottled with sword scars that still hummed with residual power.

Everyone began to breathe a sigh of relief. The sanctuary was in sight.

“Halt!”

A sharp command cut through the air. A team of cultivators in pristine, uniform-style magic robes stepped out from behind a stand of shattered sword steles. At their head stood a middle-aged man with a square jaw and an arrogant tilt to his chin. He radiated the oppressive weight of a Golden Core at the peak of Great Perfection.

Behind him were a dozen disciples, each moving with the synchronized grace of sect training. Even the weakest among them was at the late Golden Core stage. Compared to the ragged, blood-stained rogues, they looked like gods descending into a gutter.

Han Shan’s first instinct was to lead his people on a wide detour. He recognized the insignia. They weren’t from the “Two Sects or Three Teachings” that ruled the province, but the Qingwu Sect was a regional powerhouse with a Nascent Soul Great Perfection True Lord at its helm. They weren’t a force a group of loose sand could withstand.

“I said, stay where you are,” a cultivator with a hooked nose and thin, knife-like lips sauntered forward. He blocked the path, his eyes raking over the bedraggled rogues with visible disgust. “When did the Ten Thousand Corpses Tomb start doubling as a refugee camp?”

The rogues stiffened. The mockery bit deep, especially after the harrowing battle they had just survived. Yet, despite the fire in their eyes, not one dared to draw their blade. The disparity in power was a mountain they couldn’t climb, and they were already exhausted.

“Fellow Daoists of the Qingwu Sect,” Han Shan said, his voice deep and gravelly. “We may be rogues, but we are not the beggars you describe.”

“Heh,” the hooked-nose man scoffed. To him, anyone without a sect lineage was essentially a stray dog.

The leading middle-aged man stepped forward then, his gaze sweeping over them with the condescending pity of a man tossing a scrap to a beast. “The Sword Asking Pavilion is a death trap for the uninitiated. Why not travel under the protection of the Qingwu Sect? We will provide the safety you clearly lack. Of course…” He let the word hang in the air like a hook. “Seventy percent of everything you find will be surrendered to the sect as a protection fee.”

The rogue alliance erupted in a hushed, angry murmur. Seventy percent? That wasn’t a fee; it was pillaging.

“By what right?” a younger cultivator shouted, his face flushed with indignation.

“Hmm?” The Qingwu leader narrowed his eyes. He released his Golden Core pressure like a falling mountain, the sheer weight of his aura forcing the air from the lungs of the rogues and making their bones creak.

Shen Xian watched with clinical interest. He wanted to see how Han Shan—the master of the “long game”—would handle a bigger predator.

“However,” the leader continued, his aura suddenly vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, allowing the rogues to gasp for air. “If you choose to formally join the Qingwu Sect as auxiliary disciples for this expedition, that rule is waived. We work as one, and we share the spoils as one.”

He offered a smile that was theoretically gentle but felt like the glint of a blade. This was the classic squeeze: the threat of robbery followed by the “generosity” of assimilation.

“Why hesitate?” the hooked-nose disciple mocked. “Do you truly think a bunch of strays can navigate the deeper layers? You’ve barely crawled through the wasteland and you’re already half-dead. Dream on.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “Follow us, and you might actually see the second layer.”

The “second layer.” The words acted like a spell. The first layer held the common legacies, but the second layer was rumored to hold the true treasures of the Sword Sect. For a rogue, even a glimpse of such things was a once-in-a-thousand-years opportunity.

“I… I will join,” a grey-robed rogue stammered, stepping forward. His eyes were wide with a mix of fear and desperate greed. He had seen Zhang Mingyu die; he knew that in this place, a man without a backer was just a corpse waiting to happen. He checked his storage bag—his pills were gone. He wouldn’t survive another mile alone.

“Me as well,” another gritted his teeth and followed.

One by one, eight of the rogues defected. They kept their heads low, their minds already churning with calculations—some hoping for healing supplies, others planning to betray the sect the moment they found a better opening. But for now, they chose to be “dogs with masters” rather than “dead wolves.”

Han Shan’s face turned an ashen shade of grey, but he remained silent. He couldn’t stop them, and he knew it.

The Qingwu leader smiled, satisfied. “A wise man knows how to adapt to the times. You have made the heroic choice.”

The rogue alliance had been gutted. Only a dozen remained, and among them, Shen Xian was the most conspicuous. Clad in his [Xuantian Qingyun Robe]—a top-tier Spirit Treasure that shimmered with a faint, ethereal light—he looked like a phoenix among crows.

The hooked-nose disciple’s eyes narrowed, locking onto Shen Xian like a venomous snake sensing heat.

“Well, well,” he purred, a predatory grin spreading across his face as he sauntered toward Shen Xian. “It seems someone here has already stumbled upon quite the ‘opportunity’ in this graveyard.”