In the majestic grand hall, a voice, cold as ice and imbued with absolute authority, resonated like that of a judge. Below, Ye Cheng stood silently, his complexion as pale as white paper. Hearing the cold, merciless voice, he slowly clenched his fists, perhaps with such force that his fingernails dug deep into his palms, drawing fresh blood. His Dantian had been destroyed, severing his path to immortal cultivation. Ye Cheng let out a laugh, but it was a laugh filled with profound sorrow. Three days prior, he had descended the mountain to gather herbs for his sect, only to be ambushed by a master from an enemy sect. Despite the attack, Ye Cheng desperately protected the spiritual herbs, surviving countless dangers to return to his sect. Yet, with his Dantian crippled, he was now nothing more than a discarded waste. What Ye Cheng never imagined was that his loyalty held no value in the eyes of these high and mighty figures. They merely wished to expel him from the sect as quickly as possible, treating him as if he were mere trash to be thrown away.