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When the Cyan Sect arrived, there was no song of swords.

At the edge of the Black Abyss Rift Valley, where countless demons had gathered, the roar of the churning Blood River and the drone of swarming insect clouds—all this clamor, in the instant a cyan Escape Light tore through the night, simultaneously fell silent for a breath.

It was like all birds meeting a phoenix, all beasts encountering a qilin—an instinctual deference, born from the depths of the bloodline, to a being of absolute perfection.

The Escape Light landed on the naturally formed Black Rock Highlands to the east of the rift valley.

The light subsided.

Revealing a figure.

It was a middle-aged scholar.

He wore a simple, long robe of cyan cloth, the material unremarkable. There was no embroidery, not even along the lapels. From his waist hung only a White Jade Pendant of ordinary make, a faded cyan tassel dangling below it.

His features were plain.

One might even call them gentle.

His brow was relaxed and his eyelids were slightly lowered, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, as if greeting an old friend after a long separation.

His aura was as peaceful as a spring breeze caressing willows. The piercing sharpness expected of a Sword Cultivator was nowhere to be found on him—not a single trace.

He just stood there quietly.

He was like a statue of a Mountain Deity in an obscure temple hidden deep in the mountains—blackened by incense, worshipped by none, yet still wearing a faint smile with downcast eyes.

But everyone who saw him knew.

This was the Cyan Sect’s Acting Sect Leader—San Si Master.

When Fengduo arrived, the horizon first turned red.

It wasn’t firelight.

It was a softer, warmer, yet more commanding glow, spreading slowly from the far western sky. It was like an immense bolt of Shu brocade, dyed with cinnabar and gold leaf, unfurling across the night.

Wherever that glow passed, the Yin Wind and cold that had clung to the Black Abyss Rift Valley for ten thousand years melted away without a sound, like spring snow in the sun.

Immediately after, a rich fragrance wafted over.

It was not the scent of common incense, nor of any flower.

It was the deep, resonant scent that seeps from a parasol tree where phoenixes have roosted, tempered by flames over countless years—a thread of burnt sweetness and warmth, carrying a hint of a distant, primordial age.

Nine Simurghs, their bodies wreathed in flowing crimson-gold flames, pulled a magnificent Phoenix Carriage carved entirely from Ten Thousand Year Fire Jade. They descended slowly from within that all-encompassing, crimson-gold radiance.

The Phoenix Carriage had not yet landed.

When a lazy, indifferent whisper drifted from within the carriage, a sound that made every male Cultivator within a thousand-zhang radius unconsciously lower their gaze:

"This wind... it’s a bit chilly."

As her voice fell, the beaded curtain of the Phoenix Carriage stirred.

A figure was already seated atop the naturally formed, jet-black stone dais to the south of the rift valley.

Fengduo’s Acting Sect Leader—Lady Jiu Li.

She wore a Seven-Colored Feather Robe.

It was impossible to tell what the robe was woven from. As light flowed across it, it shifted from the deep blues and emeralds of a peacock’s tail, to the orange-reds and golden-whites of the sunrise, and then to the crimson-purples and deep vermilions of sunset clouds.

The shifting of each color seemed to follow some ancient, noble rhythm, a sight that was utterly mesmerizing.

She wore a Nine Phoenix Bead Crown, upon which nine phoenixes poised for flight were cast from deep-sea crimson gold. Each held a thumb-sized Dust-Repelling Fire Bead in its beak. The soft glow of the beads illuminated her graceful, peerless beauty, making her appear like a Divine Consort who had descended to the mortal world.

Her posture was not at all formal.

One hand propped up her chin, her elbow resting on the armrest of the stone dais. Her other hand rested casually on her knee, a fingertip tapping lightly and intermittently.

Each time that slender fingertip came down, a faint ripple of fire would spread through the air, like the silent rings from a pebble tossed into a still lake.

As she blinked, a faint firelight seemed to flow within her eyes.

Wherever her gaze landed, the very air grew faintly hot.

When the Yellow Springs Netherworld arrived, there was no light.

On the edge of the once-empty wasteland north of the rift valley, a fog suddenly arose.

The fog was extremely faint.

So faint, one had to stare intently to even perceive the thin, grayish-white wisps in the air.

And yet, this fog, so faint it was nearly nonexistent, made every Cultivator within a thousand-zhang radius take a slow, unanimous step back. This included the veteran demons of the Blood River Sect, who were inured to death and had hearts of iron, and the assassins of Soul-Devouring Cliff, who consorted with spirits daily and had long forgotten the meaning of fear.

Within the fog, a blot of ink began to spread.

At first, it was just a faint wisp of black, like a stray drop of ink a mischievous child had dripped onto rice paper. But it quickly bled outward, expanding and solidifying.

Finally, it coalesced into a human silhouette.

The silhouette shifted from ethereal to solid, from faint to dense, like an ink wash painting of a person that, under the viewer’s gaze, was touched by the artist’s final brushstroke and came completely to life.

This was an old man.

His face was gaunt, his cheekbones high, and on his chin grew a sparse goatee, which was already mostly white.

He wore a scholar’s robe of deep black. The fabric was not silk but a coarse linen, as if just removed from a coffin, still carrying the earthy scent of the grave.

Intricate Reincarnation Patterns were embroidered along the collar and cuffs in Silver Thread, so dense that staring at them for too long would make one feel their very Divine Soul being pulled away.

He held a Bamboo Scroll in his hand.

The Bamboo Scroll was a dark, murky yellow—the kind of color achieved only after being buried for a thousand years, steeped in corpse fluid, and dried by the Yin Wind. It was a hue saturated with time and deathly silence.

The edges of the bamboo slips were slightly worn, and the hemp cord binding them together had faded to a grayish-white.

He just stood there quietly, holding the Bamboo Scroll.

Unspeaking.

Unmoving.

He didn’t even seem like a living person.

Only in the depths of his slightly open eyes could one faintly glimpse two clusters of pale, ghostly green light, spinning slowly like Netherworld Candlelight.

The Yellow Springs Netherworld Acting Sect Leader—Master Revolving Wheel.

The Three Sects had arrived.

Cyan Sect’s San Si Master stood on the eastern Black Rock Highlands, as plain as a mountain deity in some forgotten temple.

Fengduo’s Lady Jiu Li sat on the southern jet-black dais, as magnificent as a Divine Consort gracing the mortal world.

The Yellow Springs Netherworld’s Master Revolving Wheel stood silently at the edge of the northern wasteland, as somber and obscure as a specter from an ancient tomb.

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