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Atop the tallest black cliff, directly to the north.

Qi Yun stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

His deep blue Daoist Robe remained completely still against the Yin Wind from the rift valley, only the edge of his great cloak occasionally rising in a silent arc.

Half a step behind him, Black Mountain, Qian Xin, Qing Li, and the other core disciples of the Holy Sect followed in silence.

The four sides faced one another.

Myriad demons held their breath.

No one spoke.

Under the silent gaze of a million cultivators, only the ten-thousand-year, ceaseless Yin Wind from the depths of the rift valley issued a low, mournful moan, as if weeping.

Suddenly.

The old man in the jet-black scholar’s robe, standing silently at the edge of the northern wastes, moved.

It was an extremely faint, almost imperceptible movement.

The knuckles of the hand holding the dark yellow bamboo scroll slowly tightened. His half-closed eyes opened fully, and a glowing green light spilled from his pupils, flickering faintly in the night like two wisps of Ghost Fire.

He spoke.

His voice was not loud, yet it landed in the hearts of the million cultivators like an immensely heavy piece of Profound Iron, chilled by the waters of the Yellow Springs.

Heavy.

Cold.

"Sect Leader of the Holy Sect,"

he called out.

His glowing green gaze landed upon the deep blue figure atop the precipice.

"I venture to ask."

"For this counterattack on Central Earth, the Four Sects have raised the banner as one."

"This position of ’Champion Scholar,’ the one to command the myriad armies and coordinate the entire campaign—"

He paused slightly, the corners of his mouth, withered like old tree bark, slowly pulling into a faint, almost caustic smirk.

"Will it be decided by the seniority of the Sects?"

"Or by the one leading the armies—"

He spoke the final three words, pausing on each:

"by true cultivation?"

The moment he spoke.

The breathing of the million Demon Cultivators at the edge of the rift valley hitched as one.

’It’s finally starting.’

Among the Three Sects, the Yellow Springs Netherworld was an ancient Demon Sect, on par with the Wuji Holy Sect in the Northwest.

In terms of heritage, it was no less than the Holy Sect’s.

In terms of resources, it was not to be outdone.

As for their Nine Nether Sun-devouring True Monarch who guarded the depths of the Netherworld, his ferocious might was so great that even the Holy Sect’s own True Monarch of No Dao Extreme Law, who resided deep within the Taixu Mirror Heaven, had to be wary of him.

Tonight.

None of the Sect Leader True Monarchs from the Three Sects had come in person.

The Holy Sect sent Qi Yun.

The Cyan Sect sent San Si Master.

Fengduo sent Lady Jiu Li.

And the Netherworld sent him—Master Revolving Wheel.

Three Great Masters, and one ordinary Master.

Here, at the edge of the Black Abyss Rift Valley, where a million Demon Cultivators had gathered and a war spanning ten millennia was about to ignite, this subtle imbalance was like a fine fishbone caught in the throat.

Not fatal, but unbearably irritating.

Now.

Master Revolving Wheel had just gently dislodged that bone.

Atop the precipice.

Qi Yun said nothing.

He didn’t even look at Master Revolving Wheel.

His vast, cyan-gold eyes remained calmly fixed on the bottomless Black Abyss Rift Valley, as if something within it was more worthy of his attention than this million-man army, this ten-thousand-year grudge, and this face-to-face challenge.

Just then.

A voice, neither hurried nor slow, rose from behind the old man in the jet-black scholar’s robe at the northern edge.

"Forgive this junior’s audacity."

"There is something I don’t understand, and I wish to ask for the guidance of the Holy Sect’s Sect Leader."

The speaker was a middle-aged man in a dark gray robe, his face ashen.

He stood thirty feet behind Master Revolving Wheel, his aura solid and profound. He was, to one’s surprise, a Master at the Foundation Establishment Middle Stage.

He bowed slightly, his posture deferential.

But beneath his long, narrow eyelids flickered two points of light—the same Glowing Green Ghost Fire as Master Revolving Wheel’s.

"Today, none of the Sect Leader True Monarchs from the Three Sects have come in person."

"The Cyan Sect’s San Si Master is at the Realm of the Great Master."

"Fengduo’s Lady Jiu Li is also at the Realm of the Great Master."

"And my grand-uncle, Master Revolving Wheel, is a veteran Great Master of the Netherworld, at the very peak of his realm."

He paused.

His glowing green eyes slowly lifted, crossing the immense void to land directly upon the deep blue figure atop the precipice.

Then, he chuckled softly.

The smile was incredibly faint.

So faint it was barely perceptible.

But everyone saw it.

"So how is it that the Holy Sect—"

"—is being led by such an ordinary Master?"

He spoke very softly, as if he were simply inquiring about some trivial matter.

Yet when the two words "ordinary Master" slowly slipped from his lips, they were like two drops of molten gold splashing upon the eternal Cold Abyss.

TSSSSS—

White mist rose into the air.

The area fell deathly silent.

A silence even heavier than when Master Revolving Wheel had spoken before.

So heavy that even the ceaseless, ten-thousand-year Yin Wind from the depths of the rift valley seemed to stagnate in that moment.

The million Demon Cultivators held their breath.

Countless gazes converged on the deep blue figure atop the precipice.

Qi Yun moved.

He slowly turned his head.

The movement was very slow.

Slow, like a clay Buddha Statue in an ancient temple, unmoved for a thousand years, finally sensing the year’s first offering of incense and gently lowering its eyelids.

So slow, as his vast, cyan-gold eyes moved, bit by bit, inch by inch, from the bottomless Black Abyss Rift Valley to the Netherworld Master in the dark gray robe.

So slow it seemed it wasn’t a mere shift of his gaze.

It was an emperor atop his lofty palace, who, after reviewing the final memorial scroll, had carelessly lifted his gaze to glance at the minister below who had committed a breach of protocol.

And with that one glance.

All the words the Netherworld Master had yet to speak froze in his throat.

It wasn’t fear.

It was something deeper, more fundamental.

He felt as if he had been "seen" by a gaze that had existed since the dawn of creation.

There was no killing intent in that gaze.

No anger.

Not even a hint of emotion.

Just "seeing."

It was like the Celestial Dao, in its long course through the ages, happening to lower its gaze and glimpse an ant struggling to climb out of a crack in a stone.

Merely "seeing."

But the ant, at the very instant it was "seen," knew—it had reached its end.

Qi Yun glanced at him.

Then.

He raised his right hand.

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