The capital.
Tai'an City.
Above the imperial palace, the clouds hung exceptionally low.
They were not rain clouds, but a heavy anomaly gleaming with a lead-gray sheen.
The center of the clouds hung suspended directly above the Hall of Mental Cultivation, rotating slowly like an inverted funnel.
Qi Tianchen stood beneath the clouds, gripping Suiyue.
The saber had yet to leave its sheath, but saber intent had already blanketed the glazed tile roofs of the entire imperial palace.
His white hair was blown backward by the high-altitude wind, revealing a face deeply lined with wrinkles yet rock-solid.
The realm of an Earthly Immortal granted him perception far surpassing that of ordinary mortals.
At this moment, he could clearly “see” something lurking within the continuous palace halls beneath his feet that made his entire body uncomfortable.
It was a cold, clammy rot, as if seeping out from a thousand-year-old tomb.
Ling Xiaozi stood at his side with his horsetail whisk draped over the crook of his arm, his wine gourd put away at some point.
Upon the old Daoist's face, which usually wore a cynical smile, there was now an unprecedented solemnity.
“You felt it too?” Qi Tianchen said in a deep voice.
Ling Xiaozi did not reply. He merely shifted the horsetail whisk to his left hand and slowly rested his right hand on the sword hilt at his waist.
The sixty-third generation Heavenly Master of Mount Longhu, the living patriarch of Daoism's ancestral sanctuary, was actually assuming a battle-ready stance at this moment.
There should have been nothing under the heavens capable of making Ling Xiaozi draw his sword.
Yet that thing was not of this world to begin with.
The two of them moved simultaneously, and in the next instant, they landed upon the white marble plaza before the Hall of Mental Cultivation.
The Imperial Guards on both sides of the plaza seemed as if frozen by an immobilization technique, stiff in their night-patrol postures. Their eyes were still darting, but their bodies could not move even half a step.
They had not had their acupoints struck; rather, enveloped under the qi aura of two Earthly Immortals, all the bones in their mortal frames felt laden with lead.
Ling Xiaozi waved his horsetail whisk, and the vermilion-lacquered doors of the Hall of Mental Cultivation, carved with five-clawed golden dragons, silently swung open.
All candlelight in the hall was snuffed out; only the Everlasting Lamp before the Dragon Couch remained burning.
The flame was small as a bean, casting spectral, eerie shadows across the vast, empty bedchamber.
On the Dragon Couch, Emperor Zhao Heng of Grand Zhao half-leaned against a soft pillow, his face ashen like a dying candle, his chest faintly rising and falling, clearly still trapped in a deep slumber.
And beside the Dragon Couch, within that shadow where nothing should have been, coiled a certain “thing.”
It possessed no fixed shape.
Like a wad of crushed thick ink, or a dark shadow clipped from a nightmare, it squirmed slowly in the faint light of the Everlasting Lamp.
From time to time, tentacle-like protrusions bulged out from the shadow's edges before swiftly retracting, as though it were breathing.
“It is indeed a demon.”
When Ling Xiaozi spoke these words, there was no panic in his tone, only a gravity that sank straight to the bottom.
He took a step forward, shielding Qi Tianchen half a step behind him. His green-gray Daoist robe billowed without wind, the patch at his cuff snapping loudly under the surge of qi.
The dark shadow seemed to sense the threat and suddenly shrank, condensing into a vaguely discernible silhouette.
It had a head, limbs, and a pair of hollow sockets that looked as though the eyeballs had been gouged out.
There were no eyeballs inside the sockets, only two clusters of eerie green phosphor flames burning dimly.
“Hehehe...”
That bizarre laugh echoed through the hall.
“Two Earthly Immortals? Grand Zhao's Martial Dao fortune is somewhat more prosperous than I anticipated.”
The voice emerged from the dark shadow, rustling and raspy, sending chills down one's spine.
Veins bulged on Qi Tianchen's saber-gripping hand.
He stared fixedly at the dark shadow, incredulous shock churning in his turbid eyes.
“The Demon Race... There are still demons in this world?”
He was someone who had lived through that great war thirty years ago.
Back then, he had not yet entered the realm of Earthly Immortal, and Xie Qingyi was still alive.
He remembered the brutality of that battle, the mountains of corpses and seas of blood, the Grand Shuo iron cavalry surging like a tide only to be cut down and repelled.
Yet even in that war which had nearly shattered half the land, there had never been any trace of the Demon Race.
The Demon Race should have been completely eradicated and expelled a thousand years ago.
That was a barrier erected by the Human Race's Martial Saint with a lifetime of cultivation, permanently sealing the passage between the Demon Domain and the mortal world.
For a thousand years, not a single demon had stepped foot into the domain of the Human Race.
Yet now, a living demon was coiled deep within Grand Zhao's imperial palace, nestled in the safest, most impenetrable place under heaven.
“If that girl Lin Jianxi hadn't found you in time, you stubborn old Daoist, the consequences would truly be unthinkable.”
Qi Tianchen's voice was hoarse to the point of nearly cracking, a layer of fine cold sweat beading on his brow.
“If not for her, you and I would still be kept in the dark. Who knows what plot this wicked thing might have pulled off.”
Ling Xiaozi did not answer. He merely drew the sword at his waist.
The Heavenly Master Sword of Mount Longhu, passed down from the first Heavenly Master Zhang Daoling. Its blade was forged from celestial meteor iron, and dense demon-suppressing talismans were engraved along its spine.
The moment the sword left its sheath, those talismans seemed to come to life, circulating faint golden light across the blade.
“As the contemporary patriarch of Daoism, having presided over Mount Longhu for forty years, this humble Daoist failed to detect this hidden danger.”
His voice carried a rare trace of self-reproach.
“I truly should not have failed.”
The dark shadow let out a low sneer.
Its eerie green sockets turned toward the Heavenly Master Sword in Ling Xiaozi's hand, seeming somewhat wary of the blade densely carved with demon-suppressing talismans.
Yet more than that, it was mockery.
Qi Tianchen's gaze looked past the dark shadow, falling upon the unconscious emperor on the Dragon Couch.
A terrifying notion formed in his mind, growing clearer and clearer, sending chills down his spine.
“Old Daoist... why would our Grand Zhao's Emperor keep such a thing by his side?”
When he asked this, his voice was lowered to an extreme murmur.
Ling Xiaozi fell silent for a moment, the golden light on the Heavenly Master Sword casting shifting illumination across his face.
Then, he slowly spoke.
“The demon before us is likely a remnant left behind from the war between humans and demons a thousand years ago.
Though its aura is weak, its strength is formidable.
However, you should already be able to guess what is truly terrifying about it.”
Qi Tianchen's brows knitted into a tight knot. He stared at the dark shadow for a long time.
“Could it be...” His voice suddenly sank. “Lifespan?”
“Precisely.”
Ling Xiaozi's voice echoed in the cavernous bedchamber, every word like a hammer striking Qi Tianchen's heart.
“The strength of the Demon Race may not necessarily surpass our Human Race.
That demon's cultivation is below ours. If we fight head-on, this humble Daoist could strike it down beneath my sword within three hundred exchanges.
Yet both you and I know that what truly makes people covet it is not combat power.
The lifespan of the Demon Race easily reaches thousands of years, far beyond what we human Earthly Immortals can compare to.
For them to live so long, they naturally possess unique principles and essentials for existing in this world.”
Ling Xiaozi turned his head, his gaze resting upon the emperor with a face like golden paper on the Dragon Couch.
“Think about it. Our emperor is now critically ill, beyond the help of medicine and stone.
What does he desire the most?
It is not expanding territory. It is not winning the hearts of the realm. It is not even that Dragon Throne.
What he wants most is longevity.
The longevity art of boundless life.
For King Yama's Book of Life and Death to add a few more strokes to his years.”
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