Chapter Forty-Eight: Before the Ancestral Hall

On the Cliff of Reflection, spiritual energy was sparse, dampness and cold pervaded the air.

Ding Yi had been beaten so badly that his organs were nearly displaced; it took him a long time before he could finally struggle to his feet.

Shen Yu glanced at him.

Ding Yi’s face was pale and gloomy, his eyes filled with hatred. Noticing Shen Yu’s gaze, he spat a mouthful of bloody froth onto the ground and said, “Damn it, you think I’ll cry? You’re underestimating me. This little injury—back in the day, I—hiss…”

He seemed to have tugged at his wound, grimacing in pain.

Shen Yu asked, “Aren’t you afraid that talking to me will get you beaten again?”

“Afraid of what?” Ding Yi barked, then hunched his shoulders and glanced around warily before lowering his voice, “Right now I can’t beat that bastard, but you just watch—when I get stronger, I’ll chop him to pieces.”

Shen Yu smiled, offering no rebuttal.

“Shen Yu, just curious, let me ask you,” Ding Yi dropped his mischievous demeanor, his gaze serious, tinged with a hint of hope. “Was it really you who did what happened at Yunyang Temple?”

Shen Yu looked at him calmly, recalling Ding Yi’s earlier mention of coming from a remote mountain village in the southwest, apparently part of Sunset Town. Then he nodded solemnly.

“Oh,” Ding Yi’s expression was complicated, but in the end he said nothing more.

Shen Yu was indifferent, slowly rising to his feet. His gaze drifted toward the mist-shrouded Pure Law Hall, thinking that the matter had indeed been discovered by them.

He exhaled softly, as if steeling himself for a decision.

Moments later, atop the cliff, winds and clouds surged, countless seas of clouds scattered. The sparse spiritual energy of the Cliff of Reflection began to gather above Shen Yu’s head, forming a small vortex. Milky white spiritual energy enveloped Shen Yu’s figure: blue robe and long hair, like an immortal descending.

Ding Yi’s eyes widened in shock as he watched.

...

Within the Daoist Sect, Shen Yu’s punishment unfolded just as Zhang Zhi had predicted—no one dared speak up in his defense.

The Hall of True Transmission and Hall of Law Derivation remained silent; Hall of Deep Saints had never voiced an opinion, and Pure Law Hall was naturally the driving force behind this storm.

This time, the matter had grown far too serious; the turmoil could not be quelled by a few mild punishments.

---

The chief priest of Yunyang Temple, Master Zhishan, was not of high cultivation. The old priest had spent his life doing good deeds, skilled in alchemy and healing arts, tending to the sick and afflicted among the poor in the southwestern frontier, healing and helping for decades. To the people of the borders, he was nearly a living deity. His Daoist title, Zhishan, was personally bestowed by the Dali Dynasty.

The two heinous crimes committed by Shen Yu had long infuriated the disciples of the Four Halls and Seven Peaks, who felt shamed to share the same sect with him. Some even claimed he was a spy from the Southern Barbarian Demon Domain.

At this moment, the Daoist Sect was ablaze with outrage; overnight, Shen Yu became the disgrace of the sect, and everyone wished to see him expelled.

Yet, even so, the sect had not announced his punishment in these days, for something more important was about to take place.

The Grand Sect Competition.

This contest would determine eligibility to enter the Academy of Central Continent and participate in the famed Saint’s Baptism.

Only the champion of the competition could represent the Daoist Sect.

Thus, the competition was to be held in the plaza before the Ancestor’s Hall.

Everyone knew the Ancestor’s Plaza was reserved for grand ceremonies or the succession of the Sect Master—events of great significance.

So, this Grand Sect Competition was not only a test of cultivation, but also a showdown to determine the foremost among the younger generation of the Daoist Sect.

The victor would carry that honor to Central Continent and receive the once-in-a-century baptism on the third floor of the Academy.

The rules for this competition were simple. Not all disciples from the Four Halls and Seven Peaks could sign up; instead, Daoist Master Dao Xuan of the Hall of Law Derivation personally selected four candidates.

Only four.

Fang Hen from Pure Law Hall, Yu Wenwen from Hall of True Transmission, and, unexpectedly, not Fan Weimin from Hall of Law Derivation, but Ming Jian instead. For Hall of Deep Saints, it was originally Shen Yu, but now replaced by an unknown disciple from Sitting-Forget Peak named Zhang Jian.

Some disciples of higher cultivation were dissatisfied. Shen Yu’s exclusion was understandable, but why should an obscure figure so easily become one of the four?

That very night, several disciples from the Four Halls and Seven Peaks went to Sitting-Forget Peak to challenge him. In less than half an hour, Zhang Jian single-handedly defeated and seriously injured them all, casting them out of the peak.

From then on, everyone acknowledged Zhang Jian’s qualification and strength to take Shen Yu’s place.

...

May.

From above, the Ancestor’s Plaza—capable of holding tens of thousands—was crisscrossed by countless black lines converging towards the center.

Half an hour later, the highest square platform was crowded with disciples.

The crowd was divided into ten square formations: besides Hall of Deep Saints, the other three halls and seven peaks each had their respective groups.

Daoist Master Dao Xuan presided over this Grand Sect Competition. Xun Ju of Pure Law Hall, and even Lou Lianzhao, the rarely-seen master of Hall of True Transmission, attended in person. The simultaneous presence of the three hall masters lent extra solemnity and tension to the event.

The most eye-catching was Hall of True Transmission: countless ethereal, beautiful young female disciples stood together, their smiles enchanting, every gesture a scene more lovely than any earthly landscape. Some less disciplined disciples nearly lost themselves.

On the platform stood two outsiders.

---

Lu Wenyu stood at the upper right of the platform, while on his other side was a young monk, Huike; the two were engaged in quiet conversation.

Some from a distance, seeing them, were surprised that both the Academy and the Lingyin Monastery of the Western Regions had sent observers.

Daoist Master Dao Xuan stood at the highest point, surveying thousands of Daoist Sect disciples. The mountain wind stirred his robes, lending him the mien of a true immortal.

The four competitors walked to the center of the platform, each taking their place at a cardinal direction.

Fang Hen, after half a year’s recovery, showed no sign of injury, standing at the east, tall and imposing.

Yu Wenwen donned a crimson robe, wielding a three-foot sword, standing quietly at the south, her expression serene. The breeze stirred her dark hair, making her appear an earthly fairy.

Ming Jian stood at the north, calm and composed. Still, none understood why Hall of Law Derivation had chosen him.

But the most attention was on the one who replaced Shen Yu as the representative of Hall of Deep Saints:

Sitting-Forget Peak’s senior disciple, Zhang Jian.

He wore the peak’s signature white robe, tall and handsome, exuding an indescribable charm.

Daoist Master Dao Xuan looked around, his face solemn, his voice clear:

“Three thousand years ago, our sect’s founder established the Daoist Sect in the southwest, transmitting the Way of Immortality, forging the path for our order.

Two thousand years ago, the Southern Barbarian Demon Domain marched north, threatening the lands of the Central Plains. Our predecessor, Master Shoujing, led five companions to fight at the riverside outside South River City, battling the demon tribes for nine days and nights, slaying countless monsters. Drenched in blood, their spiritual power exhausted, all perished, none escaped.

Fifteen hundred years ago, the northern seal weakened, foreign tribes invaded, and an ancient demon was about to emerge. Our former sect master Lin Lingsu used himself as the seal, sacrificing all his cultivation to suppress the ancient demon beneath the Northern Demon Mountain, giving his life and waiting for the other eight sacred lands to arrive.

Twelve hundred years ago…”

Daoist Master Dao Xuan’s speech was slow, but his voice deep and resonant. Each word evoked the tragic history, stirring feelings of sorrow and gravity in the disciples’ hearts.

Even Monk Huike and Lu Wenyu from the Academy wore solemn expressions, moved by the valor of the sect’s predecessors.

Ranked among the Nine Great Sacred Lands, the Daoist Sect stood proudly in the southwest of the Spirit Wilderness Continent, thanks to the undying deeds recounted by Daoist Master Dao Xuan.

Its legacy spanned millennia, never broken.

Daoist Master Dao Xuan looked down and said, “You are the finest disciples of our Daoist Sect. Whoever wins and goes to the Central Continent Academy, you must never commit deeds that harm the foundation or reputation of our sect.

Otherwise, I will kill you.”

“Understood,” the four disciples replied in unison.

Daoist Master Dao Xuan nodded, raising his voice: “Begin.”