"Elder Chen, I'm here." Song Changsheng lowered his head and murmured.
"This old man has been discourteous. I hope the Alliance Leader will forgive me, cough, cough, cough..."
Chen Zhongfang's chest heaved violently with every cough. Even his breaths carried fine flecks of blood, as though he were about to cough out his lungs.
The other cultivators in the immortal cave could not bear to watch and turned their heads away.
"What are you saying, Fellow Daoist? You are ill—how could this be discourtesy? You only need to hold on a little longer. There will surely be a way. You were wounded for all living beings of the Southwest; the Alliance will spare no cost."
"Cough, cough... Alliance Leader, there is no need to comfort this old man further. One knows one's own affairs best. This old man is now but a guttering candle in the wind; returning my soul to heaven and earth is only a matter of time. Do not waste your efforts in vain. This old man has few regrets in this life. The only thing I cannot set my mind at ease over is the Golden Crow Sect. Zimo is stubborn and easily broken, Su Ye's cultivation is still shallow, and Qingxue has devoted her whole heart to the Dao. None of them are suitable choices. I only hope the Alliance Leader can look after them somewhat and extend my sect's five-thousand-year Dao lineage."
Only when one truly reached this point did one realize that all that had come before was merely passing clouds.
One's own life, honor, disgrace, the rise and fall of one's clan—before the continuation of a Dao lineage, none of it amounted to anything.
He had dragged his severely wounded body to the decisive battle at Qingfeng Mountain precisely to secure a