Building an underground palace.
Was a complicated process.
First, one had to find a blessed site rich in spiritual resonance.
Using earth evasion and the Mountain-Moving Art.
One hollowed out the underground rock strata.
After that.
Thousands, even tens of thousands of skilled craftsmen were brought inside.
With chopping blades and chiseling axes.
They painstakingly constructed it.
Only after several years.
Could the work be completed.
In all of this.
Earth cultivators were indispensable.
Underground palaces were generally situated deep beneath the surface.
Without earth cultivators.
To wield spells and Divine Abilities.
At the outset of construction.
It would be difficult to break through the earth.
And clear out enough space.
The underground palace was dim.
Marked everywhere by traces of antiquity.
Though its materials were wondrous and exceptionally sturdy.
Under the erosion of time.
They had also begun to decay.
An air of decrepitude hung heavy.
In the void, broken, incomplete Dao resonances and laws coalesced into blue and red light, drifting and scattering, carrying the palace master's frustration and unwillingness as they withered in the trap of nothingness where time bloomed.
Crimson mist surged. Within the Ancient Hall, all manner of terrifying visions flickered out and rose again, like a magnificent scroll slowly unfurling.
Mountains and rivers fell to ruin, divine moons perished, and stars became tombs.
A peerless figure clad in golden armor and wielding a great lance.
Fought enemies on all sides.
Sweeping away everything in his path.
Cutting down wave after wave of demonic shadows.
In the end.
He was defeated beneath ten thousand layers of Heavenly Gates.
And died of old age, choked with frustration.
All these lingering traces.
Had been left by the master of the Earth Hall.
Inside the Earth Hall.
There was nothing.
Cultivation methods, Divine Abilities, spiritual herbs, immortal herbs.