The five walked slowly and steadily, venturing deeper into the heart of the cave with every step.
Each footfall was utterly sure, without the slightest haste.
After weathering countless tribulations, they had long since shed the reliance that ordinary cultivators habitually clung to.
Within the cave abode, that teasing voice never ceased, drifting near and far, seeming to be everywhere at once.
Following that voice, the five continued onward.
They had already formed an image of their final opponent in their minds.
Cultivators of the Ox Tribe were born burly, with savage features and beast horns atop their heads, radiating an aura of bullish might.
That was the ingrained expectation created by the mountain's configuration.
It was also common knowledge within Daoism.
The Preaching Squad had long assumed they would fight a bloody battle against a horned being.
Even if their opponent had transcended the old pattern and grown vastly stronger, his appearance should still have followed the same roots.
Yet the deeper they went, the stranger the surrounding aura became.
There was no savage ferocity, no demonic malice, no sense of crude barbarism.
Instead, everything was serene and boundless, washed in immortal energy, with layer upon layer of solemn, dignified Dao Resonance.
This aura belonged neither to a demon nor to a Demon Seed.
It was so orthodox that it was almost blinding.
The black mist ahead slowly receded, like flowing water draining into the Return Ruins, yielding of its own accord.
The deepest part of the cave abode suddenly opened before them.
There were no magnificent halls, no hideous throne of power, no baleful formation platform.
A flat platform of blue stone stood quietly in the void, utterly plain.
Upon it stood a figure in white.
All five fixed their gazes on him at once, their pupils tightening