The people of the world had been blinded by rumors. Everyone spat upon Yin Shang, everyone praised Xiqi for following heaven and answering fate, yet no one saw clearly the filthy schemes behind this chessboard.
Duobao's five fingers slowly closed, gripping the Immortal Slaying Sword in his hand with deadly force.
The piercing cry of the sword stayed hidden, unreleased. The grim Killing Intent of the Immortal Slaying Sword was wholly suppressed by him within the blade, just like the pity and resentment churning in his heart—buried deep inside, not daring to show the slightest trace.
He had lived for endless ages, seen through the hypocrisy of immortal sects, and understood the schemes of the myriad heavens. How could he truly believe the one-sided claims spread among the people that King Zhou was brutal and without Dao?
Since the Investiture of the Gods Calamity began, the Chan Sect and Buddhism had been most skilled at this.
They were most skilled at borrowing the name of the Heavenly Dao to pursue their own selfish interests—spreading rumors, shaping opinion, deluding living beings, unsettling people's hearts, using sky-filling falsehoods and wild rumors to turn black into white and muddle right and wrong.
They had forcibly smeared the flourishing Great Shang as a demonic court of a chaotic age, and shaped King Zhou, who guarded his nation, into an eternal tyrant—all to suit their selfish desire to defy heaven and alter the board, support Xiqi, and harvest the Primordial's auspicious qi.
Such immortal-sect methods were dignified and high-sounding on the surface, yet far more sinister and terrifying than mortal demons or the flames of war in a chaotic age.
Duobao's heart was clear, pure as a mirror; he saw all of this as plainly as watching fire through a hole, yet all that remained