Though Empress Houtu's voice was gentle and beautiful, it carried profound depth. Even now, with sword qi stretching ten thousand zhang and heaven and earth turning upside down, nothing could drown it out. As her voice slowly faded, the raging waves of sword qi and the howling storm came to an abrupt halt.
The immense aura had just pressed Di Ting so hard he could barely breathe.
Only after a long while did the wisp of awareness that had been flung away finally catch up with his blank mind.
He gasped violently, great beads of cold sweat seeping from his forehead. Suddenly, he heard a voice as resonant as the heavens answering, the earth answering, and all the boundless myriad things answering. A gentle old man's voice, a calm, detached, icy voice, and a carefree, unrestrained voice all fell at once, seemingly casual, yet carrying such weight that even Di Ting lost himself in it:
"Agreed."
"Granted."
"Good."
The storm settled, and all things were reborn.
Destruction and renewal were only a single thought apart.
In the blink of an eye, what Di Ting saw before him had changed back to a calm, sunny day. It was still the same warm little courtyard, with flowers and trees in bloom and a round wooden table. The black-robed Daoist sat there languidly, his sword still sheathed. The old man wore nothing but a plain gray Daoist robe, and not a drop of tea had spilled from his cup. The middle-aged Daoist sat with solemn dignity, his gaze peaceful, a horsetail whisk resting in his hand.
The butterfly that had rested on Di Ting's nose earlier appeared again, fluttering its wings at an unhurried pace.
The sun shone serenely overhead. It was late autumn, edging into winter, and the sunlight seemed a