The Daoist rode a green ox, holding the Eight Sceneries Palace Lantern, as if he had come from the Ninth Heaven.
His gaze was calm, yet it fell like a sharp sword.
It swept over the many Bodhisattvas and monks who were spitting blood, then, amid the teeming crowd, locked onto the old monk atop Star Picking Tower at the very first opportunity.
The instant their eyes met, the old monk's pupils contracted sharply. His hand, which had been rolling his Buddhist beads, trembled violently, and the beads stopped turning. An invisible, immense force had already pressed down. His wide monk's robe seemed to have been struck in an instant by a gale powerful enough to tear apart mountains and seas. It billowed violently backward, shuddering as even the breath on his face was forced back.
In the eyes of ordinary people, the day was calm and peaceful, with a thousand li of tranquil lands. But in the old monk's eyes, the firmament was shattering and winds and clouds were surging.
It was as though a hundred million people were roaring in unison. The immense force that had come with the Daoist stretched vast as smoke and grand as the sea, layer upon layer, beyond counting, driven to its utmost limit. All that destiny, all that overwhelming momentum, surged toward him. In that instant, even a Zen heart unmoved by the eight winds began to waver.
The old Buddhist monk could not help but cry out:
"Supreme Xuanwei? True Martial Lingying?!"
"Why is he here?!"
"How can this be?!"
Supreme Xuanwei True Person, True Martial Lingying Dao Lord.
For a thousand years in this age, he had been an extraordinary hero the Daoist school had not seen in generations. He had crossed tribulations and forged alliances, almost single-handedly bringing forward