The Twelve Ancestor Witches' Scheme: Nothing to Lose Anyway-Could the False Be Cultivated into Truth?

At the foot of Buzhou Mountain.

Inside the Pangu Temple, the Twelve Ancestor Witches returned to their respective seats.

The hall fell quiet for a time.

That silence held the relaxation of having just seen a guest off, as well as the assurance of a plan already more than halfway advanced.

Dijiang sat in the deepest part of the hall, his indistinct face turning slightly, as though studying each Ancestral Witch's expression.

Gonggong laid the Gonggong Divine Saber across his knees, his knuckles tapping its hilt now and then. The taps were soft, yet carried far through the hall.

Zhujiuyin sat with his eyes closed, faint dawnlight flowing around him, brightening and dimming like a miniature River of Time rising and sinking about his body.

Houtu sat quietly in her place, her expression calm and her eyes half-lowered, giving no hint of her thoughts.

Zhurong leaned against the stone wall with his arms folded. His rugged face was expressionless, but firelight flickered slowly in the depths of his eyes-the embers deep within his Great Dao that had never gone out.

Ru Shou, Gou Mang, Xuanming, Qiang Liang, Xizi, Tianwu, and Shebishi each occupied a different position. Twelve auras intertwined within the hall, weighty as the Heavenly Pillar and dense as stars, pressing that expanse of space into a slight depression.

Xuanming spoke first.

She was one of the few female Ancestral Witches among the twelve, slender in build, her aura bitterly cold and her features indistinct. Only her eyes flickered in the void, like cold stars beneath ice when they shone, and like the deepest abyss of eternal night when they went dark.

Her voice was soft, as soft as a wisp of white vapor drifting out from the depths of extreme cold.

"Have any of you felt..."

She paused.