Shouyang Mountain.
Clouds and mist coiled around it, purple qi hanging thick in the air.
Eight Sceneries Palace stood atop the mountain, its gates tightly shut.
Innate Dao Patterns flowed endlessly across the doors, connected to the vital currents of all Shouyang Mountain.
For countless epochs, they had never wavered in the slightest.
White Guard sat cross-legged beside the palace gates.
His Daoist robe was grayish white, his expression calm.
His Quasi-Saint Peak cultivation had reached perfection, yet his foundation was as insubstantial as drifting cotton.
His aura was tangled in chaos.
His power was beyond his control.
Pills had been piled upon him, cultivation force poured into him, and the Heavenly Dao's origin had nourished him in return.
His master had given him everything, yet had never given him a foundation.
He had given him power, yet never taught him how to control it.
He had given him cultivation, yet never given him a Dao.
White Guard closed his eyes as Purple Purity Dao Light surged unsteadily around him.
The radiance waxed and waned, brightening and dimming.
He had long grown used to it.
For tens of thousands of epochs, every day had been the same.
When his master entered seclusion, he guarded the gates.
When his master emerged, he attended to him.
When his master expounded the Dao, he listened.
When his master empowered him, he endured it.
He never asked why, never asked when it would end, never asked whether it was worth it.
He merely lived.
He merely guarded.
He merely waited.
Waited for an opportunity that might never come.
"Buzz."
The void rippled faintly.
A streak of golden light raced over from afar.
It was as swift as a shooting star chasing the moon.
Its aura erupted like a volcano.
White Guard abruptly opened his