Shouyang Mountain.
Cloud mist coiled around it, Purple Qi Misty.
Eight Sceneries Palace stood atop the mountain, its palace gate tightly shut.
Upon the door leaf, Innate Dao Patterns flowed without cease, connected to the vital currents of all Shouyang Mountain.
For countless epochs, they had never wavered in the slightest.
But today, behind that door leaf, there seeped an unmistakable desolation.
Laozi sat cross-legged upon the cloud bed, Purple Purity Dao Light surging around him like the tide.
That withered face bore neither sorrow nor joy.
Yet those eyes were faintly closed.
As though he were pondering, as though he were waiting.
Ever since White Guard had betrayed the sect, he had remained here cultivating.
He was not in seclusion. He was hiding.
Hiding from the gazes of the world, hiding from the discussions of the Great Wilderness, hiding from the humiliation that left him unable to show his face.
The Investiture of the Gods had begun, and Western Qi had raised its army.
Chaoge answered the challenge, and the great tribulation descended.
Jie Sect Disciples were about to enter the tribulation. The Chan Sect, Human Sect, and Western Sect would not stand by and watch either.
But he did not want to move.
Nor did he want to act.
Because he was tired.
Utterly weary.
Countless epochs of cultivation, reduced to nothing in a single day.
His only disciple had betrayed his master and left the sect.
The Human Sect's fortune had fallen and fallen again.
What else could he do?
What was left to fight for?
What was left to stake his life on?
"Perhaps this is fate."
Laozi spoke in a low voice, his words drifting through the palace halls.
"I, Laozi, was fated to suffer this calamity."
As his voice faded, it returned to nothingness.