In the Far West, the wind and snow of the mortal world had no effect on this place. Scorching sunlight beat down upon the cracked, barren earth, heat steaming up from its fissures. Yet come nightfall, the temperature would turn terrifyingly cold, and raging winds would occasionally sweep through with sand and soil. Anyone who had visited the Far West called it a living hell.
On this day, around twenty enormous Spirit Boats, each as large as a small town, floated a hundred meters in the air. Boat-protecting formations that blotted out the sky reflected the sunlight, while pavilions and towers stood upon the vessels. Cultivators shouted as they flew up and down, inspecting the massive glowing formations on the Spirit Boats, as well as enormous weapons with sleek metallic luster, spiritual energy spilling from them.
On one of the Spirit Boats, the cultivators coming and going were especially busy, and nowhere more so than within an ancient pavilion floating at its center.
Inside the pavilion, tables were arranged in neat rows. Seated beside them were elderly cultivators of the Heaven-Chosen Divine Sect. Some maintained the operation of the Spirit Boats; others arranged the sect disciples entering the world into military formations—groups of three, squads of eight—or sorted through intelligence gathered outside by the advance disciples and passed it to the higher ranks. They were busy, yet orderly.
But every one of them was filled with tension and sorrow. There was none of the anticipation or excitement they had felt when the sect master had ordered them into the world.
Deep within the pavilion was a cramped, ten-foot-square little black room. A yellow jade lamp carrying the smell of gasoline burned within it. Its dim, murky light was not overly bright, but it was enough to reveal someone sitting quietly