Old Man Withered Bamboo knew that everything before his eyes was false—all demonic apparitions, all Illusory Realms.
When others of the Demonic Path used magical illusions, they did everything they could to make them look real, seeking to deceive their enemies into believing them and falling into the Illusory Realm.
This was actually the lowest level of the art. An enemy with profound composure or powerful Gods-given abilities could see through it at a glance, and once seen through, it could be dispelled.
The brilliance of Shi Feiyang's technique lay in its false appearances carrying true information.
Old Man Withered Bamboo knew perfectly well that it was false, yet it struck straight at his soul: Qi Shouming was his fated nemesis, and Golden Cicada was his destined savior. Father and son truly existed in this world. Even if they were not standing here, they stood somewhere else, and sooner or later he would encounter them. How should he face them then?
He told himself that the Emei Sect was Elder Longbrow's direct lineage, the orthodox tradition of the Mystic Sect. They would never say anything so flippant and rude.
But coarse words could hold sound truths. What they said did not matter; what mattered was the meaning beneath. With a thousand years of cultivation, he now racked his brains to curry favor with a junior. He had traded the treasure that guarded his cave abode for the Yin Ring, and now he had willingly sown bitter enmity by opposing the Demon Dragon to seize the Yang Ring. What was it all for? To please his savior.
How was that fundamentally any different from kneeling down to beg?
Old Man Withered Bamboo's Dao heart fell into turmoil. He recalled himself a thousand years ago, roaming unchallenged beneath heaven, repaying kindness and