At that very moment, Qing Chen, whom Elder Pan kept thinking of, was inside a dilapidated hall.
He paid his most respectful obeisance to a solitary Clothing Tomb and the silent Wordless Stele before it.
Though small, the Clothing Tomb was overgrown with weeds and looked especially desolate, as though the world had long forgotten it.
"I am a junior disciple who happens to hold the position of Holy Son. With lofty aspirations in my heart, I have come today to bow before the spirits of our cult's forebears.
I beseech our forebears to help me enter the Spring Night Ghost Grave and undergo a thousand hammerings and a hundred temperings to advance my cultivation. One day, I shall surely spill my liver and brains upon the earth to restore our divine cult!"
Having spoken, Qing Chen straightened his magical robe and drew a deep breath. Energy surged within his dantian as he bowed deeply toward the Clothing Tomb, nearly touching the ground.
His left leg bent slightly and lightly touched the green bricks, with his right leg following close behind as he dropped heavily to his knees.
Under that kneeling impact, spiderweb cracks actually spread across the three-inch-thick basalt floor, revealing Qing Chen's formidable bodily cultivation.
He performed nine resounding kowtows in succession, each one shaking dust down from the hall's rafters.
The Wordless Stele, too, seemed to have been stirred by some mysterious power, and a faint, spectral blue glow rose from it.
The Twelve Holy Son Token before Qing Chen seemed to echo the Wordless Stele, flickering with blue light as well.
"I, Qing Chen, one of the current Twelve Holy Sons, borrow our forebears' shadowed tomb to cultivate my arts today. One day, I shall surely offer tens of millions of living souls to our divine