Central Region, Taiyi Sect.
Daoyuan Mountain.
Snow blanketed Daoyuan Mountain year-round, and its cold winds cut like knives. Yet two people sat facing each other on its summit.
The old man on the left had crane-white hair and a youthful face. Dressed in an ink-purple Daoist robe, he used no spiritual power to shield himself, allowing the clouds and mist at the summit to stir his sleeves.
His white hair was bound together by a small ring woven from straw cord.
The many patterns on his Daoist robe shifted and flowed with the clouds and mist, occasionally revealing fleeting images of plants growing and perishing.
Opposite him sat a middle-aged-looking cultivator, straight-backed and solemn.
A bamboo fishing rod stood planted at an angle beside him, its line vanishing into the churning sea of clouds below.
He looked at the divination markings in the snow before him and shook his head again.
"The fortunes of this mortal world can no longer be sustained."
When the old man beside him remained silent, he sighed.
He continued, "The last fortunes of the old mortal world rest entirely upon Chen Linyuan alone."
"But his Dao heart has collapsed, his sword intent has withered, and he has no will left to live. His death and the dissolution of his Dao are only a matter of time."
The middle-aged-looking cultivator sighed and shook his head repeatedly, seemingly still feeling that Chen Linyuan's end was somewhat...
Somewhat regrettable.
Somewhat sorrowful.
Somewhat bleak.
Yet at that moment, the old man in the ink-purple Daoist robe finally spoke. "Then let him die."
His voice carried a deep weariness and disgust with the world. "Birth, aging, sickness, and death are all part of the Heavenly Dao's cycle. Even the immortals in heaven cannot escape them."
"We have devoted ourselves to