Am I Qualified?

When Azure Sect arrived, there was no sword cry.

At the edge of the Black Abyss Rift Valley where all demons gathered, the surging tide of the Blood River and the buzzing of the insect clouds fluttering their wings—all these clamors paused for a moment the instant the azure light pierced the night.

Like a hundred birds encountering a phoenix, or ten thousand beasts meeting a unicorn, it stems from the depths of one's bloodline—a reluctance to embrace something "extreme."

The beam of light landed on the naturally formed black rock plateau on the east side of the rift valley.

Light convergence.

A figure appeared.

He was a middle-aged scholar.

He wore a simple blue cloth robe, made of ordinary material, with no embroidery on the hem. Only a plain white jade pendant hung at his waist, with faded blue tassels dangling from it.

He had a simple, unassuming appearance.

It could even be described as mild.

His brows were relaxed, his eyelids were slightly lowered, and a faint smile, as if he were reuniting with an old friend, played on his lips.

His aura was as peaceful as a spring breeze caressing willows, and there was not a trace of the sharp edge that a sword cultivator should possess.

He just stood there quietly.

In a secluded, unknown temple deep in the mountains, there is a mountain god statue, blackened by incense smoke, unworshipped yet silently smiling.

But everyone who saw him knew.

This is the acting leader of the Azure Sect - True Person Sansi.

When the Phoenix Helm arrives, the sky turns red first.

It wasn't firelight.

It was a softer, warmer, yet equally undeniable glow that slowly spread from the far western horizon, like a thousand-foot-long Shu brocade dyed with cinnabar and gold leaf, gently unfurling in the night sky.

Where the radiance passed, the chilling winds and cold air that had lingered in the Black Abyss Rift Valley for millennia melted away silently, like spring snow meeting the sun.

Then, a rich fragrance wafted over.

It is not any kind of ordinary incense or floral fragrance.

It is the phoenix tree that once perched on the parasol tree, and through years of tempering in the flames, it exudes a sweet, warm, and ancient charm.

Nine phoenixes, their bodies radiating crimson-gold flames, pulled a magnificent phoenix chariot carved entirely from ten-thousand-year-old fire jade, slowly descending from the overwhelming crimson-gold brilliance.

The imperial carriage had not yet landed.

A languid, casual whisper, yet causing all the male cultivators within a thousand feet to unconsciously lower their eyes, drifted from within the carriage. "This wind—it's a bit too chilly."

As the words fell, the beaded curtain of the phoenix carriage swayed slightly.

A figure was already seated on the naturally formed dark stone platform on the south side of the rift valley.

Acting Head of the Phoenix Helm Cavalry - Lady Jiuli.

She wore a seven-colored feathered robe.

The fabric, of unknown origin, shimmered with light, sometimes appearing as the deep blue and emerald green of a peacock's tail feathers, sometimes as the orange-red and gold-white of the rising sun, and sometimes as the deep crimson and purple of the sunset clouds.

Each shift in color seems to follow some ancient and noble rhythm, dazzling and mesmerizing to behold.

She wore a crown adorned with nine phoenixes, each with wings outstretched as if about to take flight. These phoenixes were all cast from deep-sea red gold, and each held a thumb-sized fire-repelling pearl in its beak. The pearls shone with a warm luster, reflecting off her dignified and peerless face, making her appear as if a goddess had descended to earth.

Her posture was not dignified.

He rested one hand on his chin, his elbow on the stone armrest, and the other hand casually rested on his knee, his fingertips tapping lightly.

With each touch of those slender fingertips, a faint ring of fire rippled across the void, like a pebble thrown into a still lake, the ripples spreading silently into the distance.

A flicker of firelight seemed to dance in her eyes as she opened and closed.

The air was slightly scorching as far as the eye could see.

When they came from the Yellow Springs Netherworld, there was no light.

Fog suddenly rose from the edge of the once empty wasteland on the north side of the rift valley.

The fog was extremely thin.

So faint that one has to strain to detect the faint, almost imperceptible gray-white hue in the air.

But even this almost non-existent fog caused all the cultivators within a thousand feet radius—whether they were seasoned Old Devil of the Blood River Sect, accustomed to life and death and with hearts as cold as iron, or assassins of the Soul-Devouring Cliff, who spent their days with the dead and had long forgotten the meaning of fear—to unanimously and slowly take a step back.

In the fog, ink stains spread out.

The ink initially appeared as a faint wisp, like a stain accidentally spilled by a mischievous child on rice paper, but it quickly spread, expanded, and solidified.

Finally, it transformed into a human-shaped silhouette.

The human figure transformed from ethereal to tangible, from faint to vivid, like a traditional Chinese ink painting of a figure, brought to life by the artist's final touch under the viewer's gaze.

This is an elderly man.

His face was thin and gaunt, with slightly protruding bones, and a sparse goatee on his chin, which was mostly white.

He was dressed in a dark black scholar's robe, made of a rough, coarse linen cloth that looked as if it had just been taken out of a coffin and still smelled of earth.

The collar and cuffs are embroidered with extremely fine silver thread patterns of reincarnation, which, if gazed upon for a long time, seem to draw one's Divine Soul into them.

He held a scroll of bamboo slips in his hand.

The bamboo slips were a dark yellow, a color that only comes from being buried underground for a thousand years, soaked in corpse water, and dried by the cold wind, a color that has settled with the passage of time and death.

The edges of the slips were slightly worn, and the hemp rope connecting them had faded to gray.

He stood there quietly, holding the bamboo scroll in his hand.

Silence.

Do not move.

It doesn't even look like a living person.

Only in the depths of those slightly open eyes, two extremely faint, ghostly green lights, like the flickering flames of a ghostly candle, could be vaguely seen, slowly rotating.

The Acting Master of the Yellow Springs Netherworld, the Wheel -True Person Zַhuanlun.

The three have arrived.

The True Man of the Azure Sect True Person Sansi stands on the Black Rock Highland on the east side, simple and unadorned like a mountain god in a wild temple.

Phoenix Helm Lady Jiuli sat regally on the dark stone platform on the south side, as noble as a goddess descending to earth.

The Yellow Springs Netherworld True Person Zַhuanlun stood silently on the edge of the northern wasteland, as somber as a ghost from an ancient tomb.

Of the four directions, on the highest black cliff directly to the north.

Qi Yun stood with his hands behind his back.

The deep blue Daoist robe remained motionless in the eerie wind of the rift valley, with only the edge of the cloak occasionally fluttering in a serene arc.

He took half a step behind him, with Black Mountain, Qianxin, Qingli, and other direct descendants of the Holy Sect following silently.

Facing each other on all four sides.

All demons held their breath.

No one spoke.

Only the eternal, eerie winds deep within the rift valley, under the silent gaze of millions of cultivators, uttered a low, plaintive murmur.

Suddenly.

The old man in the dark scholar's robe, who had been standing silently at the edge of the northern wasteland, moved.

It was just a very slight, almost imperceptible movement.

His hand, which held the dark yellow bamboo scroll, slowly tightened its grip. His half-closed eyes opened wide, and a ghostly green light emanated from them, like two wisps of will-o'-the-wisp flickering in the night.

He spoke.

The voice was not loud, yet it was like a piece of heavy black iron wrapped in the icy waters of the Yellow Springs, gently landing in the hearts of millions of cultivators.

Sink.

cold.

"The Holy Sect Leader."

He called out.

The eerie green gaze fell upon the deep blue figure atop the cliff.

"May I ask?"

"This counterattack on the Central Land is a joint effort by the four sects."

The position of "the leader who commands all troops and coordinates the overall situation" is number one.

He paused slightly, and a faint, almost sarcastic smile slowly curved his dry, bark-like lips. "Is it ranked by sect seniority?"

"Or, according to the person in charge of the troops, 6"

He uttered the last three words, enunciating each one slowly and deliberately. "True cultivation ranking?"

Upon hearing this statement...

At the edge of the rift valley, the breaths of the million Devil Cultivator all caught in their throats.

It's finally here.

Among the three sects, the Yellow Springs Netherworld is Old Devil that stands alongside the Wuji Sacred Sect in the Northwest.

In terms of lineage, it is no less than that of the Holy Sect.

In terms of cultural heritage, it is second to none.

The Nine Nethers Sun-Devouring True Lord, who sits deep within the Netherworld, possesses such ferocity that even the Wudao Extreme Dharma True Lord of the Holy Sect, who resides deep within the Great Void Mirror Heaven, must be wary of the Holy Sect.

Tonight.

None of the three sect True Lord personally attended.

The one who came from the Holy Sect was Qi Yun.

The one who came from the Azure Sect was the True Person Sansi.

The one who arrived on the Phoenix Helm was the Lady Jiuli.

He came from the Netherworld — the True Person Zַhuanlun.

Three Great True Person, and one ordinary True Person.

At the edge of the Black Abyss Rift Valley, where millions of Devil Cultivator have gathered and a war of millennia is about to begin, this subtle imbalance is like a tiny thorn stuck in one's throat.

It's not fatal, but it can cause choking and discomfort.

now.

The thorn was gently removed by the True Person Zַhuanlun.

At the top of the cliff.

Qi Yun remained silent.

He didn't even look at the True Person Zַhuanlun.

Those vast, azure-gold eyes remained calmly fixed on the bottomless Black Abyss Rift Valley, as if there were something there more worthy of his attention than this million-strong army, this millennia-old pent-up frustration, or this direct confrontation.

at this time.

A voice rang out slowly and deliberately from behind the old man in a black scholar's robe who stood quietly at the north edge.

"This junior dares to presume."

"There is something I do not understand, and I would like to ask the Holy Sect Master about it."

He was a middle-aged man dressed in a gray-black robe, his face as pale as paper.

He stood three zhang behind True Person Zַhuanlun, his aura solid and profound, clearly indicating that he was a True Person in the Foundation Establishment Middle Stage.

He bowed slightly, his posture respectful.

But beneath those slender eyes, two eerie green flames flickered, identical to those of the True Person Zַhuanlun.

"None of the three sect True Lord have personally attended today."

"The Azure Sect's True Person Sansi is at the level of Great True Person."

"Phoenix Helm Lady Jiuli is also at the Great True Person realm."

"Wheel-Turning is a peak Great True Person of the Netherworld with many years of experience."

He paused.

Those deep green eyes slowly rose, traversing the vast void, and landed directly on the deep blue figure atop the precipice.

Then, he chuckled softly.

The smile was very faint.

So faint it's almost invisible.

But everyone saw it.

"What about the Holy Sect?"

"Yet it's just an ordinary True Person leading the way?"

He spoke very softly, as if he were truly asking about a trivial matter.

However, when the four words "ordinary True Person" slowly escaped from his lips, they were like four drops of molten gold splashing onto an ancient Cold Abyss.

laugh-

White mist rose.

Silence reigned all around.

The silence was even heavier than when True Person Zַhuanlun had spoken.

The atmosphere was so heavy that even the eternal, chilling winds deep within the rift valley seemed to freeze at that moment.

The million Devil Cultivator held their breath.

Countless gazes converged on the deep blue figure atop the cliff.

Qi Yun.

He slowly turned his head.

The movements are very slow.

Slowly, like the ancient clay Buddha statue in the temple that has remained unchanged for a thousand years, it finally sensed the first incense of the year and gently lowered its eyelids.

Slowly, those vast, azure-gold eyes moved, bit by bit, inch by inch, from the bottomless Black Abyss Rift Valley to the Netherworld True Person in the gray-black robe.

So slow it was as if this wasn't a mere shift of attention.

It was as if the emperor, atop his towering palace, had finished reviewing the last memorial, and casually raised his eyes to glance at the disrespectful minister below.

Just that one glance.

All the words that the Netherworld True Person was about to utter froze in his throat.

It's not fear.

It's something deeper, something more fundamental.

He felt as if he were being "seen" by a gaze that had existed since the beginning of time.

There was no murderous intent in his eyes.

There was no anger.

There wasn't even a trace of emotion.

Just "see".

Just as the Heavenly Dao, in the long course of time, occasionally lowers its gaze and catches a glimpse of an ant struggling to climb between the cracks in the rocks.

It's merely "seeing".

But the ant, the moment it is "seen," already knows that it has reached its end.

Qi Yun glanced at him.

Then.

He raised his right hand.

The movements are still very slow.

So slowly that everyone could see how that slender, fair hand gradually emerged from beneath the deep blue cloak.

So slowly that everyone could see how the five fingers stretched out and clenched, as if grasping something invisible yet incredibly heavy.

It was so slow that everyone thought they had enough time to see what was about to happen.

However.

The right hand simply waved lightly and casually.

There is no track.

There was no afterimage.

There was no fluctuation of Law Power.

There was no light, sound, or momentum that should, and inevitably would, accompany a Foundation Establishment cultivator's attack.

Only the expression on the face of the Netherworld True Person, a mixture of arrogance and astonishment that had not yet had time to change, remained frozen there forever.

The next moment.

"Call"

A soft sound.

Like an old paper figure, it was gently licked by the candlelight in the child's hand.

The figure of the Netherworld True Person silently turned into ashes, starting from the top of his head.

Like a traditional Chinese ink painting, soaked by invisible rain, the ink gradually seeps, fades, and dissolves from the texture of the paper.

In the end, not even a wisp of smoke remained.

Only where he stood, a faint, hair-thin, bright yellow glow remained in the void.

The luster was fleeting.

It was so fast it felt like an illusion.

But all cultivators above the Foundation Establishment felt a tremor originating from the depths of their Divine Soul in that fleeting instant.

Dead silence.

Utter silence.

The deathly silence was so thick, as thick as the eternal, chilling cold deep within the Black Abyss Rift Valley, freezing the millions of cultivators along with their breath, heartbeats, and the flow of their Law Power.

The knuckles of the hand holding the bamboo slips of the True Person Zַhuanlun had turned bluish-white.

His ghostly green eyes, like eerie flames, flickered violently at that moment.

He saw it.

He saw Qi Yun raise his hand.

He saw Qi Yun wave his sleeve.

He even saw how that fleeting bright yellow light traversed ten thousand feet of void and, in a fraction of a second, landed on his nephew's brow.

He saw it.

He witnessed the entire process.

But he couldn't stop him.

With the cultivation of Peak Great True Person, the position of acting leader of the Yellow Springs Netherworld, and the divine sense activated by Secret Method passed down for ten thousand years—

The thought of "intercepting" didn't even have time to form.

When he regained consciousness.

That junior disciple has already turned to ashes.

Qi Yun had already withdrawn his hand from under his cloak.

His movements were composed, and his expression was calm.

It was as if the one who had just been swept away was not a True Person in the Foundation Establishment Middle Stage, nor a True Disciple descendant of the Yellow Springs Netherworld.

It was just a speck of dust that landed on his sleeve.

Black Rock Heights to the east.

True Person Sansi still maintained his gentle, smiling demeanor.

But the ordinary-looking white jade pendant hanging from his waist was now trembling slightly at an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible frequency.

That was the sound of a sword.

It was the sound of the ancient sword that he had suppressed for over a hundred years, and which he had almost forgotten how to draw.

True Person Sansi lowered his eyes.

His right hand, which he always kept hidden in his sleeve, had his thumb gently pressing on the hilt of the sword.

The pressure was applied very steadily.

So steady that no one noticed.

But he knew it himself.

A thin layer of sweat had formed on my palms.

The dark stone platform on the south side.

The hand that Lady Jiuli had been supporting her chin with had been lowered at some point.

Her languid, luminous phoenix eyes were half-closed, her gaze piercing through the vast emptiness to land on the deep blue figure atop the precipice.

The fingertips no longer tap.

Interlace your fingers and gently place them on your knees.

Her posture remained graceful and dignified.

But the nine crimson-gold phoenixes behind her had all folded their wings and lowered their noble heads.

The feathers on its neck trembled slightly.

At the top of the cliff.

Qi Yun withdrew his gaze.

He looked toward the edge of the wasteland to the north, at the old man dressed in a dark black scholar's robe, holding a dark yellow bamboo scroll, his face gaunt like a ghost from an ancient tomb.

He didn't speak immediately.

I just watched quietly.

In the depths of those vast, azure-gold eyes, there was no pride, no mockery, not even a trace of emotion.

There was only a bottomless, eerily calm atmosphere, like an ancient, frozen Cold Abyss.

a long time.

He spoke.

Like a celestial decree forged from immense black iron, each word slowly descended into the deathly, almost frozen void. "Fellow Daoist Wheel-Turning."

He paused.

Those cyan-gold eyes remained calmly fixed on the old man whose ghostly green flames were flickering violently.

Qi Mou-

He uttered the last three words, his tone completely flat. "Are you still qualified?"

Above the Black Abyss Rift Valley, the ceaseless, eerie winds finally began to flow once more.

The wind swept across the faces of the million Devil Cultivator cultivators who were frozen in fear, across the slightly white knuckles of True Person Sansi of the Azure Sect, and across the drooping feathers of the nine-headed phoenix behind Lady Jiuli Phoenix Helm Nine Pear.

As they swept across the edge of the northern wasteland, the old man, dressed in a dark black scholar's robe, holding a dark yellow bamboo scroll, stood silently like a ghost from an ancient tomb.

He stood there.

The eerie green flames flickered uncertainly deep within his eye sockets.

The hemp rope on the bamboo slips moved silently in his palm.

long time.

So long that the wind in the rift valley changed from a low murmur to a sob.

He spoke.

His voice was dry, like the first, decaying, heavy breath that escaped when the first crack of an ancient coffin was pried open. "Enough."

The word fell.

The eerie green will-o'-the-wisp finally began to slowly descend.