Zixiao Palace sat at the jagged edge of existence, where the roaring tides of Chaos gnawed at the borders of the Honghuang.
To reach its gates was a trial of the soul. One had to endure the Nine Heavens Thunder Layer and the Astral Winds—gales so sharp they could peel the essence from a god's bones. Only those with immense Luck and a steady Dao Heart could navigate the illusions of the void. And even then, one had to step across the River of Time itself to find the palace doors.
In the eyes of the Saint, those who failed were simply "lacking in fate."
Three thousand years bled into the void.
Inside the palace, the "fated" had gathered. The Two Sages of the West—shabbily dressed and wearing expressions of practiced misery—had successfully maneuvered their way into the prime seats, much to the silent scoffing of the gathered elites.
Suddenly, the palace went cold. The air thickened with a weight that felt like the Heavenly Dao itself was descending. Hongjun appeared.
He was a white-haired Daoist, his presence so obscure that even though he sat before them, he felt as distant as the stars.
"Is this... a Saint?" the mighty figures whispered in their hearts, their pride as Innate Gods instantly crushed under the invisible pressure of his aura.
Hongjun surveyed the front row: the Three Pure Ones, Nuwa, the Western Sages. He nodded, satisfied. But then, his gaze drifted toward the back.
He scanned once. Twice. A third time.
His brow twitched almost imperceptibly. The mighty figures grew uneasy—was the Saint looking for someone? Was there a threat they couldn't, see?
In truth, Hongjun was bewildered. As the Saint, he had glimpsed the threads of the future. The protagonists of the next Great Tribulation—the two Golden Crows of the Sun Star—were missing. Without them, there was no Yao Race leadership. Without them, the "Luck" he intended to harvest would be incomplete.
Are they late? he wondered.
He cast his gaze toward the Sun Star, his vision piercing through the solar flames. What he saw almost made him laugh with pure, divine irritation.
The two crows were still there. They hadn't even broken through to the Grand Unity Golden Immortal (Daluo) realm. They were "trash" in his eyes—so weak they probably realized they'd never survive the Chaos winds, so they simply... stayed home.
How can they be this pathetic? Hongjun grumbled internally. If this continued, the Witches would simply stomp them out in a day. The "War" would be a massacre, and the cycle of the world would break.
"Forget it," Hongjun sighed mentally. "I'll deal with them at the next sermon."
He turned back to the crowd, his voice resonating with the laws of the universe. "This sermon shall cover the Dao of the Grand Unity. Focus your hearts."
The Law of the Sun
Meanwhile, on the Sun Star, the golden leaves of the Fusang Tree shivered.
Ling Xiao opened his eyes. Within his pupils, golden flames danced with a new, terrifying complexity. After three millennia of grueling meditation within the Chaos Pearl, he had finally shattered the bottleneck.
He was now a Grand Unity Golden Immortal.
"I wonder what Hongjun's face looks like right now," Ling Xiao mused, a smirk playing on his lips. He could almost feel the Saint's confusion echoing through the fabric of fate.
But he didn't dwell on it. Becoming a Daluo meant he could finally begin the true work: comprehending the Laws.
He pulled out his two greatest assets: the Chaos Pearl and the Jade Disc fragment.
While Hongjun was teaching the masses, Ling Xiao was having a private tutorial with the source of the universe itself.
The Law of Yang. The Law of Fire.
These were his birthrights. Born of the Sun, his affinity for these concepts was unparalleled. He gripped the pearl in one hand and the disc in the other, his spirit diving into the primordial origin of heat and light. He didn't need a teacher; he had the source code.
Across the star, Dijun and Tai Yi were also reaching their limits, their auras swelling as they attempted to push into the Daluo realm. They were behind, but they were safe.
The Promise of Ten Thousand Years
In Zixiao Palace, the final Dao sound faded.
The three thousand years had felt like a heartbeat. The elites—Laozi, Yuanshi, Tongtian, Nuwa, and the rest—had made massive leaps. Most were now in the Middle or Late stages of the Daluo realm. Their paths were clear, their power immense.
Except for the Ancestral Witch, Houtu. She sat in silence, frustrated. The Witches possessed no Primordial Spirit; Hongjun's words were like music played to a deaf man.
"This sermon ends here," Hongjun announced, his figure beginning to fade into the void.
"The next sermon will be in ten thousand years."
He paused, casting a long, heavy shadow over the room.
"Then, I shall teach the Dao of the Quasi-Saint."
Before anyone could ask what a 'Quasi-Saint' was, he was gone. But the name alone set their hearts on fire. A realm between them and the Saint? A new summit to climb?
The race had truly begun.