Atop the tallest black cliff, directly to the north.
Qi Yun stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
His deep blue Daoist Robe remained completely still against the Yin Wind from the rift valley, only the edge of his great cloak occasionally rising in a silent arc.
Half a step behind him, Black Mountain, Qian Xin, Qing Li, and the other core disciples of the Holy Sect followed in silence.
The four sides faced one another.
Myriad demons held their breath.
No one spoke.
Under the silent gaze of a million cultivators, only the ten-thousand-year, ceaseless Yin Wind from the depths of the rift valley issued a low, mournful moan, as if weeping.
Suddenly.
The old man in the jet-black scholar's robe, standing silently at the edge of the northern wastes, moved.
It was an extremely faint, almost imperceptible movement.
