The opening scene reveals the story of Yao Lao, alarming the Soul Emperor.

The third quarter of the Yin hour.

It was still dark.

The martial arts square outside the Northwest Branch Hall was brightly lit by torches. Thousands of torches were stuck on black iron frames and arranged in two rows, stretching from the steps of the hall gate all the way to the animal enclosure at the end of the square.

In the firelight, a horse-drawn carriage was parked in the center of the square.

The carriage was crafted from a single piece of century-old ebony wood, its dark brown surface subtly revealing naturally formed ghost face patterns. The sides of the carriage were engraved with the spirit-gathering array patterns of the Soul Clan, their lines ancient and rustic, gleaming with a dim, fluorescent light in the firelight.

Three Wind-Chasing Ink-Horned Beasts were mounted on the front of the chariot.

Its entire body was jet black, its shoulders were twelve feet tall, and a single, curved, hook-like black horn grew from each of its foreheads. The aura of a fifth-tier magical beast was undisguisedly leaked out, and the ground tiles within a radius of ten feet hummed under its pressure.

The three-headed black-horned beast pawed restlessly, each stomp of its iron hoof creating another crack in the ground.

They are not afraid of people.

What they fear is the person sitting on the carriage shaft.

Hunwu was wrapped in a drab, coarse cloth robe—his dark red official robe from the Heavenly Gang Palace was neatly folded and placed in the luggage compartment at the back of the carriage. The bandage on his right arm had been changed; the new strip of cloth was tied tightly, with the end tucked under his armpit.

He sat on the left side of the carriage shaft, his legs apart, his left hand gripping the three thick leather reins that connected to the bridle of the black-horned beast.

A six-star Dou Zong sat on the carriage shaft as a coachman.

A large, dark mass of people were kneeling on both sides of the square.

All the registered officials, including stewards, foreign affairs officers, patrol officers, warehouse managers, and animal handlers of the Northwest Branch Hall, who were all wearing black robes, were present. Two thousand three hundred people lined up on both sides of the torches, kneeling on one knee with their heads bowed low.

No one forced them to come.

The events that occurred in the main hall last night spread throughout the entire branch hall within half an hour.

Hun Chang, a four-star Dou Huang, was slammed into a pillar with a single palm strike. The one who did it was a special envoy from the Tiangang Hall. And this special envoy from the Tiangang Hall was serving as an attendant to a white-clad patient who had no Dou Qi.

The impact of this news needs no embellishment.

So when the hour of Yin arrived, 2,300 people spontaneously gathered in the square.

This is not a farewell.

It's fear.

At the end of the torchlight procession, on the steps of the main gate of the branch hall, Wu Ying led eleven elders in a row. Hun Chang was not there—he was still lying in the pharmacy, two of his three ribs broken and his spleen ruptured; he would need at least three months to recover.

The hawk's back was bent at nearly ninety degrees.

The elders behind him bowed even deeper.

After returning home last night, Wu Ying slipped a note into each elder's room. The note contained only one sentence: "I secretly opened the red one of those three brocade pouches and took a look. It's a map of Mu Yuanshan's marching route in the Wind and Thunder Pavilion, with the exact location of his encampment down to the hour."

The effect of the paper strip was immediate.

This morning, not a single elder raised any objection to the supply list. Three black-horned beasts, two boxes of sixth-grade Soul Gathering Pills, eight Dou Huang guards, and a seventh-order array core—every item on the list had been loaded onto the trucks.

The palace gates opened.

Hunyu walked out from inside the door.

He was wrapped in a greyish-white fox fur cloak, the collar turned up to cover half of his neck. He wasn't holding the white feather fan; it was tucked into a brocade pouch at his waist, only a section of the tassel at the end of the handle showing.

He walked very slowly.

With each step he descended, he would lightly rest his left hand on the stone railing. The morning wind, carrying frost, blew in from the mountains, and he turned his head and coughed twice.

He raised his right hand and covered his mouth with a neatly folded handkerchief.

When the handkerchief was removed, several dark red spots appeared on the white cloth.

He folded the handkerchief again, tucked it back into his sleeve, and continued walking.

Not one of the 2,300 people looked up.

But 2,300 people were listening.

Listen to his footsteps—uneven, intermittent, as if they might stop at any moment.

The sound of footsteps belonged to a patient who could collapse at any moment.

But this same patient killed a Dou Zun three days ago with a fan, and crippled a Dou Zong yesterday with two claps.

As he passed by, the hawk suddenly knelt down, raising both hands above its head, holding a token the size of a fist.

"Sir, this is the branch hall token. With this token, all people, property, and soldiers within the jurisdiction of the Northwest Branch Hall can be mobilized at will."

Hunyu stopped.

He looked down at the token. It was made of black iron, with the two seal characters "Northwest" engraved on the front and the emblem of the Soul Clan on the back.

"Keep it."

He didn't answer.

"You will take over the palace affairs while I am away."

The hawk paused for a moment, then lowered its head even further.

"Don't worry, sir."

Hun Yu continued walking forward. When he passed the row of elders, he did not stop or say a word.

The three secret plans were explained last night. The red one should be opened on the 17th, the white one should be opened during battle, and the third one is best left unused.

The most generous thing he had ever done in his life—or rather, in this lifetime—was to give the head of Mu Yuanshan of Fenglei Pavilion as a greeting gift to these people who had wanted to overturn the table with him just yesterday.

When he returned from Zhongzhou, the Northwest Branch Hall was completely unshakeable.

We've arrived at the square.

The carriage was just ten steps away.

Hunwu stood up from the carriage shaft.

He neither bowed nor spoke. He simply used his only functional left hand to open the side door of the carriage and then kicked down the folding wooden steps connecting the door panels.

The wooden steps landed with a dull thud.

Two thousand three hundred people knelt on the ground, watching the white figure slowly step onto the wooden steps.

The hem of the fox fur coat dragged slightly on the steps.

He stepped into the carriage, and the side door closed from the inside.

Hunwu sat back on the carriage shaft. He picked up the reins with his left hand, and with his right hand—the one wrapped in bandages—he drew a long bone whip from his waist, biting the middle of the whip handle with his teeth, and took it with his left hand.

The square was so quiet that only the crackling of the burning torches could be heard.

The hawk knelt on the steps and suddenly spoke loudly.

"Congratulations, sir——"

Two thousand three hundred voices rang out almost simultaneously.

"Congratulations sir!"

The sound rolled across the square, startling a commotion in the animal enclosure.

Inside the carriage, Hunyu leaned against a soft couch covered with white fox fur. In the corner, a small bronze cauldron burned with calming incense, its thin smoke curling into a ball in the enclosed space.

He reached out and parted the curtain on the right side.

It was still dark outside. The torchlight reflected off the black robes that were kneeling on the ground, like a dark tide lying on the ground.

Seventeen years.

He spent seventeen years in this impoverished and desolate place.

From an orphan of unknown origin to more than two thousand people kneeling to bid him farewell.

The price is a body that could break down at any time, and a system that is permanently unbound and will never pop up again.

That's enough.

The curtain fell.

The crisp sound of a bone whip slicing through the air came from outside the carriage.

The three black-horned beasts suddenly sprang up, their six thick hind legs shattering the floor tiles beneath their feet, and their massive, jet-black bodies soared into the air.

The carriage lifted off the ground.

The wind blew into the gaps in the carriage, dispersing the smoke from the calming incense.

The vehicle jolted violently twice before settling down—the Inkhorn Beast had already leaped onto the airflow channel above the clouds.

Hunyu closed his eyes, feeling the wind whistling past his ears.

From the Northwest Branch Hall to the Central Soul Realm, spanning most of the Dou Qi Continent, even a fifth-tier Ink Horned Beast traveling at full speed would need at least seven days.

Seven days.

That's enough for him to finish calculating what he needs to calculate.

He opened his eyes.

There were no lights on inside the carriage; in the darkness, only the red glow of a small ember glowed from the bottom of the An Shen Ding (a type of ancient Chinese cauldron).

Golden Bagua patterns emerged from the depths of his pupils, slowly rotating in the darkness.

The Divine Calculation Golden Eyes operated on its own, meticulously reorganizing a vast amount of known information.

Soul Emperor.

The number one person below the Dou Di level.

He has ruled the Soul Clan for thousands of years, wielding the Void Devouring Flame, a source fire that devours all things, and his ambition is to conquer the continent and become a Dou Di.

Why would someone at the absolute pinnacle issue a decree to a crippled member of a collateral branch?

There is only one answer.

"Without using battle qi, I can kill a Dou Zun."

These eight words are not considered military achievements by the Soul Emperor.

It is a variable.

A variable he couldn't see through or calculate accurately.

A person at the top, facing unpredictable variables, will only do two things.

Take it for your own use, or destroy it on the spot.

The golden light patterns spun even faster.

The sixty-four branches of the Bagua diagram unfolded simultaneously, each pointing to the bottomless underground palace in the Central Continent Soul Realm.

Hunyu drew the white feather fan from his waist, unfolded it, and placed it on his lap.

The fan ribs are made of white jade, reflecting the golden light in the pupils, with a faint pattern flowing across the surface.

A sliver of sunlight peeked through the curtain.

The sea of ​​clouds surged, and the rising sun was cutting a thin, blood-red line through the gap in the car window.

The red light fell on his face, half bright and half dark.

He closed the fan and gently tapped his knees twice.

"Soul Emperor..."

The sound was very soft, mostly drowned out by the wind.

"You want to see me, and I want to see you too."

"It all comes down to who can predict the other correctly first."

The convoy tore through the clouds and plunged into the boundless sky, heading towards the center of the continent.