At the exact geographical point that divided the central territories of the continent rose the Peak of the Sacred Compass. The mountain did not belong to a single clan; it was neutral territory, maintained by the orthodox sects to host the rare continental councils.
At the apex of that rock, the Palace of the Crystal Dome flaunted the pride of the alliance.
The colossal structure had no walls, displaying four sides wide open to the cardinal winds. The ceiling was a translucent quartz vault, refracting sunlight into colored beams that bathed the inner hall.
In the center of the white jade floor rested the council table.
The gigantic, circular tabletop was a single High‑Grade Spirit Stone, polished to mirror the faces of those seated there. The eight chairs arranged in a circle were forged from the heartwood of Dragon‑Blood Trees, lined with cushions of millennial ice silk. Everything in that hall was built to stroke the egos of old men who felt like gods.
Eight men and women occupied the seats.
There was a silent hierarchy in the arrangement. In five chairs sat the leaders of the Great Orthodox Sects. But the gravitational weight of the table rested on the three side‑by‑side chairs occupied by the continent's three Hegemons.
The difference between a "Great Sect" and a "Hegemony" was not measured merely by disciples. Supremacy was founded on cosmic inheritance. The Three Hegemonies rested upon the Primary Spiritual Veins and possessed the keys to the Secret Realms—pocket dimensions abandoned by true Immortals, relics of an unfathomable age, long before the very emergence of the Three Thousand Worlds. The Hegemonies monopolized the pieces of an ancient heaven.
But that morning, the leader of one of those Hegemonies was sweating cold.
Zhào Fēng, the Sect Master of the Celestial Mirror, did not lean his back against the Dragon‑Blood chair. The ruler's skin was a grayish tone. The fingers holding the porcelain cup trembled uncontrollably, spilling liquid onto the gleaming table.
To his right, the Hegemon of the Immortal Sword, Jiàn Wúshuāng, narrowed his eyes. The man exuded the cutting Qi of the 4th Pillar Saint. Jiàn Wúshuāng tapped his jade‑ringed finger on the table, the sound echoing beneath the crystal dome.
"Your hand trembles like a pig in the snow, Zhào Fēng," Jiàn Wúshuāng's voice tore through the wind, dripping scorn. "You use the Golden Seal to drag all of us to this peak, and now you sit there unable to hold a cup?"
On the other side of the round table, Mèng Lián crossed her legs.
The Sect Mistress of the Celestial Crane was a vision that challenged centuries of any monk's meditation. Dressed in flowing carmine and white silks, the woman exuded a mature, sinful beauty. The fabric slid perfectly over the monumental curve of her hips and the full cleavage that rose and fell calmly. There was not a single man at that round table who, at some point in his long millennia of life, had not coveted dragging Mèng Lián into his own sheets.
The mature woman adjusted her silk sleeve, her red lips curving into a lazy, sharp smile.
"The Continental Disciple Competition begins in exactly four months," Mèng Lián's melodious, intoxicating voice floated through the hall. "Rumors say the fairies of the Celestial Mirror have been tripping over their own swords. Senior Zhào summoned the leaders of the entire orthodox world just to prepare the ground with excuses?"
Low laughter rippled through the chairs.
Zhào Fēng did not respond to the insults. The Hegemon raised his bloodshot eyes. The mark of terror still crushed his Crystal Soul. He looked at the mature woman smiling with scorn and at the imposing swordsman, seeing only corpses dressed in expensive silk.
The porcelain cracked in Zhào Fēng's hand. He dropped the shards onto the stone table.
"The Secret Realm of Stagnant Water…" Zhào Fēng's voice came out rough, tearing his own throat. Veins bulged in his neck. "Has ceased to exist."
The wind stopped circulating through the palace. The laughter died.
The third Hegemon at the table, the leader of the Golden Sun Sect, Yáng Yè, slammed his massive palm against the table.
"What are you saying, Zhào Fēng?!" Yáng Yè snarled, his red beard trembling. "A dimension does not 'cease to exist'! It is a fragment of space locked by Laws from the Age of Immortals! Even if we gathered the eight leaders of this table and pounded on the barrier for a millennium, we could not scratch the infrastructure of that place!"
Zhào Fēng dug his nails into his own thigh. The memory of the black void that had replaced the turquoise forest made his teeth chatter.
"There was no collapse. No barrier break," the Celestial Mirror Master whispered, his gaze lost in emptiness. "It was sucked away. The entire space vanished. Our Guardian Beast was reduced to blood on the ground by a single punch from one of his companions. And my Great Elder's Crystal Soul cracked upon hearing a voice command. The man did not raise a single finger against us. He merely ordered."
Shock gagged the most powerful leaders of the continent. An entire Secret Realm erased? A Great Elder at the apex of the 3rd Pillar subdued by words?
"This is delirium," Jiàn Wúshuāng hissed, the blade of his own aura wavering. "If an aberration of this magnitude walked the South, your entire mountain would already be dust. What did he want? What did he demand to spare your head?"
"The maps," Zhào Fēng answered, sweat dripping from his chin. He looked directly at the flickering irises of the other two Hegemons. "The cartography of all the Sects. The accesses to our continents. He swallowed our foundation as one drinks a glass of water, and looked at our vaults as if they were trash. He wants our roots."
Before Mèng Lián could open her red lips to question the madness of that account, a sharp crack echoed in the hall.
At the opposite end of the round table, the Sect Master of the White Lotus leaped from his chair. The jade communication tablet tied to his belt had just exploded into smoking pieces—the absolute signal that the walls of his own home were crumbling.
The White Lotus Master's face lost all color.
"The frontal formation matrix of my valley has been crushed!" he roared, his Qi pushing the Dragon‑Blood chair backward. "The eastern peak is under attack!"
The tension in the hall burst. Jiàn Wúshuāng drew half his sword from its sheath, his eyes sparking.
"The Path of Perversity!" the Sword Hegemon pronounced. "Those heretical rats dare to orchestrate a direct attack on the orthodox valley while we are all gathered?! Do they think shadows will hide them from our reach?!"
The White Lotus Master turned his back on the round table. His steel boots collided brutally against the jade floor as he marched toward the annex wing of the palace, where ancient silver lines drew circles on the ground.
"I will tear out the throat of every demonic worm that set foot on my land!" the Sect Master shouted.
He stepped violently onto the center of the runes. The long‑distance teleportation matrix drank the furious Qi of the leader in one go. A pillar of blinding light swallowed the man's body, tearing through space and transporting him instantly across the continent back to his own valley.
Zhào Fēng did not rise from his chair. The Celestial Mirror Hegemon slowly leaned his back against the upholstery, his chest rising and falling in short, sickly breaths.
He looked at the broken cup on his table, listening to the furious murmurs of Jiàn Wúshuāng and the suddenly terrified silence of Mèng Lián, who stared at the empty teleportation circle.
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