That old fellow sitting at the highest place can no longer suppress the fortunes of this Canghuang Realm.

Of the four gates of Tianshui, the southern gate was the busiest, while the northern gate was the most desolate.

Fang Zheng’s single decree had sealed the city. It had sealed the roads leading out, but it could not stop the undercurrents carrying all kinds of intentions from pouring into the city from every direction.

How should one put it?

Suppose you tried to explain to these people, “Fellow cultivator, all sorts of factions have taken up positions in Tianshui City, and the situation is far too chaotic. If you stay here, you may well lose your life.”

Would they listen?

Most would not.

They might even think: Old fool, you’re only saying this because you’re afraid I’ll get the benefits first.

Even if I can’t claim the lion’s share, getting a little soup from the edges would still be worthwhile.

Cultivators seemed even more enthusiastic than mortals when it came to seeking opportunities.

After all, any cultivator who was still alive had never died while searching for an opportunity.

Either they survived without danger, or they turned misfortune into fortune. At worst, they narrowly escaped death.

This was especially true of the northern gate.

That gate mostly led toward barren provinces and commanderies. It could not compare to the southern gate, where caravans flowed endlessly and spirited horses galloped like dragons. Most of those who went out of their way to take the long road to Tianshui from this direction were young people hoping to try their luck in this den of wealth and vice, or wanderers who had met with bad luck elsewhere and wished to start over in a new place.

Deep into the night, outside the northern city gate, there was nothing but the chirping of insects and croaking of frogs, followed by an expanse of deathly silence.

Yet if one followed the official road north from the northern gate for another eighty li, one would see an unremarkable black-canopied carriage proceeding beneath the moonlight at an unhurried pace.

The carriage was made of ordinary nanmu wood.

The horses were two common brown-maned steeds. Their hooves did not even stir the slightest trace of dust, and even the final whisper of the turning axle seemed to be gently swallowed by the night.

If one had to name anything unusual about the carriage, it could only be that it traveled far too slowly.

Ever since entering the commandery, it had continued at this leisurely pace. It did not resemble the carriage of anyone hurrying toward a particular destination. Instead, it was like a vehicle carrying travelers out to enjoy the spring, as though they feared that moving too quickly would cause them to miss the scenery along the way.

The second unusual thing was the coachman.

He was an old man with hair and beard as white as snow. He wore coarse hemp clothing covered in patches, and his face was furrowed like a dried riverbed.

In his hand, he held a mottled carving knife. He was bending his head in concentration over a piece of ironwood no larger than his palm. The ironwood was harder than refined steel, yet beneath his knife it was as docile as tofu.

Wood shavings flew in all directions, but the old man’s murky eyes shone with astonishing brightness, as though stars were being born and extinguished within them.

The deeper the night grew, the colder the moonlight became.

When the carriage reached a bend in the forest, the old man carving the wood suddenly stilled his wrist. The carriage came to a smooth halt, without the slightest jolt.

The carving knife spun deftly between his fingers. With one final stroke, he shaved away the last thread of wood, and a lifelike wooden eagle took shape in his palm. In the place of its eyes, there even seemed to be a faint glimmer of living spirit.

“How is it?”

A woman’s cool voice came from inside the carriage. It held no emotion, like ice breaking apart on a winter pond.

The old man did not turn around. He merely rubbed the wooden eagle’s wings with his fingertip and replied in a deep, muffled voice, “Someone from Imperial Court Mountain should have taken charge of the situation, but it’s of no consequence.”

Silence filled the carriage for a moment.

“Heh.”

A soft laugh came from behind the curtain, carrying a hint of mockery.

“Looks like the disturbance is even greater than we expected.”

A pale hand lifted a corner of the carriage curtain, revealing the face of a woman whose lower half was hidden behind black gauze.

Only her phoenix eyes could be seen. With every turn of her gaze, they possessed a naturally seductive charm, yet they also carried a chill that kept others at a thousand miles’ distance. Her fingertips tapped lightly against the window frame, as though she were growing impatient.

“Should we speed up?”

“Don’t rush.”

Another voice sounded from the shadows on the opposite side of the carriage. It was warm and gentle as jade, yet possessed the composure of someone who controlled everything.

A young man in a moon-white robe sat there upright. He held no wine, only a bamboo scroll, and was reading it with such absorption that he had not even lifted his eyelids.

“It’s nothing to worry about. The watchdog of Imperial Court Mountain may bark as loudly as it likes, but it only dares to make noise within its own courtyard.”

The young man did not even raise his head. His voice was flat, as if he were merely stating an established fact.

The old man sighed, though it was impossible to tell whether he was pleased or angry.

“Fang Zheng is a good man.”

At that, the young man finally shifted his gaze from the bamboo scroll and raised his head.

He was exceptionally handsome, with a nearly demonic beauty. A faint, inscrutable smile rested at the corners of his lips.

“Is being a good man some kind of death-exemption token?”

The young man sighed as well and closed the bamboo scroll with a soft snap.

“Besides, we don’t distinguish between good and evil. We simply stand on different sides.”

“Someone like Fang Zheng has lived his entire life within the rules. He cultivates order and upholds the law. He is like a straight spear—seemingly sharp, but in truth, all too easy to break,” the young man said unhurriedly.

“The more desperately he tries to flatten the waters, the faster the whirlpool beneath them will spin.”

The woman in the carriage seemed uninterested in this discussion. She merely gazed at the pitch-black forest outside and said coolly, “Since he’s a watchdog, let him bark. He isn’t our target.”

“Indeed.”

The young man smiled and reopened the bamboo scroll.

“I simply find it interesting. Tianshui City is like an overcrowded pond. The fool from the Shu family thinks he’s the owner, yet he doesn’t realize how many anglers have arrived from outside.”

“And we…”

The young man paused. His gaze seemed to pierce through the carriage, as though he could see the brightly lit Drunken Immortal Residence in distant Tianshui City.

The old man remained silent. He tucked the wooden eagle into his robes, then took out another piece of ironwood and continued carving.

This time, he was carving a dragon.

The woman lowered the curtain, and darkness once again filled the carriage.

“Is that sword truly worth all this trouble?” the woman suddenly asked.

“No.”

The young man’s answer was crisp and decisive.

The woman was taken aback.

“It’s merely a broken sword bearing a trace of Immortal Venerable Haoyue’s karma. It is of little use to us,” the young man said, turning another page of the bamboo scroll. His tone remained flat. “But it is a spark that can set the whole thing ablaze.”

The young man smiled. In the dim carriage, that smile appeared somewhat sinister.

“Do you truly think the ruins of Immortal Venerable Haoyue appearing out of nowhere and severing the clone of an Immortal King was a coincidence?”

“The wondrous celestial phenomenon in the Sea of Chaotic Stars had existed for tens of thousands of years. Why did it collapse at this particular moment, and why did it happen to swallow a half-step Immortal King?”

The young man extended one slender finger and lightly tapped the air.

“Events like these might not happen even once in several centuries during ordinary times. Those who stand above the immortals usually either die of old age or simply lose their minds and attempt to break through to a higher realm.”

“But now, they have occurred one after another within the span of a single month.”

“What does that tell us?”

“It tells us that the old fellow seated at the very highest place can no longer suppress the destiny of the Canghuang Realm.”

The carriage fell into a long silence.

Even the old man outside, who had been bent over his carving all this time, paused with his knife for a moment.

There was an unspoken consensus throughout the cultivation world.

If the current Great Emperor had ascended to the imperial throne without injury or illness, and the Canghuang Realm had enjoyed favorable weather and no great upheavals throughout his reign, then his lifespan could reach ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine years—and two and a half days.

Not one day more, not one day less.

That was the absolute limit permitted by the Heavenly Dao.

Of course, for convenience, most people would call it a hundred thousand years—or a single era.

And the one in question has now been on the throne for more than eighty thousand years.

“When the emperor’s might wanes and fortune scatters, disasters both natural and man-made will emerge one after another, like mushrooms after the rain.” The man picked up the bamboo slips again, his tone returning to its usual calm. “As for this sword… perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t.”

“That’s why I need to go there and see for myself.”

“By itself, it may not be worth mentioning.”

“It’s like a stepping stone thrown into the muddy waters of Tianshui City by that fool from the Tong Clan.” The corners of the man’s mouth lifted slightly. “Now, everyone who wants to find out how deep those waters run has arrived.”

“Fang Zheng of Emperor Court Mountain is here to maintain stability. He represents the old order.”

“The Shu Clan is a local snake hoping to fish in troubled waters.”

“As for those lunatics from Kuitian Sacred Land, they’re pure technomaniacs. They’re interested only in extraterrestrial meteorite iron and deep-sea sunken silver.”

“And we…” The man paused, his gaze piercing through the carriage curtain, as though locking eyes with some distant presence.

“We’re here to set the fire.”

At those words, the frost in the black-veiled woman’s eyes seemed to melt away, replaced by a trace of fervor.

“I understand.”

…