The Abilities of the Eight Disciples

Gu Changyuan quietly watched the scene before him, looking at these ten disciples who were but half-grown children when he took them in, now having grown into Demon Ancestors capable of suppressing an entire realm.

Watching them kneel before him, their postures as devout as when they first entered the sect a thousand years ago.

A trace of almost imperceptible gentleness flashed through his eyes.

Then, he gently clapped his hands.

Clap. Clap.

The applause was not loud, yet it clearly echoed across the sky above the Heavenly Demon Sect.

Rise.

His voice was calm, neither high nor low, but it clearly fell into the ears of every disciple.

Let us go inside and talk in detail.

With that said, he casually waved his right hand.

The gentle force that had been holding up the Heavenly Demon Sect disciples behind him instantly loosened, sending them to a spacious square on the ground, where they landed steadily.

Then, his figure shifted slightly, leading the way toward the top-level entrance of the largest and oldest main coffin below.

The ten Demon Ancestors rose in unison, following closely behind, entering in a single file.

As for those dozen or so disciples who had narrowly escaped death and stumbled upon a monumental secret, the moment they landed... the very next second—

Buzz!

They were instantly surrounded by densely packed Heavenly Demon Sect disciples and elders, all with faces full of gossip, forming an impenetrable wall.

Countless curious, excited, and shocked gazes were fixed dead upon them.

After all, they were the first batch to come into contact with the Sect Master today.

...

Entering the top level, the sight that greeted their eyes was completely different from the deep gloom outside, as if they had stepped into another world.

There was no eternal leaden darkness of the outside world, no suffocatingly oppressive atmosphere; instead, it was replaced by a brightness and warmth that made one's body and mind relax.

The walls were no longer the cold, dark black of the coffin's exterior, but were covered with a layer of moon-white spiritual material.

Against the wall, several verdant spiritual plants, rarely seen in the outside world, were planted in jade pots, their leaves unfurled and brimming with vitality.

In the corner, there was even a small pool of living spring water, crystal clear to the bottom, where several silver spiritual fish swam leisurely.

In the center of the hall sat a massive green long table, large enough to seat eleven people together.

Gu Changyuan's gaze swept across the surroundings, a trace of satisfaction flashing in the depths of his eyes.

This was the requirement he had left behind back then.

When he first entered the Demon Realm, he was quite displeased with the endlessly gloomy light of the sky here.

It was one thing for the outside environment to be dark—that was dictated by the Heavenly Dao laws of the Demon Realm—but why should his own internal residence continue to be dark?

Therefore, back then, the exterior could maintain the coffin-shaped architecture that suited the temperament of the Heavenly Demon Sect. After all, it was the Nether Coffin Palace gifted by the system—one main and three auxiliaries, forming an independent entity that was both the sect and its suppressing supreme treasure.

But the interior had to be arranged according to his preferences.

At that time, Gu Changyuan's strength was more than a tier higher than when he had first entered the Nine Heavens Realm, and the system had unlocked more functions.

This residence, which carried the core of the sect, was exactly what the system had gifted.

Gu Changyuan took his seat at the head.

Mo Yingluo naturally came to his right side, while Mo Yingyue sat on his left.

The remaining eight disciples took their seats clockwise according to the order they joined the sect.

Beside the long table, eleven figures finally gathered around in one place again after a thousand years.

Starting from Mo Yingluo's right, the first was Gu Changyuan's third disciple, Nine Faces, of the Ghost Race's Rakshasa tribe.

He had a burly figure, clad in tight black martial attire, with a broad, thick long saber tucked at his waist, its blade pitch-black.

The most striking thing was his face—no, it should be said, the black mask on his face.

The material of the mask was unknown, its surface smooth and patternless, with only two points of dark, sharp light revealed at the eye sockets.

The reason he was named Nine Faces was that during combat, he could manifest nine types of ghost faces: joy, anger, sorrow, happiness, grief, fear, shock, evil, and desire, with each ghost face corresponding to a completely different attack characteristic.

The fourth disciple, Gu Shenghua.

He sat beside Nine Faces, but his figure formed a stark contrast—thin, tall, like a bamboo pole that could be snapped by the wind at any moment.

But no one dared to underestimate him, for he belonged to one of the most bizarre species among the Ghost Race—the Bone Ghost.

The fifth disciple, Yin Wugou.

His appearance looked no different from an ordinary human youth, with neat features and gloomy eyes.

But if one observed carefully, they would find the edges of his figure somewhat blurred.

His race was the Curse Nightmare tribe, which had been exterminated by other ghost races. How many were left today was unclear.

The sixth disciple, Hanshuang, also of the Soul Race, but a Snow Maiden.

Her skin was so white it was almost transparent, and her long hair was a pure white.

Fine ice crystals would occasionally fall rustling from the ends of her hair, only to turn into mist and dissipate before touching the ground.

The seventh disciple, Xie Yunjie.

He was a human.

And the most scholarly one at this table—dressed in a plain moon-white long robe, his hair simply tied up with a jade hairpin, his face handsome and refined, with a faint gentleness between his brows.

If anyone unaware of his background saw him, they would only think he was a young master of some aristocratic family devoted to studying, or a wandering scholar-cultivator traveling the world.

He had several writing brushes tucked at his waist, their shafts made of dark jade, but the brush tips presented an eerie dark red color.

That was his natal magical weapon, and the foundation of all his killing arts.

The eighth disciple, Mu Qinghe.

He was also a human, but his temperament was completely opposite to Xie Yunjie's.

Wearing short sleeves and long pants, crisscrossing scars were faintly visible on his exposed arms.

His face was ordinary, the kind that could not be found if thrown into a crowd.

He had a slouchy, somewhat fearless look about him.

Right now, however, a brown lizard was crawling on his leg, which he gently stroked with his left hand.

The ninth disciple, Chu Jing.

She looked like a humanoid mirror.

It was not to say her appearance was like a mirror surface, but rather her entire presence was extremely faint, as if she could blend into the surrounding environment at any time, or as if she herself were a reflection.

Her face was blurred, her features indistinct; the only clear thing was her eyes.

They were eyes that could reflect everything. If you looked at her, you could see your own reflection in her eyes, as clear as looking into a mirror.

The Mirror Spirit race was innately capable of copying, reflecting, and even distorting all attacks.

Her very existence was a materialization of mirroring.

The tenth disciple, Huo Guhong.

He sat at the end of the table, the youngest junior brother of this generation.

Clad in black martial attire, his figure was as straight as an unsheathed sword, his face cold and stern, his brows carrying the sharp edge of one who had been accompanied by slaughter all year round.

On his back, a pitch-black giant sword was slung diagonally, its blade so broad it almost covered half his body, with dark red cloth strips wrapped around the hilt.

Eleven figures, eleven temperaments, yet all possessing terrifying cultivation bases sufficient to shake an entire realm.

One thousand years.

Finally, everyone was here.