While Jiang Chen was preparing for his trip with Huang’er, several of House Xiahou’s executives urgently plotted in secret in a hidden base. They met at their venerated forefather’s hermitage.

The forefather in question had closed his doors to cultivate for more than three hundred years. It had been nearly a millennium since news of him had last circulated. In fact, it was a mystery to the outside world whether he was still alive at all.

“Xiahou Zong is dead?” A wizened, emotionless voice came from within the serene valley. It was the house’s sole, remaining forefather, Xiahou Ming.

He was more than ten thousand years old. There was barely anyone alive in the Eternal Sacred Land older than him. Someone of his age should’ve come to terms with life and death long ago, unconcerned with the emotions tied to mortality. However, the forefather sounded strangely affected.

Xiahou Zong’s death astounded him a great deal.

“Forefather, we juniors have failed...

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