That woman—the one who had blasted him to pieces a hundred years ago! That nightmare that had jolted him awake from countless fever dreams!

She hadn’t aged a day in the past century.

Zhang Xian’s breath hitched, his chest tightening.

Li Fuxi noticed her disciple’s unusual state. She glanced sideways at him and, seeing him staring fixedly at Nangong Yao, assumed he was captivated by her beauty. She let out a sharp, cold snort of disapproval.

Real Man Wangya spoke up, breaking the tension. “This is Elder Nangong Yao of our Yunmiao Sect. Many years ago, she entered that secret realm and was the sole survivor of the expedition.”

Nangong Yao’s gaze swept lightly over the crowd as she gave a slight, elegant bow. Standing in the center of the tent, she began narrating the events of two centuries past in a voice as calm as still water.

“Two hundred years ago, Fellow Daoist Xuanzhou sent us a message saying he had obtained a secret realm key and invited us to explore it together.”

She lightly tapped her fingertip, and spiritual power sketched the scene in the air, glowing with a soft light.

“Elder Wangya could not accompany us due to sect affairs. In the end, six of us entered the realm: Xuanzhou, Wangchuan, Wangchuan’s eldest disciple Wang Pan, the then Peak Master of Wendaofeng, Real Man Yao, and Supervisor Zhao.”

At the mention of those names, both Li Fuxi and Yun Wanqing felt their hearts tighten.

“The entrance was a pale white vortex. Our initial expectations were low. After we entered, we discovered it was actually an ordinary small world—filled with farmland, villages, and mortal cities.”

“We were very surprised at the time; this didn’t seem like a secret realm at all,” Nangong Yao continued. “We found a Daoist temple. The master was a cultivator who had just stepped into Qi Refining and knew almost nothing about the wider world.”

“Real Man Wangchuan gave the temple master several mid-grade spirit stones. Afterward, we traveled to the royal city and met the ruler.”

“Was this country called Yan?” Zhiyin suddenly interjected.

Nangong Yao nodded. “Yes.”

Everyone present held their breath. The details matched perfectly.

She continued, “The ruler believed we were immortals from heaven and entertained us lavishly, begging for elixirs of immortality. Xuanzhou gave him a simple pill to strengthen his body. We stayed for three months but found nothing unusual until—”

Her voice paused.

“—until Senior Brother Wang Pan discovered that the people there had extremely short lifespans. Even the emperor did not live past fifty.”

“Soon after, Real Man Wangchuan sensed the truth. Beneath the imperial mausoleum lay an evil formation that drained the life of every living soul.”

Nangong Yao’s narration grew somber.

“The moment we stepped into the imperial mausoleum, we felt an indescribably foul aura.” Her fingertips unconsciously tightened. “And then we saw him.”

She tapped the air again, her spiritual power manifesting a new image.

In the projection, an emaciated old man sat up from a coffin. He wore tattered yellow robes, his skin as dry and shriveled as tree bark, but his eyes glowed with a predatory crimson light.

“I founded this country… everything here is mine!” The old emperor’s voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grating against stone.

“We blasted him to pieces with one palm strike,” Nangong Yao said. “But bizarrely, his corpse dissipated into black mist, and we could no longer find our way out.”

“We were trapped within the formation.” Her voice carried a hint of a suppressed tremor. “The emperor was only equivalent to early Golden Core strength—nothing to fear—but he would constantly resurrect. Each time he appeared, he would say the same thing.”

“Eventually, Real Man Wangchuan decided to set up a countering formation to break the imperial maze. However, the formation eyes needed to be dispersed to the four corners of the mausoleum.”

“The emperor would destroy any formation eye we left unattended. This meant we had to split up.”

Nangong Yao closed her eyes briefly. “And then… I never saw the others again.”

“I was acting with Real Man Zhao. We set up our part of the formation, but after waiting for hours with no movement, we knew something was wrong.”

“We went to the nearest formation eye… and found Real Man Wang Pan’s corpse.”

A sharp pain stabbed through Li Fuxi’s chest. That was her eldest senior brother.

“I was about to examine the body—” Nangong Yao stopped.

“It’s fine, continue,” Wangya urged.

“I was about to examine it when Real Man Zhao ambushed me from behind,” Nangong Yao said, her voice turning icy. “He said: ‘Junior Sister, I know you have a Boundary-Piercing Shuttle. Hand it over.'”

“Fortunately, I had a top-grade magical artifact protecting me. Severely wounded, I mustered my strength to activate the shuttle and escape. I crashed into a small world and only returned to the sect after recovering my mobility.”

Wangya added, “In that battle, the Yunmiao Sect lost two Peak Masters and two Supervisors… and I lost one of my closest friends.” He glanced apologetically at Yun Wanqing.

“Junior Sister Nangong has passed the test of the Heart-Questioning Sword, proving her words are true.”

The tent fell into a heavy silence. Most had heard rumors, but few knew the chilling details.

Real Man Wangya stood up, his gaze sweeping over the assembly.

“As for fellow disciples harming each other…” He paused, tapping the table. “I want to remind everyone: that secret realm likely has the power to bewilder the mind.”

“Real Man Zhao was a man I knew for centuries. He was upright and loyal; he was not a man who feared death. But the power in that place likely amplifies a cultivator’s most primitive Desire.”

“The instinct to survive… the craving for power… the suspicion of one’s allies. This is my speculation.”

A collective sigh went through the room. Wangya had exposed his own sect’s internal scandal to ensure the truth was known.

“If any of you enter that realm… guard your Dao-hearts diligently!”

As Zhang Xian listened, his confusion only deepened.

Nangong Yao described events from two hundred years ago… yet they matched his history with “Little Blackie” perfectly.

But his encounter had been only a century ago.

Severely wounded… crashing into a small world? Could such a coincidence truly exist?

“What happened to that small world afterward?” Zhang Xian asked, his voice tight.

Nangong Yao frowned slightly at the interruption, but seeing his sect attire, she answered. “I do not know. I recuperated there for ten days. There was no spiritual energy… but the exit was not far from Shuiyun City.”

Zhang Xian felt as if he had been struck by lightning.

Real Man Wangya interjected, “That small world seems to be where your friend is from. At that time, Junior Sister Nangong brought a disciple back to the sect.”

Zhang Xian looked up abruptly. “What was her name? Where is she now?”

“Xingxiu.”

Xingxiu… Zhang Xian remembered what Chen Tiexin had told him when he first joined. Someone had been obsessed with making puppets that looked like Supervisor Xingxiu.

He hurriedly pulled out a jade slip—information he had bought at a high price from the broker Old Deng—containing records of disciples from the last few centuries.

He found the entry quickly:

“Xingxiu: Entered the sect 200 years ago. Reached mid-Golden Core in less than a century. Currently traveling. Uses ‘Star’ as a Daoist title. Secular surname: Zhang.”

Surname Zhang!

A pang hit Zhang Xian’s heart as an image surfaced: a little dark-skinned girl who always followed him, calling him “Brother Shan.”

But a massive, terrifying question remained:

Where did his missing hundred years go?