Xuanye witnessed the death from a distance—close enough to see everything, far enough to avoid blame.
Elder Mo Yunqiu stood at the center of the stone hall, his breathing steady, his expression calm—too calm for a man about to die. There was no blood. No attack. No killing intent.
He simply… stopped breathing.
Some disciples screamed. Others stepped back. Most froze, as if waiting for the world to explain what had just happened.
But the world remained silent.
The sect's protective formations were intact. Qi circulation was stable. No signs of poison. No forbidden techniques. No sabotage.
The death was flawless. Too clean.
Xuanye lowered his head—not out of respect, but because of the unfamiliar weight pressing against his chest. A vague realization settled in his mind, cold and undeniable.
Something had just been adjusted.
As if Elder Mo Yunqiu's existence was no longer… required.
Not long after, they arrived.
Three figures in ash-gray robes appeared without sound, as though the hall itself had been waiting for them. There was no pressure, no killing intent—only a presence that made the air feel slightly… organized.
"The imbalance has been corrected," one of them said calmly.
An elder of the sect gathered his courage.
"What was the violation?"
The robed man paused, then answered honestly.
"Not an action.
But persistence."
Xuanye clenched his fist.
For the first time in his life, he understood a simple—and terrifying—truth:
This world does not punish mistakes.
It erases what it deems excessive.
And the Dao…
never asks for permission.