Hongjun's gaze lingered on Di Jun and Tai Yi, the silence of the palace deepening under the weight of his scrutiny.
Hun Yuan Golden Immortals.
The realization was a jagged thorn in the side of his composure. He remembered his own words, delivered with the absolute certainty of a Saint: the path of proving the Dao through the mastery of Laws was a dead end, a relic of a forgotten era. Yet here stood two Golden Crows who had not only walked that path but reached its summit.
Did it feel like a slap to his own face?
He realized now why these two "evil creatures" had been so inquisitive about the three methods of proving the Dao during the first sermon. They hadn't been seeking guidance; they had been checking their math. They had been cultivating the forbidden path under his very nose.
Self-righteous fools, Hongjun thought, his annoyance bubbling beneath a mask of ice. They celebrated their "luck," but they were blind to the cliff ahead. The path of Laws was a mountain that grew steeper with every step. Once he finished this sermon and merged with the Heavenly Dao, the laws of the universe would be locked behind his will. The suppression would become total. The path they so proudly walked would be severed, leaving them stranded in the foothills of eternity.
When you realize the Way of the Sage is closed to you, the Yao Race will be the only cage left for you to inhabit, he mused.
His eyes shifted toward Nuwa. Her destiny with the Yao was a fixed point, despite the recent ripples. Once she ascended to Sainthood, her karma with the tribes would be resolved, leaving a vacuum that the Golden Crows would be forced to fill. Everything was still moving toward the grand finale he had scripted.
Below, the assembled titans shifted uncomfortably. The Saint had dazed off again. It was becoming a recurring theme. Was he weaving the fabric of fate, or simply lost in the labyrinth of his own calculations?
Hongjun withdrew his gaze, and his voice—melodious as celestial chimes—filled the hall. "This sermon on the Way of the Saint shall last for three thousand years."
The lecture began. It was a symphony of the sublime, but as the years turned into centuries, the "music" grew discordant for those below. This was the final word, a discourse on the nature of the Saint, the mastery of the Quasi-Saint, and the reality of the Dao beyond. It was obscure, ancient, and terrifyingly distant.
The majority of the audience, still struggling at the Grand Unity stage, found themselves drowning in a sea of concepts they could not grasp. Even the San Qing—Laozi, Yuanshi, and Tongtian—looked dazed. The Way of the Saint was a peak they could see, but the path Hongjun described was wreathed in a fog they could not pierce.
Hongjun did not slow down. This session was not for the masses; it was a test of Opportunity and Luck. Those without the innate "click" of destiny could not even remember the words. To try and forcibly memorize the Saint's Way was to invite the collapse of one's own Dao foundation.
The hall became a chamber of silent suffering. Mighty figures sat on their prayer mats with faces contorted in agony, listening to a "heavenly script" they were illiterate to. It was a refined form of torture—to have the secret of the universe whispered in your ear in a language you didn't speak.
Finally, the three thousand years ended. Hongjun fell silent.
A collective, secret sigh of relief swept through the palace. For many, this had been the most miserable experience of their immortal lives. The only thing keeping them in their seats was the hope of what came next: the selection of the Disciples.
"If you have questions," Hongjun said, his voice flat, "ask them now."
The silence was deafening. How do you ask a question about a lecture you didn't understand?
Finally, the San Qing and a few others asked a handful of perfunctory questions. As the session neared its end, the East King Duke stood up. He was pale, his hands trembling slightly, but his eyes were set with the desperation of a cornered man.
"Teacher," he began, his voice cracking. "May I ask... is there a method for the Wu Race to become Saints?"
The question was a lightning strike. The Yao leaders—Nuwa and Kunpeng—glared at the Duke with naked fury. Was he truly so thick-headed that he would help the enemy seek the ultimate power?
Hongjun's brow furrowed. Displeasure flickered in his eyes. Why would this fool waste a question on the barbarians? Yet, with the eyes of the world upon him, he could not ignore it.
"The Wu are innately incomplete," Hongjun replied. "They are blind to the shifts of the Heavenly Secrets and deaf to the warnings of fate. To become a Saint, they would require a Great Opportunity, Great Creation, and Great Perseverance that they do not possess."
He stopped. That was all.
The East King Duke stood frozen, his mind blank. That's it? It was a non-answer, a polite way of saying "it's impossible." How was he supposed to take this back to Di Jiang? If he told the Ancestral Witch that "perseverance" was the key, he'd be squashed like a bug.
He sat down, his heart sinking into his stomach.
Hongjun looked around the room one last time. "The three sermons are complete. Now, I shall choose those among you with whom I have an affinity to be my Disciples. They shall watch over the four directions on my behalf, as dictated by the Heavenly Dao."
His aura began to shift, expanding until it filled every corner of the universe.
"Henceforth, I shall merge with the Heavenly Dao to supplement its missing pieces. From this moment on, I am the Heavenly Dao. I am no longer Hongjun."
The shock hit the hall like a physical wave. To be a Saint was to be a god; to be the Dao itself was a level of transcendence that the immortals could barely conceive. The hunger for discipleship turned from a desire into a frantic, starving need. To be the disciple of the Heavenly Dao itself... it was the ultimate prize.
Every eye in the room—Jieyin, Zhunti, Nuwa, even the Duke—glowed with a desperate, burning yearning.