Hongjun's voice remained a flat, immovable horizon. He did not look at the three thousand faces turned toward him, each etched with a different shade of desperation.
"The Heavens operate by a fixed number," he declared, the syllables ringing like iron. "Today, there shall be six."
The shock was a physical blow. A "batch" of disciples? They had imagined a legion, a court, a school. But six? Among three thousand of the world's elite, the odds had just become an abyss. The hope that had sustained them through nine thousand years of lectures evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sharp panic. This number was too sensitive; it was a razor's edge that few would survive.
Hongjun surveyed the silence, his heart a still pool. He turned his gaze toward the first row, locking onto the Three Pure Ones.
"Laozi, Yuanshi, Tongtian. You were formed from the very Spirit of Pangu. You carry the Karma of the world's creation. You are destined for Sainthood. You shall be my Personal Disciples."
The air in the palace seemed to thin. Yuanshi's jaw tightened, his legendary arrogance flaring like a dying sun. To be the "Orthodox Lineage" and yet be asked to bow as a student was a bitter draft.
Hongjun saw the hesitation. He raised his hand, and seven streams of violet light began to writhe in his palm. They twisted like ethereal serpents, radiating an aura that felt like the heartbeat of the universe itself.
"This is the Primordial Violet Qi," Hongjun said, his voice softening with the weight of the prize. "It is the foundation of the Great Dao. Master this, and you shall be a Saint. I bestow it upon you now."
Three strands detached themselves, drifting toward the brothers. The sight of the ultimate prize acted like a physical anchor. The Sanqing exchanged a series of lightning-fast glances. Pride was a luxury; the Dao was a necessity. They bowed in unison.
"Thank you, Teacher."
For the first time, a shadow of a smile touched Hongjun's lips. The foundation was laid.
Behind them, the breathing of the crowd became a ragged, frantic sound. The reality of the "benefits" had turned the hall into a den of starving wolves. Jieyin and Zhunti leaned forward, their eyes wide; Nuwa's hand tightened on her robe.
But the most frantic was the East King Duke. He was nearly vibrating in his seat, his mind a fever-dream of his own accomplishments. I brought peace! I mediated the races! Surely, I am next!
Hongjun's eyes moved to Nuwa. "Your fortune is deep, child. You shall be my fourth."
A fourth strand of violet light settled into her palms. Nuwa's joy was a radiant thing, a sunrise after a long night. Behind her, Fuxi and the Yao protectors felt a surge of triumph that bordered on intoxication. With a Saint in their ranks, the Witches were nothing more than a memory waiting to happen.
Four seats gone. Two remained.
The panic in the hall reached a fever pitch. If this was the only window in eternity, they had to leap. Before anyone else could react, Jieyin and Zhunti abandoned their dignity entirely. They threw themselves from their futons, kneeling on the cold floor and wailing with a "misery" that felt practiced.
"Teacher! We have crawled from the wasted lands of the West! We have braved the crushing Chaos for a drop of your wisdom! Take pity on us!"
"Shameless!" a voice hissed from the back.
"Old scoundrels!" another spat.
The hall boiled with indignation. They had pulled this same trick to steal the seats, and now they were doing it for the Qi. But as the crowd mocked them, Hongjun raised a hand.
"Your connection to me is thin," the Saint said, his voice like dry leaves. "But your persistence is noted. You shall be my Named Disciples."
Two more strands of violet light flew out, settling before the Westerners. Zhunti's face lit up with a predatory glee. Thick skin, it seemed, was more valuable than any amount of Virtue.
The East King Duke's face didn't just turn green; it looked as if the life was draining out of him. He was the Head of Immortals. He was the Saint's messenger. How were those two "Western wretches" more worthy than the man who worked himself to the bone for the Saint's order?
Then, the realization hit the hall like a tidal wave. Look at the seats. The six futons. The people who sat there on the first day were the six who held the Qi today.
The futons were the destiny.
Kunpeng, sitting in his grey robes, looked as if he wanted to vomit. Once, he had occupied one of those seats. He had held the future in his hands, and it had been snatched away because of one man's "kindness."
He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto Hong Yun. The killing intent pouring off the North Sea Master was so thick it felt like cold iron. It's your fault. Every drop of this failure is yours.
Hong Yun shivered, feeling the weight of Kunpeng's stare. He wasn't a fool; he saw the math. He had yielded his seat to the Westerners, and in doing so, he had effectively handed them the keys to the universe while throwing Kunpeng into the dirt. He couldn't even look at the man.
Near the back, Di Jun and Tai Yi shared a grim, silent look. They counted the names. Of the six future Saints, five were their enemies. Two—the Westerners—had been beaten by them only centuries ago.
If they become Saints... The urgency hit them like a physical blow. If they didn't master the Laws and reach the next realm before these five consolidated their power, the Golden Crow clan would be erased from the tapestry of time.
They felt the gazes of Jieyin and Zhunti turn toward them, mocking and heavy. The "Sages" were already looking at them like ants waiting to be crushed.
Hongjun looked at the final, seventh strand of Violet Qi writhing in his hand. The crowd went wild, begging and pleading, but the Saint remained a statue of ice.
"The Heavenly Dao has its own count," Hongjun said. "This last strand follows its own path."
He tossed the violet energy into the air. It spiraled through the hall, a flickering purple dragon seeking its heart. It paused above the Duke, then drifted past the Crows. Finally, as every breath in the room held, it dove straight into the chest of Hong Yun.
The "Good Man" gasped, the Qi merging with his soul.
Ling Xiao's warning echoed in the back of his mind, but it was too late. He held the prize that every titan in the room would kill for, and he stood alone.