The Imperial Preceptor departed as silently as he had arrived, and the moment his figure disappeared into the darkness, the Pressure Aura in the hall vanished abruptly — the candleflames began to flicker once more.

Emperor An’he still lay slumped where he had collapsed, drenched in cold sweat, his entire person as though dragged from water, his robes clinging to his body. In his eyes there remained nothing but boundless terror and bewilderment.

He crawled up from the floor and, in a daze, walked toward the dragon throne at the center of the hall, mounting the steps one by one and lowering himself into the seat. His hands passed over the carved dragon heads on the armrests again and again, his eyes filled with reluctance and unwillingness.

All at once, he let out a howling cry, a sound saturated with resentment and indignation.

Even in the former Liang dynasty, whichever emperor sat the throne — had anyone ever been appointed by another’s decree, and then, before even dying, been told to clear out so someone else could sit in his place? What dynasty had ever worked this way?

Only the Tantai clan. Being emperor was suffocating beyond measure — your ascension was by their appointment, your abdication likewise, dismissed with a single word. And yet, none of them could resist, none dared harbour the slightest resentment; they could only comply without condition.

Dare to resist? Then your fate would likely be to serve as the foundation sealed beneath the imperial mausoleum, to anchor the dynasty’s foundations against collapse.

But how could anyone resign themselves to this?

Emperor An’he beat the armrests and laughed out loud — laughed until tears ran down his face. In this moment, imperial authority, grand ambitions — none of it was worth mentioning, none of it could be stirred. Because he was nothing more than a discarded piece on someone else’s board.

Beside the open doors of the hall, the chief eunuch knelt huddled in a corner, trembling violently. Hearing the desolate, frenzied laughter drifting out from within, he shook all the more.

It was the height of the sixth lunar month, the blazing heat of summer — yet within this deep palace, the chill cut to the bone.

The night air was cool as water. The Pomegranate Garden.

In stark contrast to the grave authority that had just played out within the palace’s Zichen Hall, the Pomegranate Garden was thick with pomegranate trees, their branches lush, their blossoms blazing like fire, radiant and brilliant. Moonlight poured down through the canopy, lending the place an entirely different kind of splendour.

Tantai Diji sat cross-legged on the roof of the stargazing pavilion, her hands forming a seal mudra, bathing in the moonlight as she circulated her Grand Heavenly Cycle. A faint, luminous glow flowed around her body.

All at once, the air beside her shimmered, and a familiar presence appeared within the range of her five senses. Tantai Diji gave an almost imperceptible shudder and opened her eyes. She rose gracefully to her feet and bowed in respectful greeting: “Master, why have you come down from the mountain?”

The Imperial Preceptor stood two paces to her side and did not speak at once. He simply regarded her with those eyes that seemed capable of seeing through everything, his gaze calm and unruffled.

Tantai Diji, who was habitually cool and detached, felt that gaze pierce her, and an uncontrollable chill rose from the very depths of her heart — as though she had been fixed in the sights of some terrible, ferocious beast.

“The affairs of Wu Jing — and even the Rong family matter — have caused a tremendous uproar, known to all. You returned to the capital long ago; you were even present when Rong Yiming died. Why did you not send word to me in time?” The Imperial Preceptor finally spoke, his voice cool and thin as water, yet carrying an invisible pressure. “In all of this, in every turn, the shadow of the ninth daughter of the Lang Family is present. The destruction of the Rong clan, the very storms she stirred — all trace back to her. This is far from ordinary. You have already come face to face with her. Did you notice anything? Or perhaps — you did notice, and yet chose not to send word. Ah-Qing, tell your master the reason. Hm?”

His tone was plainly mild, even bordering on gentle, yet every word carried an unquestionable interrogation, each one landing like a heavy hammer blow on Tantai Diji’s heart.

She knew all too well how formidable the Imperial Preceptor was. Any concealment or omission could bring consequences beyond imagining.

She lowered her eyes, steadied her mind, and did her utmost to keep her voice at its usual cool, measured calm: “Master, the head of the Rong family’s wicked deeds were plain for all to see. Moreover, for his own selfish desires, he cultivated a blasphemous and deviant technique. Your disciple knew full well that, should his corrupt art reach completion, it would plunge our great Daan into catastrophe and suffering. Therefore, when Lang Jiuchuan allied with the fourth master of the Rong family to deal with him, your disciple stood by and did not interfere. As for Lang Jiuchuan — her attainment in the Dao is extremely high, yet her origins remain a mystery. Where she learned her cultivation is impossible to trace. Your disciple was unable to perceive the full picture from her, and did not dare disturb Master’s secluded cultivation.”

“Oh? Is that truly all?” The Imperial Preceptor stepped forward, and the oppressive force radiating from him pressed down on Tantai Diji until she could barely breathe. Yet she did not dare move; the tips of her fingers curled inward, pressing into her palms.

“Ah-Qing.” The Imperial Preceptor’s all-seeing eyes settled steadily upon her, his voice still even, yet carrying a faint thread of disappointment — so faint as to be nearly imperceptible: “Of the Tantai bloodline in recent generations, you are the purest, your Dao root the most pristine, your talent the highest. You also carry the hope of our Tantai clan — one who in the future may govern the realm and assist your master in perfecting the Grand Dao, establishing the faith of all living beings beneath heaven. Your master has placed great expectations upon you.”

His slender hand came to rest upon the crown of her head. Sensing her rigidity, his gaze fell upon her trembling, dense lashes, and his tone shifted abruptly cold: “But you — are you defying the hopes your master has placed in you?”

Tantai Diji jolted violently, raised her head in frightened shock, and moved to kneel — but the hand pressed upon her head held her in place, unable to move.

“Your long delay in sending word — was it that you have grown curious about this woman? Or that some pointless compassion has stirred in you, and the ephemeral bond of the past is clouding your judgment?”

The word past exploded in Tantai Diji’s mind like a thunderclap. She stared at the extraordinarily handsome man before her; every trace of colour drained from her exquisite face, and in her eyes was a shock and terror she could not conceal.

Fragmented, indistinct shards of memory flashed through her mind, finally settling on a pair of bright, clever, cat-like eyes — and within those eyes, reflected back at her was her own pitiful figure.

The Imperial Preceptor watched it all, and let out a cold, derisive laugh.

Tantai Diji seemed to pull herself back to her senses. She hastily lowered her head, her voice carrying a faint tremor: “Master, your disciple would not dare. Your disciple has never forgotten her place. Your disciple is the Tantai Sacred Maiden; the sole mission of this life is to guard the foundations of our great Daan. For this I am willing to give everything, with an absolutely undivided heart.”

Her frightened display of loyalty caused some of the coldness in the Imperial Preceptor’s eyes to recede. He gently patted her head and said: “That is best. Remember this — your bloodline, your glory, and everything you are all stem from the Tantai name. You were born for this, and you should be willing to die for this. Whatever threatens the fate of Daan and the Tantai foundations — whoever she may be, or whoever she may once have been — must be removed.”

His words carried unmistakable implications. Tantai Diji nodded in trepidation: “Yes.”

“As for Lang Jiuchuan — if her actions and deeds prove beneficial to the people, then so be it. But if she brings calamity upon the world and stirs unrest throughout Daan, then she is a force of evil and must be eliminated. The dynasty’s mandate has faltered; a new emperor will ascend the throne. You need not return to Mount Cang — remain here in Wu Jing to assist the new emperor, cultivate at Canglang Temple, and watch her closely. Should there be any unusual movement, report to me at once.” The Imperial Preceptor withdrew his hand and turned away. The moon-white Daoist robe swept an arc in the moonlight as he tilted his head slightly: “If you allow one moment of soft-heartedness to jeopardise the dynasty’s mandate, then you will be a sinner against our Tantai clan. Ah-Qing, that consequence is one you cannot bear. Do not do anything to disappoint your master.”

His words fell, and his figure had already vanished like a phantom into the night.

“Yes.” Tantai Diji stumbled a step, staring at her own trembling fingertips, and murmured softly: “But Master — my childhood name… do you truly remember it?”