News came from India. Several elderly monks took it very seriously. Simalti, a monk of over one hundred and ninety years of age, set out and invited two old acquaintances to come along with him.

Two days later, accompanied by four masters and that ancient Sanskrit authority, Simalti and two other elderly monks arrived in City B and met with Ye Fan.

Even with the considerable advancements of modern medicine, a monk who could live to over one hundred and ninety years of age remained a miracle in the eyes of ordinary people.

Simalti was sharp and vigorous in spirit. Though aged to an almost unrecognizable degree, he still walked with brisk strides, his frame sturdy and robust. When he spoke, his words rang out like a bronze bell tolling, carrying a metallic resonance.

The two elderly men walking beside him were much the same — clearly of similar age. They were tall and gaunt, their skin yellowed, their bodies lean to the bone, their eye sockets deeply sunken, yet their spirits were lively and alert.

They pressed their palms together and bowed respectfully to Ye Fan, their expressions serene and tranquil. These three men had spanned three centuries and tasted every shade of the mortal world. They were, by any measure, eminent monks.

Ye Fan returned the courtesy and nodded inwardly. All three — Simalti and his companions — were extraordinary individuals. They had already entered the Divine Transformation secret realm, so their extended lifespan was entirely to be expected.

At the other end of the starry sky, reaching the Divine Transformation realm at such an age would be considered unremarkable — barely qualifying as a cultivator at all.

Yet Earth was in an Age of Decline. To have attained such cultivation here was truly no easy feat. By any measure, these three could be called exceptional talents.

Ye Fan invited them to sit. With a casual sweep of his right hand, several cups of tea infused with spiritual medicines appeared from thin air, immediately drawing expressions of astonishment from the three elderly monks.

From the moment they had laid eyes on this young man, they understood they were in the presence of a great master of divine arts — one whose cultivation likely rivaled that of sect leaders from ancient times.

Whether it was the three elderly monks, the four masters, or the ancient Sanskrit authority — when each of them accepted the spiritual tea, their faces filled with expressions of awe and wonder.

“The heavens and earth have shifted. That in this present age there could still be such rare and precious heavenly treasures is truly extraordinary. This hospitality is too generous — it is almost too much to bear.”

They all pressed their palms together and offered devout expressions of gratitude. Such spiritual medicines were things none of them had ever encountered in all their lives.

Ye Fan had many things he wished to ask. He came straight to the point and immediately raised the question of whether any ancient sects still existed on Earth today, where they might be found, and what the state of the cultivation world was.

“In the ancient era, there were many great sects — ancient schools stood everywhere, powerful cultivators were as numerous as clouds, and great masters of divine arts were plentiful. But today, everything has changed.” Simalti said.

In ancient India, Buddhism had once flourished greatly, supplanting Brahmanism, with vast numbers of followers and temples as numerous as the rain. In time, it too declined.

Present-day Hinduism traces its roots to Vedism and Brahmanism — a cycle, as it were, that has in turn supplanted Buddhism. Of course, the various teachings have interwoven and merged, all paths coexisting, as though united into a single living whole.

Simalti said that in ancient times, setting aside matters of faith and speaking only of divine arts and spiritual methods, there had been many schools and lineages. Among them, Vedism had exerted a profound and far-reaching influence, serving as the precursor to Brahmanism. The Buddha himself, before renouncing the world, had also cultivated the methods of Brahmanism.

A single scripture — the Vedas — threads through the rise and fall of several teachings. From Vedism to Brahmanism, then to Buddhism, completing one full cycle, and now the Vedas are once again revered.

Simalti spoke at length, recounting much about the doctrinal lineages of ancient times. He said that in those days, the number of true transmissions had been extraordinary — like a hundred flowers blooming in full splendor, each vying to outshine the rest, with powerful cultivators standing everywhere.

Later, all of it fell into decline. The monastery he belonged to had suffered a great calamity, losing the greater part of its methods. It was pushed entirely to the margins and lost contact with the various other schools of the old world.

In the present age, even he did not know whether those lineages still existed. He knew only a handful of people who understood cultivation. Yet he felt that the various schools ought to still be out there — only, living in seclusion because of the Age of Decline, unknown to the world at large.

Ye Fan was somewhat intrigued by the Vedas and asked to borrow a look at them. He understood that this could not possibly be the same text ordinary mortals knew — there was surely a secret chapter on cultivation concealed within.

“What do you know of the Central Plains?” he asked. “Of Daoism, for instance? Of the demonic beings said to have emerged from the Central Plains? Of bloodlines inherited from the ancient demon-gods, and so forth.” In truth, he held little interest in ancient India. What he truly wanted to understand were the various ancient sects of China.

Simalti’s expression turned grave. “The Central Plains runs unfathomably deep,” he said. “We ourselves do not understand it well.”

His reverence for the Central Plains was genuine and heartfelt. He knew nothing of Daoism and had never encountered anyone from that school. What he had heard about demonic beings emerging from the Central Plains had come down to him only through his predecessors — he had no clear understanding of it himself.

The one thing he had personally witnessed was a being of demonic and godlike nature — something that had made him tremble. He had caught only a distant glimpse of it and had not dared to draw near, retreating quickly.

“Where did you see it?”

Simalti named a location. Ye Fan’s expression shifted — it was a battlefield from that era, a place where no one could know how many had perished.

During the second great war, Simalti had traveled east on an ascetic journey and, at one such battlefield, witnessed a pillar of blood-light piercing the heavens — terrifying beyond words — that then spread outward like a vast and boundless ocean.

“That demon certainly knows how to choose its moment.” Ye Fan murmured to himself.

In those years, no one could know how many heroic souls had perished. The whole land had been drenched in blood and shadow, shrouded in grief and desolation. In that Age of Decline, it had perhaps been a rare opportunity for a great demon to advance — forged from blood and spirit.

“Did it act?” Ye Fan asked.

“It did not. Cultivators are forbidden from interfering in the great affairs of the mortal world. This is a precept established in the ancient era, universally revered, passed down through every generation. No one has dared to violate it.” Simalti replied.

Ye Fan nodded but said nothing, though inwardly he was contemplating just how powerful that demon-god might be.

By Simalti’s standards at that time, he could not have been mistaken. The blood-energy had surged to the heavens, the demon’s might flooding outward in a vast tide — astonishing by any measure, indicating, at bare minimum, a figure at the level of a sect leader.

“Remarkable. In this Age of Decline, for such an ancient demon to still exist — truly unexpected. I wonder where it is now.” Ye Fan murmured.

“Could that lineage be connected to what happened with the one impersonating Pang Bo?” A sudden association formed in his mind.

According to what Simalti had said, the waters of the Central Plains ran very deep — that demon-god was only one example. He had also heard from senior monks of generations past about encountering another terrifying being, though the details were unclear.

In the end, they set out — carrying the small stone Buddha toward the Tibetan region, hoping to open a path leading to Lingshan.

Buddhism had waned in India, yet it had flourished in the Central Plains. In years past, a bodhisattva who had attained parinirvana had left behind a final testament saying that Lingshan would shift eastward. According to the deductions of several arhats in later generations, it would be somewhere in the Tibetan region.

Lingshan — the original sacred ground of Buddhism. It had existed long before Shakyamuni unified the faith. The monks of that age had cultivated through mortification of the body and possessed great divine arts.

Before Shakyamuni established his teaching, the monks of Earth were scattered. Lingshan was the only place that could summon them — a mysterious and ancient sacred site.

“What a pity. After the last bodhisattva and the ancient Buddha passed into parinirvana, no one outside was able to open the path leading to Lingshan anymore.”

Simalti said that this small stone Buddha might be the key sacred object — perhaps capable of unlocking an ancient mystery and revealing that original sacred ground. Within it, there might even be living beings still present.

Ye Fan did not bring Xiao Song along. He only borrowed the small stone Buddha for the time being. As an ancient sacred ground, Lingshan was no less formidable than Mount Sumeru — there could be truly terrifying dangers within, and he had no wish to expose such a pure and innocent little one to that kind of peril.

The group traveled through an uninhabited region. All was tranquil. The sky was a deep, clear blue, and the occasional cloud that drifted past was immaculate white. Both the air and the scenery were pure and pristine.

Perhaps this was the only remaining patch of unspoiled land. Everywhere else now bore the footprint of humanity — towering buildings, steel and concrete smothering the fragrance of grass and flowers, leaving almost nothing of the original, natural world.

Ye Fan held the small stone Buddha in his palm and channeled great spiritual power to bless it, causing it to radiate boundless light. The several ancient characters within its body all manifested outward, while his own golden blood-energy surged to the sky.

Every person present trembled, filled with a reverence beyond measure. Such a master of divine arts could hardly appear in the world anymore — yet here they were, witnessing it with their own eyes.

Simalti and the other two elderly monks recited certain Buddhist esoteric phrases — left behind by the ancient masters of old — telling Ye Fan that these might be used to locate Lingshan.

As Ye Fan pressed forward, reciting the incantations as they had described, the small stone Buddha grew ever more radiant. The divine halo behind its head fully materialized, ringing out with a clear metallic tone when touched, and its pair of Buddhist eyes looked as though they were about to open.

“Heaven and earth have changed somehow — look, mountains have suddenly appeared ahead.” One of the masters exclaimed in astonishment.

It was a most peculiar sight. Numerous great mountains appeared on the horizon — immensely tall, soaring into the clouds, pressing down upon the breath with their overwhelming grandeur.

Yet every one of them was indistinct, impossible to see clearly, carrying a quality of distant unreality as they stood towering at the edge of heaven and earth.

“A path has appeared — but it keeps breaking off and fading…” Another master said, deeply moved, pointing ahead.

It was an ancient road — one that had never been seen there before — now appearing abruptly, winding toward the depths of a faraway great mountain range.

“This is… the road to Lingshan!” Simalti trembled from head to toe, wholly at odds with the composed bearing befitting an eminent monk, for he was simply too overwhelmed with emotion.

As Ye Fan channeled his great spiritual power to bless the small stone Buddha while reciting those incantations, a vast and boundless Buddhist energy came surging from the distance. The waves it carried made one want to bow down in veneration — transcending all else.

“It truly is Lingshan!” Ye Fan’s eyes gleamed with sharp brilliance. This was identical to the momentary sensation he had felt when he had entered the Tibetan region not long ago — only this time it was boundlessly more sustained.

An ancient road wound its way toward them. The group set foot upon it and advanced step by step. It was deeply mysterious — the roadsides were full of ancient traces, bearing no resemblance to the ordinary world.

The great mountains in the distance were overwhelmingly majestic. No one knew which part of the real world they were hidden within — even when Ye Fan had crossed the entire Tibetan region last time, he had never discovered them. Yet now they loomed with such an overpowering presence.

“Ah — there is a corpse ahead!” One of the masters hurried forward.

The road was very ancient, as though no one had walked it from the primordial age until now. The stones were etched with the marks of ages past. An elderly monk — skin clinging to bone, body yellowed all over — lay ahead, utterly devoid of life.

What they saw was no illusion. It was a genuine corpse, cold to the touch. His monk’s robes were ancient and fragile — the lightest touch crumbled them to ash.

“Dead for at least several hundred years.” One of the masters said.

On the rock face before him, a line of ancient characters had been carved — his last words, it seemed, set down in haste and left unfinished, written in ancient Sanskrit.

After examining them carefully, Simalti conveyed the meaning. This had been a monk who had attained the Way — devoted wholly to the Buddha — yet Lingshan had never appeared to him. As his life neared its end, a flash of wisdom had illuminated his heart. He had journeyed here on a path of austere practice, found the ancient road at last — and yet his lifespan had run dry.

They did not linger. They continued on their way. Ye Fan blessed the small stone Buddha, reciting the incantations without cease as the ancient road extended, passing through one colossal mountain range after another — peaks that could never be found anywhere in the mortal world.

“A ruined temple hall!”

Not long after, they came upon an ancient monastery. It was not large — only a single stone hall — and an elderly monk sat inside, having passed on in a meditative posture. He too had left behind his final words: the path to Lingshan ends here for me. What lies ahead is vast and formless, and no hope can be seen any further.

“This was a great master of divine arts — his skin has taken on a faint golden hue. He nearly attained the fruit of arhathood.” The masters all pressed their palms together and began reciting the name of Shakyamuni Buddha.

Ye Fan paused. The ancient road ahead had grown ever more distant and remote, as though it had no end — as though no one knew where it led. Was this still Earth? The thought turned over in his mind.

A Buddhist energy as vast as an ocean surged and swelled — boundless and immeasurable. Was Lingshan, said to rival Mount Sumeru, truly just ahead? He did not know whether he would be able to enter that primordial ancient sacred ground.