As the East King Duke's voice faded into the ancient, heavy air of the Pangu Temple, Di Jiang let out a low, guttural hum.
"What if it is true?" the Ancestral Witch asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What then? You, the 'Head of Male Immortals,' have scurried across the world to maintain the 'primordial order' again? Do you expect me to bow to your badge?"
The mockery was thick enough to choke on. The East King Duke forced an awkward smile, then wiped it away, replacing it with a mask of absolute, grave sincerity.
"Fellow Daoist Di Jiang, you misunderstand. I did come today with that intent, but it is not the hollow gesture you imagine."
"Oh? And what do I imagine?" Di Jiang's voice dropped to a lethal chill. Killing intent flooded the hall, thick and suffocating. "If you are here to play the diplomat and beg for the Yao, I will crush this incarnation and then march on your Zifu Island."
The Duke didn't flinch. It was only an incarnation; its death was a price he was willing to pay. Ever since his retreat from Mount Buzhou, the bitterness of his failure had been a rot in his mind. The third lecture was coming. If the world remained a charnel house, he would lose his standing, his reputation, and most importantly, his seat as a disciple. He was a man with his back against a wall, and such men are capable of terrifying creativity.
"Listen to me," the Duke said, his voice steady. "I am the Head of the Male Immortals. I do not mention the title to boast. I mention it because that status grants me an audience that others do not have. Before the Saint, I have a voice. I have the right to speak."
Di Jiang leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the Duke. "Spit it out. Stop dancing around the point."
The Duke stiffened, then plunged into the lie. "Promise me a ceasefire. Do not strike the Yao until the Saint's lecture concludes. In exchange... I will find the Witch Race's Path to Sainthood."
The silence that followed was a physical weight. Di Jiang stood up with a boom, the floor beneath his feet cracking. "Do you take me for a fool? We have no Primordial Spirits. Even Hongjun knows we are a path unto ourselves. How could he hold our secret?"
In the Witch Race, only the twelve Ancestral Witches possessed Primordial Spirits—and even theirs were "innately incomplete." The Great Witches and the billions below them were beings of pure flesh and blood. To suggest a path to Sainthood for them was, on the surface, madness.
The Duke felt like a dry leaf caught in a hurricane as Di Jiang's pressure surged. He nearly dissolved then and there, but he forced his voice through the gale.
"The Saint taught that among the Three Thousand Great Daos, every path leads to the source! Fellow Daoist Houtu heard this herself! If all paths lead to the Dao, then the path of the flesh is no exception. There is a way for the Witch to transcend. You simply haven't been told what it is!"
Di Jiang's eyes flickered. He remembered Houtu's reports. The words were familiar. "Is there truly such a thing?"
"If I speak a single lie," the Duke declared, his face a portrait of righteous integrity, "you may do with my true body as you wish. Grant me this peace, and I will bring you the secret. You lose nothing but a few thousand years of waiting. To a Witch, what is a drop of time compared to the power of a Saint?"
Di Jiang let out a cold, sharp laugh. "And why would he tell you? A mere messenger?"
"Because he is testing me!" the Duke shouted, his confidence surging as he saw the bait being taken. "He made me the Head of Immortals to see if I could bring order. Once I succeed, I become his disciple. And what Master denies his first disciple a simple question?"
The Duke went all-in, his words flowing with a smoothness that surprised even himself.
"And once you are a disciple," Di Jiang said, a predatory smile crossing his lips, "will you still care for the bargain of a 'barbarian'?"
The Duke's heart hammered against his ribs. "Even a disciple of a Saint," he said slowly, "is but a man of the world. Would I dare cross the Twelve who hold the earth?"
"Humph! At least you have a sense of self-preservation," Di Jiang snorted. He didn't care for the title of "disciple." To the lineage of Pangu, even a Saint was merely a peer they had yet to surpass. "I will give you your time, East King. But hear me: if you return empty-handed, I will extinguish your soul from the tapestry of existence."
"I will not disappoint you," the Duke vowed.
He bowed and vanished. His next stop was the Hundred Thousand Great Mountains. He moved with the energy of a man who had just cheated death and won. When he arrived at the Yao headquarters and relayed the news of the ceasefire, the silence was even deeper than it had been in the Pangu Temple.
Nuwa, Fuxi, and Kunpeng stared at him as if he had grown a second head.
"You... you went to the Witches? Alone? And you persuaded Di Jiang?" Kunpeng stammered.
Even Bai Ze was stunned. He wondered if his previous "pep talk" had accidentally unlocked some hidden, delusional genius within the Duke. The man's silver tongue was, quite frankly, terrifying.
"My thanks to you, Fellow Daoist," Nuwa said, her voice filled with genuine relief. "The Yao can finally prepare for the lecture in peace."
"The East King Duke is truly the Head of the Male Immortals!" a Great Yao shouted, giving a thumbs up. "I am convinced! Truly convinced!"
The Duke basked in the praise, feeling as though he were walking on clouds. "It is merely my duty," he said with a humble wave. "Maintaining the order is what I was born for."
He was personally escorted to the borders of the mountains by the Yao high command.
For a few thousand years, the Great Desolation knew a strange, fragile peace. The fires of war dimmed to embers as the world turned its eyes toward the heavens.
Then, on a day that felt like the pulse of the universe itself, the projection of Zixiao Palace manifested. It stretched across the stars, vast and boundless, a beacon of gold and purple light.
The Third Lecture was about to begin.