Demonic Insanity

In an immortal sect nestled near Tiger Mountain, a limited number of disciples were admitted once every five years. Unlike the great clans and prestigious sects, they did not cultivate a unique technique. Instead, they honed commonly known and widely practiced arts.

This sect was called Rushing River, a name that traced back to its founder—the only cultivator in the sect's history to have ever reached the Foundation Establishment realm. It was said that in his pursuit of truth, he followed the course of a river, only to grasp a reality beyond this world. But upon glimpsing that truth, his mind collapsed, leaving him broken and mad. Thus, the sect took on the name "Rushing River," for truth could not be confined to the stagnant pond of the mortal mind. It had to be accepted, understood, and ultimately released.

Yet, little was known about the sect's founder. Only a few scattered records remained in the archives, detailing fragments of legend. Even his name had long been forgotten.

One day, Elder Tai summoned a senior disciple. Taking a slow sip of tea, he inquired about the newly accepted disciples. The senior disciple gave his report, and Elder Tai listened carefully.

"Elder Tai, out of two hundred candidates, fifty were admitted this year. Many were displeased, but with the sect leader at the fifth layer of Qi Refinement, no one dared to voice their objections."

Elder Tai, himself at the fourth layer, nodded approvingly. "You handled it well."

Then, after a pause, he asked, "What about the girl?"

"I've sent people to track her down," the senior disciple replied. "As per your request, they should have located her home by now."

Elder Tai stroked his chin, his tone turning firm. "The sect leader and the other elders must not know about this."

Then, after a moment's thought, he added, "If you succeed, you may advance by half a layer."

A flicker of excitement crossed the senior disciple's face, but he quickly restrained it. Bowing deeply, he answered, "Yes, Elder. I will do my utmost."

Elder Tai waved him off, dismissing him. Left alone, he muttered under his breath, "Let's hope we can find that old man's treasure."

Old Zhou had always made offerings to the Sect. Securing Jing's future had been his priority, but it had also drawn the greedy gaze of many.

He was well aware of this. That was why he always traveled through treacherous mountain paths and returned home via hidden trails known only to him. As long as Old Zhou lived, no one had ever found his home—nor the treasure rumored to be hidden there.

But with Jing now entering the sect, everything had changed.

Old Zhou was, in the end, a mere mortal. His fate was inevitable. Death would come for him soon.

And when Jing finally returned home… they would be watching.

They would follow.

And this time, they would find what they were looking for.

But weren't they followers of the Righteous Path?

Did human wickedness not stem from the path they followed?

In a world where all were parched, not a single soul would spare even a drop of water!!

In the world of cultivation—especially within the mortal realm—people sought to use one another as stepping stones to ascend to greater heights. Yet, even as they competed, they restricted each other as well. The great sects hoarded their unique techniques, unwilling to share them, even when they lacked the means to pass them down properly. If they could not use them, they would either destroy them or seal them away in hidden vaults.

Who would willingly raise a rival?

Spirit herbs suffered a similar fate. The great sects controlled vast lands, working alongside alchemists and spirit plant cultivators to harvest millions of spirit stones each year. Meanwhile, smaller sects waged bitter wars over mere hundreds of stones, teetering on the brink of destruction.

And yet, they still called themselves sects of the Righteous Path. But what righteousness was there in this? The ruling sects, driven solely by self-interest, had twisted justice into nothing more than a tool for justifying their greed.

This was not a phenomenon unique to the Eastern Continent, to Rushing River Sect, or to the great clans of Ling and Feng. The Central Continent, too, applied the same methods—exerting economic and cultivation-based pressure on the Eastern Continent, ensuring their dominance.

The Northern Plains, with their frigid qi, brutal climate, and sparse population, held little appeal for the overlords of the Central Continent.

It was precisely for this reason that the Heavenly Demon had sent Ling Hua to the Northern Plains. There, he could carve out a powerful foothold, establishing a foundation from which he could one day ascend to the Sacred Realm. A meticulous, flawless, and undeniably ambitious plan.

Meanwhile, Ling Yun, who had inherited the Phoenix Legacy, a bloodline tied to fire qi, should have traveled to Scorched Lands, volcanic plains, or the Southern Territories to strengthen his cultivation. But such an option was beyond his reach.

Elder Tai gazed out from his chamber's window, lost in thought. If he could obtain those spirit herbs, he could sway many elders to his side, further his cultivation, and climb to an even greater position of power.

He could, of course, abandon the sect and seek his fortune elsewhere. But he had never once considered such a thing.

Better to remain a koi in a pond than to become food for the ancient leviathans of the ocean.

What he did not know…

Was that the greatest leviathan of all time was already lurking in the waters beside him.