The hall fell into a heavy silence.
Zhou Xuanyuan's curiosity intensified as he studied his father's face.
The older man's brow furrowed deeply, his eyes distant and troubled, as though wrestling with memories long buried. Unable to contain himself any longer, Zhou Xuanyuan took a step closer.
"Father, what troubles your mind?" he asked, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Are you also afraid of this woman the guards spoke of?"
His father's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Zhou Yan's thoughts drifted to the past—to the woman he had known more than three centuries ago.
She was the one and only woman who could wield spiritual fire, a power so rare it had been whispered about in legends.
Yet even she paled in comparison to the figure the guards had described with such fear in their voices.
He frowned, piecing together the details.
The woman mentioned by the guards could summon fire at will and bore a distinctive mark—a sigil—on her forehead.
But the woman from his memories had no such marking. Her forehead had been smooth, unmarked by any symbol of power.
His fingers tapped against his thigh as confusion settled over him.
This didn't add up.
Could there be two women with such abilities?
Or had something changed about the one he once knew?
This was perplexing indeed.
As he pictured her in his mind, he realized the guards had failed to mention the woman's other features.
The woman he'd known more than three centuries ago had possessed striking mixed hair—crimson red interwoven with black strands like silk threads—and natural amber eyes that seemed to glow in certain light. Her skin had been pale as snow, and her beauty so ethereal she could have been mistaken for a goddess descended to the mortal realm.
Once, he had yearned for her.
She had given him her attention, and for a brief moment, he had dared to hope.
But that hope had been crushed—painfully, brutally—when he discovered she had already given her heart to another.
The one they called her fated one.
Zhou Yan's hands clenched at his sides, the old wound still tender after all these years. His expression darkened, a shadow passing over his features as bitterness crept into his chest.
Perhaps he had failed because of his age. He must have seemed so old to her—if he were mortal, he would have been ancient.
But as an immortal, he never aged. His face remained youthful, unmarked by time.
Back then, no one could have imagined that he had already lived for millennia, carrying the weight of lifetimes while appearing no older than a man in his prime.
He exhaled slowly, the memory of a particular visit surfacing unbidden.
When he had gone to a foreteller, desperate for answers, the old seer had gazed into his fate with clouded eyes and spoken words that had haunted him ever since.
"Sorrow, joy, departure, reunion, sacrifice, suffering, and love," the foreteller had intoned, tracing symbols in the air.
"You will never belong to even one of these."
Zhou Yan's chest had tightened at those words, but the foreteller had not finished.
"But the woman you yearn for..."
The seer's voice had dropped to a whisper, heavy with certainty.
"All of these fundamental emotions are completely interconnected to her fated one. Not to you."
The pronouncement had struck him like a blade.
His fingers had trembled then, just as they did now at the memory.
He had left that place hollow, knowing that no matter how long he lived, no matter how much power he accumulated, he would never be the one written into her destiny.
"Father?!" Zhou Xuanyuan's sharp voice cut through the haze of memory, pulling him back to the present.
Zhou Yan blinked, his gaze refocusing on his son's concerned face.
He hadn't realized how far he'd drifted.
"You're spacing out," Zhou Xuanyuan said, his brows drawn together in worry.
Zhou Yan said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Is something bothering you?" his son pressed, taking another step forward.
Zhou Yan inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as he forced the ghosts of the past back into their corners.
Then he exhaled, slow and controlled.
"Nothing," he replied, his voice clipped and final.
Zhou Xuanyuan studied him for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced, but chose not to push further.
Instead, he shifted topics.
"Any idea who the villain is?"
Zhou Yan steadied himself, rolling his shoulders back as he turned fully to face his son. His expression hardened, the vulnerability from moments ago locked away behind a mask of authority.
"All I can say is be cautious in your own actions," he said, his tone measured and grave. "As the guards demonstrated, the woman is neither just a villain, nor a mortal, nor an immortal, nor an ordinary cultivator."
Zhou Xuanyuan's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
Zhou Yan paused, his jaw working as he chose his next words carefully.
The weight of what he was about to say settled heavily in the air between them.
"She is someone above us," he finally said, his voice dropping lower. "If she has a forehead sigil as they described, I'm afraid she is an otherworldly mole."
His gaze locked onto his son's, deadly serious.
"We can't afford the outcome if we underestimate her."
Even with his growing annoyance at his father's cryptic warnings, Zhou Xuanyuan fell silent. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.
A sharp breath escaped his lips—half disbelief, half dread.
"You two," Zhou Yan called out, his attention shifting to the injured guards who still knelt near the entrance.
Both men lifted their heads immediately, their expressions wary.
"See yourselves off and go to the herb hall. Get your wounds treated."
The guards bowed deeply, pressing their fists to their chests.
"Thank you, Lord Zhou," they said in unison before rising stiffly and limping out of the main hall. Their footsteps echoed briefly, then faded, leaving only Zhou Yan and his son in the vast, silent space.
Zhou Yan turned back to Zhou Xuanyuan. His expression softened as he took a measured step forward and laid a firm hand on his son's shoulder.
The gesture was meant to console, to steady the younger man who had just lost good warriors under his command.
"I'm just hoping you'll be considerate of my guidance, son," Zhou Yan said quietly, his thumb pressing gently against his son's shoulder. "This isn't just for my sake—it's for yours." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You still have many warriors left. You must instruct them not to act rashly."
Zhou Xuanyuan's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Zhou Yan's gaze grew distant for a moment, calculating.
"The outbound market lies at the remote edge of the Beiming inner court, bordering your territory. It's possible..."
He hesitated, his grip on his son's shoulder tightening slightly.
"The woman who slaughtered your men may be hiding within the northern domain."
"Then how can we get in? How can we find the culprit?"
Zhou Xuanyuan's voice rose with frustration, his hands gesturing sharply.
"They've built strong refuges all along the border—it's impossible to infiltrate!"
"Haist!" Zhou Yan released his son's shoulder and raised both hands in a calming gesture.
"Calm down. Calm down." A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you keep living like this—always on edge—you'll become older than me."
Zhou Xuanyuan's frown deepened, but he said nothing.
Zhou Yan's expression turned more serious, though a hint of amusement still lingered in his eyes.
"Once we finish gathering the hundred pure women, the ritual must proceed. Unfortunately, searching for them in enemy territory is impossible."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Why don't you issue a decree? Order your men under your command to handle it."
The suggestion hung in the air for a moment.
Zhou Xuanyuan's expression shifted. His eyes darted downward to the polished floor as his mind worked through the implications of his father's idea. His brow furrowed, then slowly relaxed.
After a few heartbeats, his lips curved into a sideways smirk.
He lifted his gaze back to Zhou Yan, the smirk widening into something almost predatory.
"Father, you're a genius," he said, genuine admiration coloring his tone. "I really admire you."
Zhou Yan's face brightened, a satisfied gleam entering his eyes. He waved a dismissive hand, though his pleasure was evident.
"Stop flattering me," he replied with mock sternness. "I almost believe you."
They both laughed—a genuine, shared moment of levity that broke the tension. The sound echoed through the main hall, filling the vast space with unexpected warmth.
For a brief moment, the hall turned lively.
As their laughter subsided, Zhou Yan's expression grew thoughtful once more. He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded his son with a calculating look.
"There's something else," he said, his tone shifting back to business. "I have another suggestion."
Zhou Xuanyuan raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Zhou Yan stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly as though sharing a confidence.
"My warriors can travel far to assist your men. They'll help fulfill the shortage of pure women we need for the ritual."
He paused, letting the offer settle.
"With both our forces working together, we'll complete the task much faster."
"I agree! Definitely agree!" Zhou Xuanyuan's response came immediately, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. His eyes lit up with renewed energy.
Zhou Yan nodded, satisfied.
But Zhou Xuanyuan wasn't finished.
He took a step forward, his expression hardening with determination.
"Much better if we start earlier."
His hand curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening as he raised it between them.
"This time, Xue Wuya and I will face off." His jaw set with fierce resolve. "I'll show him what he's got coming."
Zhou Yan's eyebrows rose sharply, surprise flickering across his features. He leaned back slightly, studying his son's face with renewed curiosity. His head tilted to one side as confusion settled into his expression.
They had been discussing the mysterious woman who had slaughtered Zhou Xuanyuan's warriors—a threat that demanded caution and strategy.
Yet suddenly, Xue Wuya's name had entered the conversation, seemingly out of nowhere.
Zhou Yan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Of course.
He had known for years that his son and Marshal Xue Wuya of the Beiming Palace were sworn enemies.
Their rivalry ran deep, fueled by old grudges and territorial disputes that had never been resolved.
Each encounter between them had only added fuel to the fire.l