Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

The people from Qinglong Temple arrived the quietest and most unexpectedly.

There were no banners, no carriages, only an old monk, accompanied by four disciples in grey robes, slowly walking from a path deep in the mountains. His steps were unhurried, as if he were walking on clouds, without stirring up a speck of dust.

The old monk wore a worn-out gray robe, patched upon patched, and straw sandals on his feet, his exposed toes covered in mud. He was hunched over, head bowed, hands tucked into his sleeves, looking like an unremarkable ascetic who had wandered the countryside for many years.

But almost at the same moment, all the grandmasters present felt a chill run down their spines.

Ling Yunzi paused slightly as he was drinking tea, the teacup resting at his lips without being put into his mouth.

Iron Knife King's tiger-like eyes suddenly narrowed, and his hand unconsciously pressed on the hilt of his knife.

Yan Jingchen, who had been standing with his hands behind his back, slowly lowered his hands, his fingertips slightly curled.

The eyes behind the Xuanpan mask snapped open, pupils constricting.

They couldn't sense any presence from the old monk.

It's not that there's no breath, but rather that it's too deep, as deep as an ancient well with no bottom. You throw a pebble into the well and wait for a very, very long time, but you never hear an echo.

It was a kind of profound, chilling aura.

"That is..." Ling Xiaozhi's voice was extremely low, with a tremor he himself was unaware of.

Ling Yunzi put down his teacup and slowly uttered two words: "Liao Chen".

Ling Xiaozi's expression changed.

Liao Chen—the junior brother of the abbot of Qinglong Temple, was a top expert who was already famous in the west thirty years ago. It is said that he had already reached the seventh level of Grandmaster thirty years ago, and for the next twenty years, no one saw him make a move, and very few people even saw him show his face.

Some people say he's dead.

Some say he went into seclusion.

No one expected him to appear here.

The old Zen master, who had been detached from worldly affairs for twenty years, made an exception and came out today.

—The ruins are on their own territory, so it's impossible for Qinglong Temple to truly ignore them. But sending an old monster at the seventh level of the Grandmaster realm to personally oversee the situation is no longer just "ignoring them"; it's "let no one mess around."

Zen Master Liaochen stopped in the pine forest.

He slowly raised his head, revealing a wrinkled old face.

But occasionally, when those eyes moved, a golden light would flash deep within their pupils—

The golden light flashed and disappeared in an instant, so fast it was like an illusion.

But all the grandmasters saw it.

Ling Yunzi gently stroked the teacup with his fingers, his knuckles turning white.

"Liao Chen...why is he here?" Ling Xiaozi asked in a low voice, the laughter in his voice long gone.

Ling Yunzi did not answer.

He's been thinking about this too.

Grandmaster level seven – whether everyone present combined could withstand a single palm strike from him was an unknown quantity.

Iron Knife King's face was ashen, and the veins on his hand, which was pressed against the hilt of his sword, bulged.

"Old bald monk..." he muttered under his breath, the sound only he could hear.

But he did not draw his sword.

I dare not pull it out.

Master Liaochen did not look at anyone.

He found a flat bluestone under the pine trees and slowly sat down.

He took out a string of prayer beads from his sleeve, and his withered fingers began to move the beads one by one.

"Namo Amitabha Buddha..."

The sound was very low, as low as the whistling of the wind through pine needles.

But every single word was clearly heard by everyone present.

The chanting was neither hurried nor slow, like an invisible river flowing silently through the entire valley. Everyone who heard the chanting felt a sense of peace rise in their hearts—then, they would suddenly awaken, their faces turning pale with shock.

This old monk could influence the mind of a great master simply by chanting sutras.

Yan Jingchen stood at the highest point of the Embroidered Uniform Guard camp, his cold arrogance fading slightly, replaced by an unusual solemnity.

"Liao Chen..." he murmured, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, "Interesting."

Xuanpan sat on the rock, his eyes behind the bronze mask fixed on the old monk.

His fingers stopped tapping.

It remained motionless, like a stone statue.

After a long silence, he said in a hoarse voice, "Give the order that once inside the ruins, no one is to provoke anyone from Qinglong Temple."

"Yes."

The Blood Cult members arrived at dusk.

A group of men dressed in black, all wearing tight-fitting black outfits, bamboo hats, and black veils covering their faces. The leader was a thin old man with withered, claw-like hands and nails as black as ink.

Elder Blood Shadow, peak Grandmaster.

Without informing anyone, the team quietly set up camp on a rocky hill to the west. The twenty-odd people sat cross-legged, like twenty-odd black tombstones, making no sound.

"The Blood Nether Sect has arrived too." In the distance, in the Jinyiwei camp, Yan Jingchen glanced at them indifferently and then looked away.

"Sir, should we keep an eye on them?" the subordinate asked in a low voice.

"Keep an eye on everyone," Yan Jingchen said, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable air of authority. "Don't let a single one slip through."

"Yes."

People from the Heavenly Net mingled among the independent cultivators.

No one recognized them.

Shadow Blade—a master assassin at the peak of the Grandmaster level—was wearing a faded gray robe, his face smeared with mud, squatting under a large tree eating dry rations, looking no different from those impoverished rogue cultivators.

But his gaze never left the Azure Dragon Society's camp.

Li Chenzhou... Gongzi Yu... Zhuo Donglai...

He silently memorized the location of each person.

"Boss, are there any of our people lurking in the shadows?" a fellow assassin, also disguised as a rogue cultivator, asked in a low voice.

Shadowblade chewed on his dry rations and mumbled, "Ask less, observe more."

The assassin shrank back and stopped talking.

Shadowblade's gaze swept across the crowd, lingering for a moment on a few seemingly ordinary figures—they were Grandmaster-level assassins from Skynet, lurking in the shadows, whose exact identities even he didn't know.

The Commander never reveals the full extent of his plans to anyone.