The celebratory fervor in the Qingyuan Sect’s Main Hall was at its peak. Wine flowed like a river, and the laughter of elders and allied sect masters echoed off the high, ornate ceilings. The spoils from the Demon Summoning Cult were piled high, glittering under the light of the lanterns, a testament to a victory so absolute it bordered on the divine.

Shangguan Wencang, his face flushed with wine and pride, was holding court, accepting congratulations with magnanimous waves of his hand. He felt the gazes of the other sect masters on him, a mixture of envy, respect, and fear. This was the pinnacle of his life's work. The Qingyuan Sect was no longer just a regional power; it was a hegemon.

Li Mo sat beside Ying Bing, his expression as placid as a deep lake. He sipped his tea, the warmth a stark contrast to the glacial purpose solidifying in his heart. He watched Shangguan Wencang preen and posture, and the blood-red thread of killing intent in his mind pulsed, a quiet, patient predator. Every boast from the Sect Master about the future, about the Great Shang Imperial Tomb, was another shovel of dirt on his own grave.

Ying Bing, sensing his cold stillness, placed her hand gently over his. Her touch was warm, a silent question. He gave her a small, reassuring smile, but his eyes, which she could not see, were fixed on the grey, parasitic thread connecting the celebrating Sect Master to her own brilliant, golden destiny.