Chapter 158: No Way Back on This Journey (8)
After leaving the car accident scene, Yan Shixun immediately sensed something was wrong.
At first, his suspicion was stirred by the driver’s mention of the repeatedly appearing road signs. But now, that suspicion had evolved into certainty.
—Something was off about this road.
Yan Shixun had been paying close attention to the changes in the surrounding environment.
Earlier, when he was still in the car, the reflection on the windows and the dark, overcast sky outside had obscured many details. The interplay of light and shadow inside and outside the vehicle created an optical illusion. Coupled with the vehicle’s high speed—which far exceeded the eye’s capacity for resolution—everything they passed appeared as a grainy, pixelated blur. It had severely impacted his judgment of the outside world.
But now that Yan Shixun was looking directly and unobstructed at the scenery along the highway, he realized—
He and Ye Li had already walked quite a distance, and yet, the surroundings hadn’t changed at all.
The road stretched endlessly forward, but the fields and forests flanking it remained the same—as if they had been fixed in place.
The sky was pitch black. Yan Shixun looked around and soon recognized the scene.
He’d seen this exact scenery before—right when the driver had been forced to stop by the sudden crash site, and the middle-aged man had waved for help.
Back then, as Yan Shixun was leading Zhang Wubing away from the middle-aged man, he had casually glanced at the surrounding scenery. That fleeting moment had left a temporary imprint in his memory.
Now, the outline of steep cliffs looming in the darkness—like silent ghostly shadows—resurfaced that memory in his mind.
Are they lost in a ghost trap?
Yan Shixun frowned.
No… it wasn’t quite that. It was more like the space had been frozen at a single point, while the road extended endlessly with no destination.
The sides of expressways were usually fenced with metal barriers and bumpers to prevent people from trespassing and to provide emergency protection for vehicles.
Yan Shixun walked to the guardrail and looked down. His logical mind told him there should be farmland below. But what he saw was pure darkness.
It resembled a bottomless abyss, pitch black, devouring all light. He couldn’t see a single thing inside.
Evil things lurked silently in the depths, staring upward, waiting for fresh human flesh.
The viewers squatting in front of Yan Shixun’s livestream window all felt a chill run down their spines.
[Is it just me… or does the place Brother Yan’s looking at look so dark that there’s absolutely nothing visible?]
[Holy crap, I’m freaked out. It’s overcast outside and already as dark as night. I just woke up from a nap and wanted to use the bathroom, but now I’m too scared. I keep thinking there’s a ghost out there. Watching this feels like that same blackness is right outside my door.]
[F*ck, it gets dark early where I live. I’m watching this in the dark and I’m already scared stiff. Like, I want to turn on the light to calm down, but I’m too scared to move… MOM! Please get off work soon and save your child, sob sob.]
[I nearly had a heart attack! Am I the only one who feels like someone is watching me from below? I can’t see anything, but my brain is screaming that there are eyes staring up at me. My scalp’s gone numb.]
[If I were standing in Brother Yan’s place, I’d… drop dead on the spot! *cat collapse.jpg*]
Yan Shixun calmly stared into the abyss below, his eyes filled only with curiosity and analysis.
Even though the information his eyes and brain received didn’t match at all, he could still hear the rustling of branches in his ears, and the scent of post-harvest farmland lingered faintly at the tip of his nose.
This strange dissonance made Yan Shixun wonder—were they no longer in the real world, but rather in an isolated pocket of space?
Perhaps the evil being that created this space wasn’t powerful enough, or didn’t know how to fully separate it from the real world. As a result, their physical bodies and spirits were sensing different realities that overlapped.
To test his theory, Yan Shixun shrugged off his coat and tossed it into Ye Li’s arms. Then, placing his hands on the guardrail, he prepared to jump down.
But Ye Li reacted swiftly, grabbing his wrist in one sharp motion.
“What are you doing?!”
For once, Ye Li showed real anger, his voice raised in reprimand. “You’re really going to be that reckless with your physical body? Do you even know how high this drop is?”
Yan Shixun tilted his chin, gesturing calmly. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
He chuckled. “Do you take me for that little idiot Lu Xingxing? I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“If my guess is correct…”
Yan Shixun lowered his eyes, gazing heavily into the abyss.
The cold wind, reeking of blood, blew in from beyond the roadside railing. It felt like it could freeze the blood in one’s veins.
The hand Yan Shixun rested on the railing seemed to be shrouded in a hazy black mist, as if the next moment, it would be swallowed by darkness.
Malevolent forces would bare their sharp, foul-smelling fangs and crush their prey that had willingly walked to its death.
The audience sharing Yan Shixun’s perspective couldn’t help but shed tears.
[Ahhhhh!! Isn’t that really a bottomless pit down there? Brother Yan, I beg you, don’t jump! It really feels like you’ll be smashed to pieces if you do.]
[I have a fear of heights!!! I can’t take it, I’m so dizzy.]
[…Quietly pulling my feet back under the blanket. I swear there’s a ghost under the bed waiting to bite them off the second they dangle out. Brother Yan is amazing—he doesn’t even flinch at this.]
Ye Li refused to let go.
He was willing to give Yan Shixun the utmost respect, allowing him to act according to his own will. Because he knew that the one he cherished and valued was a one-of-a-kind exorcist, the kind that only appeared once in a thousand years. Yan Shixun couldn’t be measured by the standards of other exorcists or ordinary people.
But there was one condition—
Yan Shixun must not be harmed.
And what Yan Shixun wanted to do now was far too risky.
Even though Ye Li understood what was on Yan Shixun’s mind and knew what lay below, he still couldn’t bear the slightest chance of him getting hurt.
Ye Li’s strength was immense. When he insisted on holding on, Yan Shixun couldn’t shake him off for a moment.
Surprised, Yan Shixun raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Ye Li. “Weren’t you injured? How do you still have so much strength?”
Ye Li: “…”
His hand stiffened. He suddenly found himself in a dilemma.
So—should he reveal that he still had strength left even after being hurt by Yan Shixun? Or should he just let him proceed with something so dangerous?
Fortunately, the dim light concealed Ye Li’s expression, sparing him from being exposed.
Yan Shixun chuckled, “Alright then, I promise you—I’ll be fine.”
“That’s good enough, right?” he added, a bit helpless.
But people weren’t made of stone.
Yan Shixun could sense the concern from his companion.
Especially because Ye Li wasn’t just anyone—he was someone now bound to him by karma. Someone who had been hurt because of his oversight. Someone he needed to take responsibility for.
So Yan Shixun was willing to squeeze out a bit of the emotion he had left and offer it to Ye Li. He patiently explained that he would be safe, trying to ease his worry.
Ye Li pressed his lips together. Under Yan Shixun’s persistence, he had no choice but to let go.
Yan Shixun gave him a slight nod. “Trust me.”
Then his eyes turned once again to the abyss beyond the highway, gaze sharp as a blade.
Without another word, he released his grip and leapt into the darkness. His figure was swift and lithe, like a hawk diving into a canyon. The taut muscles along his back radiated power.
The wind roared past his ears. The hem of his black shirt whipped violently in the wind.
Chilling gusts surged upward from below, blowing directly into Yan Shixun’s face, making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open. Instinctively, he half-closed them against the sting.
He could feel himself falling at an unnatural speed, and the closer he got to the bottom, the thicker the stench became.
It was, without doubt, the worst smell he had ever encountered.
It was as if blood and rotting corpses had been sealed in some narrow, dark place for years—bodies decomposing, leaking corpse fluids that clung to pale, rigid skin. The stench of rust had fermented into a nauseating reek.
Then one day, the body bag was torn open.
All the smells burst forth at once, scrambling to escape their confines.
Under such a stench, a person could be pulled into the depths of all their worst memories, emotions sinking to rock bottom.
Yan Shixun quickly held his breath.
He felt as though if he inhaled that foulness any longer, his lungs and throat would be coated with sticky, rotten blood—it was unbearable.
Even so, tears still welled up in the corners of his eyes from the stench.
Oddly enough, that turned out to be a good thing. Yan Shixun blinked, and the tears moistened his wind-dried eyes, allowing him to open them just slightly to see below through the howling wind.
It was pitch black—he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. The dense darkness swallowed even his own form, making it impossible to judge where he was.
The endless fall, the invisible dangers hiding in the dark…
The unknown was the perfect breeding ground for fear. When alone, every irrational thought took root in that fear, sprouting and spreading through every corner of one’s mind.
Those watching the stream with Yan Shixun’s point of view, who had just experienced the thrill of a cliff dive alongside him, were screaming in terror. Many were so scared that their minds went blank, completely at a loss.
[What the hell! My idol just jumped off a building!!! No wait, he jumped off a cliff!!! I mean—when I started being a fan, I never imagined I’d see a day like this! This is surreal.]
[I literally burst into tears on the spot. What do we do? What if Brother Yan dies? Someone please save him, please!]
[Even if Brother Yan’s amazing, it’s not like he can bounce back after jumping off a cliff, right?]
[Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap ahhhhh!!! If I knew it’d be this scary, I’d have turned on the lights earlier! Now I’m curled up under the blanket praying someone gets off work and comes home soon to save my life sob sob sob.]
[I’m crying. I swear I’ll never watch a livestream alone at home again. I’ve been holding in my pee for an hour—I’m too scared to even open the bedroom door.]
[Nooo!! Brother Yan sob sob sob, I’m so scared, I can’t watch anymore.]
Yan Shixun, however, was only briefly disoriented by the darkness at first. He quickly calmed down, forcing his eyes open against the wind and scanning his surroundings.
The abyss was bottomless.
Like the endless despair a person felt before death—no end in sight.
But suddenly, Yan Shixun caught a glimpse of red.
*Drip. Drip…*
Blood dripped from the young man’s fingertips, each drop echoing clearly in the dead silence.
One drop. Then another.
It was the sound of death approaching.
The blood seemed endless.
The young man stood with his head lowered, black hair falling over his face so that no features could be seen. At his feet, a pool of blood had already formed.
He stood in the center of it. The surface of the blood was like a mirror, reflecting the young man’s image.
Even through the darkness, Yan Shixun could see—though only vaguely—that the reflected face had no features.
Where the eyes, nose, and mouth should have been, there were only gaping holes of different sizes, each one dripping blood. From across the pool, those holes stared fixedly at Yan Shixun.
As Yan Shixun looked at the young man, the young man looked back at him, clearly displeased with this living intruder who had disturbed him.
Slowly, the young man lifted his head. His black hair clung stickily to his face, matted with blood, but as he moved, the gaps between the strands faintly revealed his face.
Only then did Yan Shixun see clearly—
It wasn’t that the face had no features—it was that all of them had been violently sliced off!
His eyes, nose, and mouth…
All the basic features that made a face were completely gone. The young man had lost all skin and flesh, leaving his bones and blood vessels exposed, tracing the structure of his skull.
But what should have been pale white bones were completely stained with blood. At a glance, it looked like a gaping crimson void.
And at the very moment the young man’s blood-socketed eyes turned toward Yan Shixun, the pool of blood beneath his feet suddenly swelled with countless similar faces.
They crowded together, face to face, each expression distinct.
Some opened their jawbones wide as if howling in silent agony. Others clenched their teeth tightly, tears of blood streaming from their empty sockets as they wept in hatred. Some had taut veins and contorted muscles, screaming soundlessly in protest…
Thousands of bloody eyes locked onto Yan Shixun, wailing to him in voiceless suffering.
But in the next moment, all those skeletal faces in the blood seemed to be seized by some unseen force, one by one dragged down beneath the pool’s surface.
They appeared to struggle, stirring ripples in the blood as their faces floated up, frantically trying to rise—only to be violently pulled down again by even stronger forces, vanishing without a trace.
Only a few ripples and splashes of blood remained, proving that they had ever been there.
Even Yan Shixun couldn’t help but widen his eyes slightly. His heartbeat skipped a beat.
This… was the scene of the Underworld’s purgatory.
Yet the young man continued to look up at Yan Shixun, seemingly unaware of what was happening beneath his feet.
Yan Shixun didn’t shy away from the horrifying stare, meeting it calmly.
Perhaps sensing that the person before him was different from what he had expected, the young man’s aura of resentment and despair paused.
He stared in a daze for a long time.
Then, as if testing something, the young man slowly raised a hand and pointed at Yan Shixun.
His sleeve slipped down, revealing countless cuts of varying depths. Beneath the crisscrossed scars, the flesh was missing.
Yan Shixun hadn’t expected the youth, whose face was unrecognizable, to suddenly make such a gesture. He paused, slightly surprised, then instinctively reached out toward the young man, wanting to grasp the hand extended toward him.
But darkness surged in.
Suddenly, Yan Shixun’s vision was awash in crimson, the stench of blood thick in the air.
The next second, he lost consciousness.
Meanwhile, on Yan Shixun’s split-screen livestream, most viewers saw only darkness. Yet a few began to sense something was wrong.
[Am I seeing things? Is there something… down there?]
[Huh? Bro, your eyesight must be god-tier—I didn’t see anything at all. I tried really hard, seriously.]
[I thought I was the only one… but I saw it too! It looked like a person—kind of a human shape, but not quite.]
[Where?? I just saw a red blur. Weirdly enough, my partner said it was all black and wondered if the crew forgot to turn on the lights.]
[HOLY SH*T—!!! What the hell is that?? Blood?? Why are there so many faces?! AAAAHHH!]
[All eyes! ALL EYES! Mom, I’m done! F*ck this!!! I wanna go home, waaahhh!]
The comment section on-screen exploded into two extremes. Some screamed in terror, claiming they saw ghosts—countless eyes staring at them—while others were utterly confused, staring at a pitch-black screen with no idea what was happening.
The public opinion leader, who had been monitoring the livestream closely, immediately reported the situation to the official in charge, who was currently at the scene of the accident, repeatedly reviewing surveillance footage.
As he took the call, the official’s face grew serious. He hurriedly called over Taoist Ma to examine this bizarre event.
The moment Taoist Ma glanced at the screen, his face instantly darkened, and he couldn’t help but exclaim, “Blessings from the Boundless Heavenly Lord!”
From his tone, the official seriously suspected that what he actually wanted to say was: “Holy sh*t!”
“What is it? Did you see something?”
The official asked anxiously. “I’ve been calling and messaging Mr. Yan, but he hasn’t replied. At first, I just thought he missed his phone. But now the public opinion team says something went wrong.”
“Taoist Ma, can you tell where this is? We need to get to Mr. Yan right away.”
The official rubbed his temples in frustration as he reviewed the videos and screenshots. How had he missed this? Everything was falling apart now.
From the footage, it was clear the production team’s vehicle had been in a severe accident. The crew had been scattered, and several participants’ split-screens were still black. Their statuses were unknown.
From the looks of those who had appeared, this was no simple car crash anymore.
It had once again become entangled with supernatural forces.
The official: Seems like the production team thought I didn’t have enough work and came to help me meet my KPIs.* :
But Taoist Ma stared at the tablet for a long time, his face as black as the bottom of a pot.
“This ghostly aura…”
Taoist Ma gasped repeatedly, sucking in several sharp breaths. “They might’ve actually ended up in the Underworld. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“But the viewer comments seem normal.”
Compared to what was happening on-screen, public reaction was trivial. Taoist Ma was unconcerned. “Some people have retained natural spiritual sensitivity, or have ancestors who dealt with yin-yang matters. So their bloodline carries a bit of that sensitivity, which lets them see things.”
“It’s also normal for others not to see anything. Everyone’s sensitivity to spirits varies.”
Taoist Ma continued, “Some worshippers at Haiyun Temple once told me that at home, they would hear voices that their family couldn’t, or cries and someone asking for directions in the middle of the night. That’s because they’re more spiritually sensitive and can perceive spirits.”
“Some people hear knocking, but when they open the door, no one’s there—and their family never hears it either. That’s the work of a ‘guest ghost.’ If you open the door, you’re essentially inviting them in, which prevents the household deity from driving them out.”
Taoist Ma added: “I recently dealt with a similar case, the ghost slipped into the house, and no one except the lady of the house believed it was real.”
He glanced at the barrage of comments, then handed the tablet back to the official. “Don’t worry. In my experience, most people will just assume they were seeing things. If you’re concerned, have the public affairs team steer the narrative a bit.”
The official nodded and, avoiding Taoist Ma’s gaze, squinted at the tablet screen for a long time. But all he saw was darkness, so he gave up.
Why couldn’t he see anything? Was he… old now? Had he lost his spiritual sense?
With a reluctant sigh, he threw himself back into his ever-growing pile of work.
Ever since this show launched, his workload had become *very* fulfilling…
With the public opinion team’s intervention, theories quickly emerged: “The camera’s optical sensors auto-adjusted in the dark, causing double exposure,” “visual illusion,” “reflection effects,” and so on. These gradually guided public opinion.
After their initial fear, viewers slowly began to settle down.
[I feel completely left out! One star! Is it because I didn’t pay? Boohoo, why can everyone else see it but not me?!]
[I *did* pay! I’m a VIP! Let me see it, I demand it!]
[But didn’t someone in the comments just explain it? Something about retinal imaging and light. They said it might be because there’s something red around us, and after staring at it for a while, when we suddenly look at something black, the image lingering on the retina overlaps with what we’re seeing now—so we think it’s a ghost.]
[Ohh, that makes sense! I was just thinking, ghosts? Seriously? There’s a graveyard right behind my house—if ghosts were real, why haven’t I ever seen one? They should come find me then, idiots.]
[??? You in the front, watch what you say! Didn’t Brother Yan warn us before? Keep a respectful distance.]
[Alright, that theory convinced me. I do have a standee of An Nanyuan wearing a red suit on my desk.]
[Same here. I’m wearing red clothes. Maybe it was the black screen reflecting—I probably just saw myself… Ugh, scaring myself for nothing.]
[Same thing happened to me before. Got up at night to go to the bathroom, passed by the mirror, and thought there was a ghost next to me. I screamed like crazy. Turns out—it was just me.]
[Told you I didn’t see anything. Guess it really was just you guys imagining things.]
The split-screen footage was engulfed in darkness.
The audience, still conversing, didn’t notice that amid the heavy shadows, Yan Shixun’s figure had already vanished…
Ye Li stared at Yan Shixun’s back until he was completely swallowed by the darkness, no longer visible.
Over his arm still hung the coat that retained some of Yan Shixun’s lingering warmth, but with Yan Shixun’s departure, even that remaining heat quickly faded into the cold wind.
Ye Li’s pale lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes dark and dangerous. As time passed, his gaze into the darkness grew sharper.
Just as Ye Li’s patience was about to run out, a sound finally broke the deathly silence on the highway.
*“Clack!”*
A faint metallic clang rang out—like someone gripping a metal railing too tightly, causing it to groan under the strain.
The sound… came from behind.
Ye Li’s eyes lit up, and he immediately turned to look.
A slender hand had grabbed the metal guardrail on the edge of the highway, using it for support.
Yan Shixun was hanging just outside the guardrail.
Ye Li didn’t bother questioning why Yan Shixun, who had clearly jumped from this side of the railing, was now climbing up from the other.
He strode over in large steps, bent down, and wrapped an arm around Yan Shixun’s slim waist. With a powerful grip, he hoisted Yan Shixun up with one hand.
His arm strength was astonishing.
Yan Shixun noticed this and raised his brows in surprise.
Only when he stood back on the highway, stepping out from Ye Li’s arms, did he finally let out a breath of relief.
“Alright, I’ll admit it. The situation down there was a lot more dangerous than I expected.”
Yan Shixun exhaled, then turned toward Ye Li with reluctant acknowledgment. “Although overall it was pretty much what I predicted, I didn’t expect such a heavy concentration of yin energy down there.”
“That level…”
Recalling the piercing cold and eerie aura he had just encountered, Yan Shixun’s expression turned grim. “It almost made me think I’d entered the underworld itself.”
That wasn’t the kind of yin energy that should exist in the human world.
Yan Shixun had traveled all over with Li Chengyun. He had seen ghosts weep, watched spirits worship the moon, and even walked through what was said to be the ruins of Fengdu.
But he had never seen yin energy that thick.
Hundreds, even thousands, of wailing faces in a pool of blood, an endless void, the stench of blood so thick it could choke…
And in the end, Yan Shixun could feel something—something that suddenly appeared in the abyss and blocked his vision, including the youth he had seen, completely shrouding everything in darkness.
A chilling, hoarse voice rang out—
*The living must not enter!*
If Yan Shixun hadn’t remained on high alert the entire time—if he hadn’t immediately bitten through his finger when that unnatural chill came rushing toward him, using the pain to stay conscious while releasing the power in his blood to repel the thing hiding in the dark—
He likely wouldn’t have come back at all.
Fortunately, once he had driven off the sinister ghost aura, the situation matched what he had initially guessed.
Since everything outside the highway was frozen in time, it meant there was no escape other than along the highway itself.
Yan Shixun took advantage of that to investigate what lay beyond.
It was like a Möbius strip—an endless loop, with no front or back, and thus no end.
If you jumped off the left side of the road, you would climb back up from the left.
Everyone who walked the highway was like a bug placed on the rim of a flowerpot, circling endlessly, thinking they’d eventually find an exit.
But they didn’t know—this road had no end.
There was no way out.
—Just like despair had no end.
Yan Shixun thought of the youth he’d seen in the blood-filled abyss, the blood-tears streaming down his face, and the deep despair in his eyes.
Since he saw the youth in the abyss, did that mean the highway’s abnormality was related to him?
What had happened to that young man to stir such overwhelming ghost energy? Did it have something to do with the wounds covering his body? Why was he so utterly hopeless?
Yan Shixun clearly remembered seeing the youth’s injuries in the abyss—flesh torn open, bones exposed.
There was no way those wounds had been self-inflicted.
That made Yan Shixun begin to suspect that the young man had endured something truly horrific and died in despair. Only then could his grudge be so powerful it summoned such intense ghost energy.
Yan Shixun knew very well that the youth he saw was not human.
He was already a soul of the dead.
And yet, Yan Shixun had also clearly seen the abnormalities beneath the youth’s feet.
The restless crisis within the blood pool.
As Yan Shixun frowned in thought, Ye Li suddenly raised a hand and gently wiped the lingering tear streaks from the corner of his eye with a cool palm.
The chill against his cheek snapped Yan Shixun back to awareness. He looked at Ye Li with a questioning gaze.
“You were crying,” Ye Li said, brows tightly knit. “Are you hurt? I can…”
“I’m fine.” Yan Shixun, for once, felt slightly embarrassed.
It had been just a reflex tear, but somehow, coming from Ye Li’s mouth, it sounded like he’d been sobbing like a child.
It felt… shameful.
“Ever heard of wind making your eyes water?” Yan Shixun pointed out toward the road. “The wind down there was way too strong.”
The viewers watching the split-screen: [We know Brother Yan isn’t the type to cry, but the more he tries to explain it, the more suspicious it sounds… Like one of those “I just got sand in my eyes” excuses…]
[Wanna bet? That long-haired cool guy definitely won’t buy it. If he does, I’ll wash my hair while doing a headstand.]
But in the next second, Ye Li in the footage nodded calmly.
“Mm, the wind *was* strong.” Ye Li unfolded the coat and draped it over Yan Shixun’s shoulders. “It’s cold—don’t get sick.”
In the deep autumn mountain air, the temperature had dropped to nearly zero. Yan Shixun had just been through a bone-chilling gale and had his body invaded by ghostly energy, which drastically reduced his yang energy and lowered his body temperature.
At this point, Yan Shixun’s body was just as cold as Ye Li’s.
In fact, if anyone other than Yan Shixun had jumped off that road, they would have died instantly in the dense ghost aura. His constant coexistence with ghost energy, the Evil Spirit Bone Transformation was the only thing that saved him.
That level of ghost energy was far beyond what the human body could endure.
So Yan Shixun didn’t refuse Ye Li’s closeness.
But when Ye Li draped the coat over him, his long arm looped over Yan Shixun’s head—making it look, from a distance, as if he was hugging him in his arms.
This made Yan Shixun feel awkward.
He wanted to tell Ye Li to step back, but when he looked up, he saw Ye Li’s expression was completely natural—making it seem like he was just overthinking things.
Yan Shixun: ? Something definitely felt off… but he had no evidence.
Meanwhile, the live chat: [……]
[They’re hugging! They’re hugging! I’m screaming!!! Tell us! What’s your relationship with my Brother Yan?! *sobs*]
[Oh my god, is this what “I believe anything you say” looks like?]
[Hey, where’s the guy who said he’d do a headstand hair wash? Come out! I’ve got something great to show you, haha!]
That very person had already curled up in bed pretending to be dead.
He felt like the dorm atmosphere tonight was way too creepy. The blanket was his only safe space.
He was supposed to be watching a god ascend—so why did it feel like he was going crazy tonight? He was genuinely getting scared.
One roommate let out a sigh and glanced at the still-empty bed across from him, a growing unease creeping in.
Yan Shixun had no idea what the viewers were talking about. He was still discussing the situation beneath the highway with Ye Li.
“The King of Hell is dead.”
But unexpectedly, Ye Li responded in a deep, calm voice: “All the gods died long ago—over a hundred years ago.”
Very few had survived, like the mountain god of Wild Wolf Peak, who managed to escape disaster thanks to the devout faith of her followers.
—Though she had survived the heavenly calamity, in the end, she still died for the very people she protected.
Yan Shixun’s footsteps halted. He turned to Ye Li in shock. “What did you say?”
“If you’re saying that place feels like the underworld—it’s possible.”
Ye Li said, meeting Yan Shixun’s gaze without flinching. “Because the underworld has long lost its overseer.”
“After the King of Hell died, the remnants of his power barely kept the Underworld functioning, allowing reincarnation to continue operating for the time being. But eventually, that power will run out. When it does, the Underworld will collapse, vengeful spirits will escape, and the human world will be littered with corpses—just like a living hell.”
Ye Li spoke of the grim future with calm composure, completely unfazed: “The reason no living soul has noticed the abnormalities in the Underworld all this time… is because of the existence of Fengdu.”
Though the Underworld and Fengdu belong to entirely different systems, their duties ultimately revolve around the dead and malevolent spirits.
Because of overlapping functions, even after an anomaly occurred in the Underworld, Fengdu did not collapse into the earth. As a result, very few people in the human world noticed anything unusual with the Underworld.
Ye Li patiently explained to Yan Shixun, “It’s like robots in the human world. Once programmed, they keep working in a loop until they run out of power and shut down.”
Yan Shixun keenly picked up on something: “No supervisor. That means even if the robot malfunctions, no one punishes or corrects it. It just keeps running endlessly.”
Ye Li nodded, confirming this.
But Ye Li’s words suddenly reminded Yan Shixun of something.
—Li Chengyun lived to be sixty-three.
Heaven’s path is unpredictable; there are sixty-four hexagrams.
After the sixty-fourth hexagram, the cycle of the Eight Trigrams is complete.
And Li Chengyun had died precisely at sixty-three.
The sixty-fourth was a domain the heavens would not allow him to enter.
That year, Li Chengyun went to a certain place.
—The former site of Fengdu.
Yan Shixun remembered it clearly. That year, he was still a student at Binhai University.
After learning about his family situation, his counselor realized Li Chengyun practiced folk traditions. She couldn’t help but gently suggest that the child’s studies were more important and that he shouldn’t be so involved in those activities.
Li Chengyun understood her hidden concern—that she feared Yan Shixun would become someone superstitious. So he chuckled and readily agreed.
Then he rejected Yan Shixun’s request to go to Fengdu with him.
After the New Year break, when school resumed, Yan Shixun carried his suitcase to campus with a long face.
Li Chengyun noticed his displeasure and coaxed him, promising to take him next time.
But what Yan Shixun eventually received—
Was news of Li Chengyun’s death.
Because of that, the matter of Fengdu’s old site stayed in Yan Shixun’s heart. For years, as he roamed the lands, he searched through countless mountains and rivers, trying to find out where that old site of Fengdu that Li Chengyun had calculated and gone to truly was.
And what had happened there.
Now, Ye Li’s words stirred up those memories for Yan Shixun.
He froze for a moment, then nodded. “I understand now.”
Suddenly, enlightenment struck Yan Shixun—he figured out why Li Chengyun had sought out the old site of Fengdu that year.
—Because Li Chengyun had foreseen the fall of the Underworld.
Even among the many prodigies of Haiyun Temple, Li Chengyun had been an unparalleled genius. His fellow disciples often sighed that with Li Chengyun around, all other cultivators faded into insignificance.
It was as if… Li Chengyun walked the Great Dao itself.
So, the fact that he could foresee such a thing didn’t surprise Yan Shixun too much.
The Taoists of Haiyun Temple had always shouldered the weight of the nation and the world. Many had died for the Dao. None were greedy for life or fearful of death, nor did they chase wealth and power.
That Li Chengyun had knowingly walked into danger seeking the truth made perfect sense.
But Heaven and Earth were not compassionate.
They wouldn’t favor Li Chengyun just because of his talent.
It had its own game of chess—one that no person could fully calculate or comprehend.
Those who peered into its secrets… died.
With Li Chengyun and Ye Li confirming each other’s knowledge, Yan Shixun not only understood Li Chengyun’s motives back then but also came to believe what Ye Li was saying.
Though he found it strange—how could Ye Li know something like this? Even the founder of a sect would be crossing the bounds of what the Dao allowed. Yet Ye Li spoke as though he knew it deeply, almost like he had witnessed it firsthand.
This made Yan Shixun suspicious.
But before he could gather his thoughts, a scream rang out behind him.
He stopped in his tracks and looked toward the highway behind them, curious.
Soon, a staggering and disheveled figure appeared behind them.
Yan Shixun squinted and saw the man’s face clearly.
It was the same middle-aged man who had previously flagged down a car asking for help.
But now, all his earlier arrogance and sense of entitlement—especially when facing Zhang Wubing—had completely vanished. He was terrified, as if being hunted by a beast, running frantically down the highway without a care for anything else.
When he saw the two blurry silhouettes ahead, his eyes, which had been wide with fear, suddenly lit up with hope. He pushed his exhausted legs—barely able to move anymore—to run faster in their direction.
“Help me, please help me! There’s a ghost! A ghost!!”
He reached out, seemingly trying to grab Yan Shixun’s wrist.
Yan Shixun frowned slightly and sidestepped, letting the middle-aged man lunge at empty air.
The man’s momentum carried him a few more steps forward before he crashed hard to the ground.
He screamed in pain, clutching his leg. It looked like he wouldn’t be able to get up anytime soon.
Yan Shixun looked down coldly at the man sprawled on the ground.
He never casually entangled himself with others’ karmic consequences, nor did he interfere with others’ cause and effect.
If the man’s current misery and danger were consequences of the evil he had sown, then Yan Shixun would do nothing but watch coldly.
Yan Shixun sneered, “One after another, all of you want me to help—do I look like I have a good temper? Like I’m some kind of saint?”
He was just an ordinary man with a bad temper, that was all.
The middle-aged man raised his head in anger, pointing at Yan Shixun and preparing to curse him. “How can you be so selfish? You’re just going to let someone die?!”
Yan Shixun tilted his head and replied coolly, “Yes.”
What a joke. Even people who sent him invitations knew they needed to offer something in return. Where did this man get the confidence to think he’d help for free?
The insult the man was about to hurl got stuck in his throat. It was like punching into cotton—he choked on his own breath.
Still, the man was about to say more, but as he looked into Yan Shixun’s eyes, his own eyes slowly widened in shock.
Yan Shixun sensed something was wrong and immediately turned to look behind him.
A blood-covered figure had silently appeared there.
Black hair obscured the face. Through the strands, hollow black eye sockets stared silently at Yan Shixun.
The young man staggered back the moment Yan Shixun turned, as if something behind him had yanked him.
Yan Shixun’s pupils contracted—he recognized the youth.
—It was the person he had seen in the abyss.
Also the one who had suddenly appeared in front of the car, causing the driver to swerve and crash.
Yan Shixun strode toward the young man. After a moment of surprise, his expression returned to calm, even with a slight smile at the corner of his lips. It was a warmth completely different from his coldness toward the middle-aged man—so gentle and steady that anyone who saw it would instinctively trust him.
“You—”
But just as Yan Shixun began to speak, the flesh and blood on the young man’s body suddenly burst apart.
Fragments of his body scattered everywhere, splattering blood all over the ground.
Like snow crushing pine trees, the collapse was instant and complete.
Blood spread rapidly across the highway, as if alive, filling every crack and crevice. In the blink of an eye, it became an ocean of blood.
At the center of it stood the young man, now a blood-red skeleton.
All flesh gone, only patches of pink muscle clung to the bones. Veins that hadn’t been gouged out ran along the muscles and bones, pulsing faintly, as if life still lingered.
The blood-colored skeleton slowly turned its head and stared silently at Yan Shixun with bleeding eye sockets.
Then it began to weep blood.
Yan Shixun’s heart skipped a beat. He rushed toward the skeleton, quickening his pace.
His Martin boots splashed into the sea of blood, crimson liquid staining the hem of his dark green coat.
But in the next moment, it was as if something beneath the blood sea grabbed the skeleton’s ankle.
It looked like someone drowning.
The blood gradually swallowed its ribcage… then its jawbone…
Yan Shixun only had time to reach out and grab the bony finger of the blood-red skeleton that was pointing toward the sky, but he brushed past it.
Because, in that instant, Yan Shixun suddenly felt a force gripping his ankle, yanking him violently downward.
He looked down.
Beneath the sea of blood, he saw countless hideous ghostly faces crowded together in a chaotic mass, all scrambling to swim upward through the blood, fighting one another as if each one was desperately trying to rise. But they clutched at one another, refusing to let anyone surface. Each ghost was pressing the others downward, as if determined to drag everyone back down and leave no soul behind.
Waves of blood surged like a towering tide.
As Yan Shixun arched backward, the last thing he saw was Ye Li’s figure, his face filled with shock and fury, rushing toward him.
In the next moment, blood filled Yan Shixun’s mouth and nose, and his vision was drenched in red.
Yan Shixun lost consciousness.
…
Taoist Ma had just gotten ready to step aside and call the Abbot of Haiyun Temple to ask if someone skilled in divination could be sent over. He really wasn’t good at this sort of thing.
But then, suddenly, he saw a car bearing the emblem of Haiyun Temple driving up from the highway and stopping not far off.
Taoist Ma was puzzled and walked over: “Fellow Taoists, what brings you all here?”
Could it be that the Abbot had already done a reading and predicted that he would need help?
Even if that were the case, wasn’t it a bit too much to send a whole car with eight Taoists just for this?
Taoist Ma was both surprised and suspicious.
The Taoists getting out of the car were just as surprised: “Taoist Ma, you didn’t know? The Yin path has changed.”
One of the Taoists pointed toward the road: “We tracked it here.”
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