Chapter 292: Ritual Money, Old Capital (19)
Taoist Li had long held many suspicions about the Ghost Dao.
After all, it was a future he had glimpsed in passing. He believed he was already prepared to face it head-on.
But when Taoist Li truly entered Baizhi Lake and stepped into the deserted village, he realized that the Ghost Dao was far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
He stood in the courtyard of a village house, his expression stern as he stared directly at the wooden carvings inside the building.
The carvings, arranged like a warm, happy family, seemed to sense his gaze. In the dim light, they slowly turned their heads to look straight back at him.
Within the surging darkness, the outlines of human figures flickered in and out of view.
Taoist Li frowned, ignoring the bone-deep chill creeping down his back.
From beyond the enclosing walls, he could hear the urgent shouts and alarmed cries of the other Taoists, piercing the silence that should have blanketed this abandoned village at night.
From every house in the village, wooden carvings with moving mouths and eyes began to walk out, one after another.
They behaved as though they truly lived here—innocent villagers stepping outside after hearing a disturbance. But upon spotting the intruders, they casually grabbed whatever lay at hand as makeshift weapons and charged at the Taoists in fury.
It was as if the Taoists were the evil beings who needed to be driven out.
The wooden carvings moved with such natural grace, as if they didn’t even realize they were not living people, but mere wood.
More and more wooden carvings began to surround the Taoists, and several of them found themselves overwhelmed.
Their talismans had lost their effect, and they could not draw power from any direction. The Taoists were left to grit their teeth and fight using brute strength alone. Peachwood swords in hand, they slashed with powerful momentum, keeping the carvings at bay for the moment.
Some of the Taoists were secretly grateful that they hadn’t slacked off in practicing their swordsmanship. If they had only focused on talismans like most mainstream exorcists, they would have suffered greatly by now.
But the Taoists were made of flesh and blood. They felt pain. They grew tired.
The wooden carvings, on the other hand, did not.
Even if their limbs were hacked off, they could still crawl and wriggle across the ground. Even when their bodies were split apart, the scattered wood chips continued to trip up the Taoists’ steps.
What chilled the Taoists most were the eyes of the carvings.
These lifelike wooden figures, with moving mouths and eyes, were the crowning masterpieces of the craftsmen’s skill. In the past, carpenters had poured their hearts into making them indistinguishable from real people to entice the wandering souls of the Southwest to willingly inhabit them.
And now, the Taoists were experiencing the downside of that uncanny realism.
—Those nimble eyes truly looked as though a soul resided within.
When they stared at you, it felt like you were looking at a pleading spirit, crying in disbelief, asking you why you were trying to kill it.
It was as if… the Taoists weren’t harming evil entities.
But the actual villagers who had once lived here.
The peachwood sword in one Taoist’s hand began to tremble.
He couldn’t stop the thoughts swirling in his mind. He wondered if he was the one being enchanted—perhaps what stood before him were indeed living people, and it was only the ghostly aura clouding his vision that made him unable to tell the difference between human and ghost.
How absurd!
Someone meant to protect life now found himself pointing his sword at it.
Those eyes, clear and expressive, were full of resentment and accusation!
“Fellow Taoist! Fellow Taoist!”
A nearby Taoist barely had time to catch his breath when he noticed one of his peers staring blankly at a carving, his peachwood sword having already fallen to the ground.
Even worse, though the Taoist had stopped attacking, the carving had not. It continued to lunge toward him, its sharp wooden fingers aimed straight at his chest, ready to pierce through his heart in the next moment.
Startled, the other Taoist forgot his own peril and rushed to assist, sword raised.
He shouted loudly, trying to wake his companion, while simultaneously swinging his sword at the carving. The force of the strike was immense, clearing a wide space around them. The carvings caught off guard were swept back by the sword’s energy.
This bought both Taoists a moment to breathe.
The rescuer quickly checked on his peer, patting him in urgency, trying to bring him back to his senses. “Fellow Taoist! The situation is critical—you must snap out of it! Fellow Taoist!”
With that forceful shout, it was as if a cold bucket of water had been poured over the dazed Taoist. He shuddered and finally returned to his senses, blinking in confusion at the one in front of him.
Looking around, he finally grasped what was happening, and a wave of fear welled up inside him.
“Just now… I suddenly felt like I wasn’t looking at carvings, but at villagers.”
He shook his head, unable to understand why he would have such a thought. “I’m sorry. I was distracted.”
The Taoist beside him simply looked at him with understanding, without the slightest hint of reproach.
Anyone in his position would’ve reacted the same. After all, the Taoists of Haiyun Temple had vowed to protect life above all. How could they bear the thought of harming the innocent?
What’s more… from what this Taoist described, the other began to grow suspicious too—wondering if perhaps these wooden carvings truly had bewitched them.
After asking for more details, he finally understood the reason.
He paused for a moment, then turned to look at the surrounding wooden statues.
The rest of the Taoists had also been buried in the sheer number of wooden statues. Often, they could only focus on what was directly in front of them and not what was behind. Even with swords in hand, many of them were weighed down by concerns and didn’t dare to fight freely.
In comparison, their situation was actually considered decent.
Although one of the Taoists had momentarily been mesmerized, unable to tell whether he was fighting ghosts or humans and became distracted, fortunately, there had been other Taoists nearby at that moment who had helped him greatly.
More importantly, the faces on the wooden statues before him were not of people he recognized or had ever seen.
The other Taoists weren’t so lucky.
One reason they were so hesitant and restrained was because the wooden statues surrounding them bore faces they had seen before.
Some Taoists recognized that the statues resembled villagers who had died in the Baizhi Lake massacre.
Others noticed statues that looked similar to members of the production crew.
Almost every Taoist found their thoughts in disarray, unable to distinguish what exactly they were fighting.
“This can’t go on.”
One Taoist noticed the root of the problem and said angrily, “The evil entity at Baizhi Lake is truly full of tricks! Just by showing us a few unfamiliar faces, it’s already divided us like this.”
Even though they all suspected this was likely a trick by the Baizhi Lake evil spirit, none of the Taoists dared to gamble on whether the wooden statues resembling the missing production crew members were just puppets—or if they were real people.
Even the possibility of accidentally harming one real person was enough to send a Taoist into a spiral of guilt and regret.
Caught between truth and illusion, none dared to act recklessly for fear of hurting an innocent life. Their hesitation, in turn, gave the evil spirit a chance to exploit their indecision.
The abandoned village covered a wide area. During its construction, there had been no coherent village planning, so the paths were winding and overgrown with weeds. While engaging the wooden statues, the Taoists often found themselves straying down small trails, gradually drifting farther from the spot where they had first gathered.
Once the Taoists were scattered—whether by design or by accident—they were aware of the danger. Many wanted to regroup and support one another.
The wooden statues, however, saw through their intentions.
They blocked the Taoists’ paths, forcing them to move further away when dodging attacks, making it increasingly difficult to reunite.
Still, though the Taoists had been fully scattered by the wooden statues, they had also begun to see the statues’ true purpose.
If these statues really were members of the production team, they wouldn’t be doing such things.
While the Taoists seldom interacted with the crew, they did know that the program was the one their fellow Taoist Yan had frequently appeared on. The director, Zhang Wubing, had left a good impression on every Taoist he had met.
They still had trust in the production team.
Trying to scatter them—was it because individuals were easier to handle than a group?
From a distance, the Taoists exchanged glances and nodded at one another, having reached a shared understanding.
They gripped their peach wood swords tightly, cast aside their worries, and began sweeping through the wooden statues with wide, decisive strikes.
All of the statues had their arms and legs hacked off, leaving them unable to stand or obstruct the Taoists as they had before.
Then, the Taoists rummaged through nearby houses and found many old woven sacks left behind. With swift movements, they tore the sacks into long strips, gathered the now mostly immobile wooden statues, arranged them so they interlocked and restrained each other, and tied them together in bundles with the makeshift ropes.
Only after finishing all of this did the Taoists finally allow themselves a breath of relief.
“These evil spirits are truly detestable.”
One Taoist frowned as he looked down at his still trembling hand. “Just now, I almost thought I’d actually killed someone from the production crew…”
Another Taoist sighed. “Me too…”
“To be honest,” one of them admitted, “if the evil spirits hadn’t rushed things and exposed themselves, I had already made up my mind to resign from Haiyun Temple when I got back. If our fears had proven true, then my path of cultivation would have ended right there. Once the knot forms in your heart, how can you overcome it?”
“However—”
At that moment, a Taoist with a sword strapped to his back finally let out a sigh of relief after confirming that there were no remaining wooden statues around. He returned and asked, “Did any of you see Taoist Ma just now?”
“I saw a wooden statue inside one of the village houses earlier. It looked exactly like Taoist Ma.”
He frowned as he recalled, “Not only that—the posture and gestures of the statue were identical to Taoist Ma’s. I suspect that statue was him.”
“That’s entirely possible.”
Another Taoist pondered for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “That’s probably exactly what the evil spirit wants us to see—to drive us into turning against each other.”
When truth and illusion were mixed together, it became impossible to tell what was real and what was not.
Once people started hesitating, their strength would be greatly diminished. They would become overly cautious, afraid to act—even when danger was right in front of them.
The evil spirit of Baizhi Lake had clearly seen through the Taoists’ weaknesses and exploited them to the fullest.
Since the Taoists were reluctant to harm life—especially fearful of hurting any of the missing persons—the evil spirit of Baizhi Lake used that against them, making it impossible for them to know exactly what they were facing.
Perhaps what they encountered were ghosts hiding inside the statues.
But it could just as easily have been the missing crew members and rescue team they had come to find.
Even if they saw through the illusion this time—what about next time?
If a Taoist assumed everything was fake and attacked without hesitation next time, only to realize he had killed a fellow Taoist—such an event would be enough to completely destroy a Taoist’s psyche.
After exchanging information and finally understanding the evil spirit’s intent, many of the Taoists were furious, their eyes bloodshot with anger.
“That thing deserves to be eradicated!”
One Taoist cursed. “We almost fell for it!”
Another Taoist added, “But since more than one person saw Taoist Ma, and someone else saw Taoist Wang, that means they likely are in the village. Just not this dimension of it. They’re probably in another version of the village—one hidden by illusion or some other method.”
A Taoist said, “Those two fellow Taoists arrived before us and were unaware of the Ghost Dao. They originally came just to find the missing crew, so it makes sense for them to be in the village.”
A nearby Taoist frowned. “That means the Taoist Ma we just saw really was him, but for some reason, he appeared to us as a wooden statue.”
“If we had already assumed all the statues were ghosts, we would have attacked the ones appearing afterward without restraint. By then, even if those two fellow Taoists appeared, we would have harmed them—or worse, it would’ve ended in mutual destruction…”
When the clam and the crane fight, it’s the fisherman who profits.
The evil spirit of Baizhi Lake wanted them to turn on one another, to exhaust both sides without realizing they were allies—so it could be the final victor.
In the end, they would be nothing more than murderers of their own comrades…
When they fully understood the evil spirit’s scheme, many Taoists gasped in horror, a chill spreading through their chests.
If that moment had truly come to pass, it would have been far too late for regrets.
Everyone sank into painful guilt—everyone except the evil spirit of Baizhi Lake, who would have claimed a complete victory.
Once they came to this realization, none of them could help but feel a wave of relief. They silently thanked the heavens that they had discovered it in time—there was still hope to turn things around.
The Taoist who had initially suggested severing the limbs of the statues without destroying them entirely glanced instinctively at the pile of tied-up wooden figures.
He had feared exactly that worst-case scenario. That’s why he chose such a cautious approach.
By restricting the statues’ movement without smashing them to pieces, he avoided the risk of killing someone real. Though this method still carried the danger of the statues retaliating, it was better than facing the guilt of killing a living person.
“If anyone sees Taoist Ma or Taoist Wang again, make sure to get a message to them. Let them know we’re reinforcements from Haiyun Temple.”
The Taoist spoke solemnly. “We must not let internal strife break out.”
The other Taoists all nodded in agreement and added, “Fellow Taoists, if you come across any statue that resembles a missing person, be sure to only disable its movement. That way, we can prevent the worst-case scenario if it turns out to be the real person.”
“Exactly. This way, even if things go horribly wrong, we’ll still have a chance to make things right. As for the statues that resemble the already deceased villagers of the Bai family, you may dispose of them as you see fit.”
“Taoist Ma and the others must still be somewhere in the village. Everyone, stay alert and try to figure out what’s really going on. See if we can bring them from that other village into ours.”
“Thankfully, we haven’t crossed the point of no return yet… That’s at least a small blessing amid the misfortune.”
“It must be the Ghost Dao that caused all this.”
A Taoist who had been silent until now suddenly spoke up. “Earlier, because Taoist Li tried to simplify things to help us understand, our thinking became limited to that framework. We failed to think outside the box and see the truth. But in fact, I believe the Ghost Dao isn’t just about switching identities between ghosts and humans.”
“The Ghost Dao allows free manipulation of ghost identities. Ghosts can be ghosts—but they can also make us believe they’re human.”
The surrounding Taoists fell silent for a moment, each deep in thought.
“If that’s true, then the key to solving this crisis still lies with the Ghost Dao.”
One Taoist furrowed his brows. “No matter what we do here, we can’t touch the Ghost Dao itself. All we’ve dealt with is surface-level distractions that can be cast aside at will.”
The animated, lifelike wooden statues were nothing more than tools for the Ghost Dao—tools used to fulfill its goals.
Even if they destroyed tens of thousands of statues, it wouldn’t stop the spread of the Ghost Dao. It wouldn’t even come close to touching its core.
“Come to think of it… none of us have seen Fellow Taoist Yan.”
Suddenly, a Taoist asked, “Could it be that Fellow Taoist Yan has already found the location of the Ghost Dao—and is already working to resolve it?”
This speculation instantly lit a spark in the hearts of the Taoists. The sense of despair from feeling cornered was replaced by a surge of hope and determination.
Although many of these Taoists had just returned from various regions to Haiyun Temple and were quickly dispatched to Baizhi Lake, there were still some who had worked closely with Yan Shixun.
Even if they didn’t know him inside out, they were at least somewhat familiar with his way of doing things.
Based on Yan Shixun’s usual way of striking directly at the root of evil, this guess was most likely true.
The Taoists suddenly felt a surge of power return to their bodies. Even the cold winter mountain wind no longer felt freezing; instead, they were filled with an eruptive energy like that of a volcano.
“Evil Spirit Bone Transformation.”
One of the Taoists chuckled and shook his head. “Hermit Chengyun… still the very Hermit Chengyun I once looked up to in my youth. His disciple… couldn’t be wrong.”
“Since no one has seen Fellow Taoist Yan, it means the crux of this Ghost Dao has nothing to do with this village at all.”
Another Taoist said in a deep voice, “Fellow Taoists, we must quickly resolve the issue with the opposite village. We need to move as fast as possible and recover the other two fellow Taoists and the missing members of the production team.”
“At the very least, before Fellow Taoist Yan successfully resolves the Ghost Dao, we must not let anything distract his focus.”
Everyone took their positions and performed their duties.
Based on their talents, they might never reach the true Great Dao in their lifetime, nor could they delve into the heart of the Ghost Dao at present.
But behind them stood the innocent lives of the entire southwest.
As long as they could slow the spread of the Ghost Dao, weaken its strength, and support people like Taoist Li and Yan Shixun—those who could truly touch the Ghost Dao—then that would be their success.
However…
One Taoist furrowed his brow, suddenly sensing that something was off. “Has anyone seen Taoist Li?”
“Where did Taoist Li go?”
The Taoists looked at each other in confusion, yet none had an answer.
And at that very moment, the missing Taoist Li was trapped in a courtyard with tightly shut doors.
Two candles that lit themselves flickered wildly in the cold night wind. Their dancing flames cast shadows that seemed like howling demons, clawing and snarling.
The main hall was grand and opulent. Even though the lighting was dim, the wealth and refinement of the household could still be seen clearly. The golden nanmu wood reflected beautiful patterns in the candlelight.
But the overwhelming sense of wealth and solemnity came with a pressure so heavy, it felt suffocating.
It didn’t feel like a finely decorated house, but rather… a tomb buried deep underground.
In the dim room, several people turned to look at Taoist Li, each showing a chilling smile—stiff and lifeless—no different from the wooden figurines placed in a mourning hall.
Taoist Li remained calm, unfazed by the eerie scene before him.
He raised his eyes to look back at the wooden statues, all the while not relaxing his attention to the sounds coming from outside the courtyard.
Once he noticed the outside had gone quiet, Taoist Li understood that the other Taoists must have already dealt with the wooden figures out there.
Only then did he feel at ease, allowing himself to focus fully on the evil spirits before him.
From the very first glance at the people in the hall, Taoist Li had recognized a few of them.
On one side sat Zheng Shumu, a carpenter who had once been interviewed during the heyday of shadow puppetry in the southwest. On the other side was a girl, for whom there was no known information. But standing behind her was Xie Lin.
As for Xie Lin, who wasn’t followed by people outside the entertainment world, Taoist Li only remembered him for one thing:
—The brother who lost his sister.
Back when Xie Lin’s sister was kidnapped, many Taoist temples and masters received him. Several of them, moved by pity, even divined his sister’s fate.
Although Haiyun Temple hadn’t accepted Xie Lin’s request, Taoist Li had heard about the matter while chatting with old friends.
He had seen Xie Lin’s face before, and it was very clear—his “brother palace” was shrouded in gloom and malevolence.
Xie Lin’s sister had long been dead.
In fact, Xie Lin had never even had a sister—he was an only child. The existence of any siblings in his life would bring about his own death.
Taoist Li had seen this clearly decades ago.
But the deeper one walked the path of Dao, the more they sensed the unpredictability and ineffability of fate.
And Taoist Li wasn’t some nosy do-gooder. He had no interest in rushing to solve trivial problems for others.
So he merely mentioned what he saw to a few close friends and didn’t press the matter.
He hadn’t expected that the next time he would see Xie Lin’s face would be under such circumstances.
Compared to decades ago, the once proud and energetic young man had endured many hardships and now carried a mature air.
But in Taoist Li’s eyes, there was no such thing as attractive or unattractive. He saw only the face’s fortune, not its appearance.
That face, which once suggested a thriving career but a dim brother palace, was now completely clouded in deathly gray.
…Xie Lin was dead.
Taoist Li furrowed his brow. He hadn’t expected such a thing to happen despite Yan Shixun being part of the production team.
Because of that, when he looked at the little girl sitting in front of Xie Lin, his eyes were filled with even more wariness and scrutiny.
What kind of girl could make a brother who once loved his sister so much act this way? She could only be one person—His sister.
This child—was she the one Xie Lin had searched for so desperately back then?
But this child… was also dead.
A flood of questions surged in Taoist Li’s mind.
Though he never offered face-reading or fortune-telling services to others, it didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled in those arts.
In fact, Taoist Li was highly proficient. At a glance, he could tell that the little girl in front of him had no eight characters at all.
She was completely… a twisted existence that belonged neither to the human world nor the underworld.
Eight Characters of Birth Time were generated when a person was born. They could be used to speculate the Great Dao’s intentions and reveal the person’s entire fate.
But if the person standing before you had never even been born…
How could there be eight characters or a fate?
This child… was a ghost infant.
Her mother was the gentle woman seated in the main seat of the hall.
Inside that woman’s belly, there was no other life aside from these few people—not even a stillborn fetus. Instead, there was only a dense, overwhelming aura of ghostly energy.
Taoist Li’s gaze swept quickly across the wooden statues, and he instantly understood what kind of situation he was facing.
This place was indeed not a residence for the living—it was set up like a mourning hall.
The moment Taoist Li came to this conclusion, a sudden rumble of thunder echoed from afar. Lightning tore through the dark sky with an astonishing momentum, slashing straight down as though it meant to rip apart the black heavens.
Lightning poured through the windows and over the courtyard walls, illuminating the small yard.
In that instant, the entire house underwent a dramatic transformation.
Pale funeral drapes cascaded down from above. White candles flickered on the altar. The man who had been sitting in the seat of honor vanished, leaving only a memorial tablet placed on the grand chair.
On the table in front of it, offerings were laid out—not the usual fruits and food, but several stacked human skulls, as if honoring the dead and helping them rest in peace.
As for the boxes of gold, silver, and jewels that had been scattered casually across the floor, in the blink of an eye, they turned into paper-made gold ingots and spirit money—yellow and white sheets meant to be burned for the dead.
A cold wind swept through the hall, sending the pale drapes fluttering lightly and chaotically. The spirit money swayed up and down, rustling softly with a “hua la la” sound.
In such a quiet and empty space, the faint rustling echoed over and over again, creating a terrifying and eerie atmosphere.
Taoist Li glanced up at the sky and felt a strange premonition rising in his heart.
Heaven and earth… were angry.
But right now, in Baizhi Lake and throughout the entire southwest, the Ghost Dao had taken over. So what had the Ghost Dao seen that caused such rage?
Yan Shixun!
Taoist Li’s eyes widened slightly as the name passed through his mind.
At present, only someone like Yan Shixun—who bore the Evil Spirit Bone Transformation—could provoke such a furious reaction from the Ghost Dao that had the upper hand.
Taoist Li couldn’t think of anyone else capable of it.
That meant Gou Dan’s disciple, had not only found the core of the Ghost Dao, but had already made a move—one that likely put the Ghost Dao at a disadvantage, perhaps even threatening its existence…
As expected of Gou Dan! Even his disciple was this outstanding!
Taoist Li’s calm and somber mood was instantly uplifted, a smile spreading across his face.
With his hands behind his back, he turned his gaze back to the mourning hall and let out a cold snort through his nose.
“Foolish ghost infant—doesn’t even realize it’s being used.”
He looked at the little girl and shook his head repeatedly. “Can’t even tell who to hate or who to seek revenge on. What a wasted death.”
As his voice faded, a violent gust of wind surged through the mourning hall. The white cloth flapped wildly, and the howling wind sounded like the wails of vengeful spirits.
Taoist Li blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw that the little girl who had been sitting in the hall was now standing directly in front of him.
She held a small wooden puppet in her hand, looking up at Taoist Li with lifeless eyes filled with a cold, burning fury. The joints beneath her white dress creaked and clacked like wood striking wood—she seemed furious and ready to lash out, yet trapped within the wooden body, unable to move freely.
The ghost infant… was already dead?
Taoist Li noticed something strange about the little girl and furrowed his brows ever so slightly.
He suddenly realized: since the ghost infant had been used by the Ghost Dao, then for Yan Shixun to track the source back to the Ghost Dao, he would’ve had to kill her first. Only then would the true Ghost Dao—manipulating everything from behind the scenes—be forced to reveal itself.
To the ghost infant, she was already dead. Only a lingering obsession had been forcibly anchored to this body, powering her movements.
And even that… had been exploited by the Ghost Dao.
Otherwise, the girl wouldn’t be in this state—furious, but completely unable to act on her own.
The wooden puppet she swung around caught Taoist Li’s attention.
As he looked at it, he felt that the puppet’s face looked strangely familiar.
He slowly realized—the puppet was carved in the likeness of Yan Shixun.
What was going on? What was the Ghost Dao planning to do to Yan Shixun?
Taoist Li’s expression tightened. He looked up at the mourning hall again.
The figures in the hall all kept their heads down, avoiding his gaze.
Especially Zheng Shumu.
He hung his head low, hiding his expression. But the wooden hand resting on the grand chair’s armrest was slowly curling, tightly gripping the armrest.
Taoist Li didn’t notice Zheng Shumu’s subtle movement. Instead, when he saw the hanging paintings and decorations in the mourning hall, he suddenly understood why he had been lured here.
Those weren’t ordinary scholar’s desk ornaments at all.
They were ritual instruments for sacrificial rites.
The paintings depicted the Five Elements and Eight Trigrams, embedded with hidden talismans. The tools on the table were for worshipping heaven and earth. And the ghost infant’s family—previously manipulated by the Ghost Dao—had been brought here again…
—The Ghost Dao wanted to use this entire scene to conduct a ritual to sever its ties with the ghost infant and cleanse any karmic remnants left on earth.
The Ghost Dao had originated at Baizhi Lake, and thus had left traces of karma on the land.
If it wanted to completely replace the Great Dao, it would have to sever all connections with the earth to truly transcend the Three Realms and Five Elements.
But the Ghost Dao had long struggled to find a proper breakthrough point.
And at that moment, Taoist Li had appeared at Baizhi Lake.
Someone like him, who could perceive the will of Heaven and even glimpse the Great Dao, was the perfect catalyst for the Ghost Dao.
The moment Taoist Li figured this out, not only was he unafraid, but he even raised his brows with interest.
“So—this mourning hall was prepared for me? You plan to use me as the sacrifice?”
Taoist Li burst out laughing in anger. “Then let’s see who ends up needing a mourning hall. I’m betting it’s you, Ghost Dao.”
“BOOM——!”
Thunder roared like a beast. A bolt of lightning struck down from the heavens, slamming directly into the mourning hall.
In an instant, dust filled the air, bricks shattered and flew in all directions.
Xie Lin’s wooden puppet threw itself over the girl, shielding her. Its own body was smashed to pieces, splinters flying everywhere.
Taoist Li waved away the dust in front of his eyes, and the scene slowly cleared.
Then he saw—right where he had been standing moments ago—was now a large crater blasted by lightning, charred and smoking, the scent of burnt debris lingering in the air.
Had he not dodged in time, he would’ve been reduced to a pile of ash.
And the one who had grabbed him at the critical moment, alerting him to the danger—
Taoist Li turned slightly, his expression solemn as he looked at the figure beside him.
It was none other than Zheng Shumu, who had just been sitting in the mourning hall.
The wooden puppet’s body had been split in half by the lightning strike, barely holding together.
Only now did Taoist Li clearly see that inside the puppet with moving eyes and mouth, the body was hollow.
And within that hollow space was a corpse, just the right size to fit inside.
Now that the puppet was broken, its contents spilled out—blood and flesh, shattered bones scattered all over the floor.
Yet Zheng Shumu’s wooden figure still stood stubbornly, clutching the sleeve of Taoist Li’s Taoist robe.
As if something unfinished was keeping him standing, unwilling to fall.
“Yan…”
The puppet’s mouth trembled open, a hoarse, barely audible voice rasped out, so faint that a breeze could blow it away.
But he persisted, unwilling to give up, desperately trying to pass a message to Taoist Li.
Taoist Li’s expression immediately turned solemn the moment he heard the surname “Yan” of Yan Shixun. He calmed himself and leaned in to listen attentively.
The wooden statue’s mouth opened and closed.
Taoist Li’s eyes gradually widened, filled with disbelief as he stared at the statue—far more shocked than he had anticipated.
Dark clouds churned in the gloomy sky as thunder roared angrily.
“Boom——!”
As the next bolt of lightning struck, Yan Shixun finally used the brief flash of light to clearly see the figure standing atop the mountain of corpses. So it was him.
The ebony statue, which no one had been able to locate, had actually appeared here?
Yan Shixun frowned. Although from what the ghost official had said, the ebony statue was supposedly on the side of the living, he still didn’t dare to let down his guard.
After all, while the sculpture was modeled after Ye Li, the statue itself had long since gained divinity and power. Though it shared the same name as Ye Li, it was more like an entirely different person.
Yan Shixun still remembered the darkness in Ye Li’s expression when the ebony statue had been mentioned. He had also heard from the King of Hell about the legendary deeds of this former general. Now that this man had appeared, Yan couldn’t gauge what kind of personality he possessed, so he chose to remain still and observe without taking any rash action.
But in contrast to Yan Shixun’s composed reaction, the general who stood atop the corpse mountain reacted quite differently.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Yan Shixun. His cold and severe face briefly revealed a flicker of confusion, and the rage and murderous intent filling his heart paused for just a moment.
The general felt something was odd.
He had never known the warmth or softness of the human world—his soul had long been filled with fury and resistance, and his mind should’ve been entirely consumed by thoughts of chaos, evil, and ghostly beings.
And yet, in this moment, a living soul entered his vision.
The general had a vague feeling that he recognized this soul.
—In the future, he would meet this soul.
Just as he had, in that fleeting moment when he ascended as a ghost deity, glimpsed both his future and his death.
In the instant where man and god intersected, a mysterious transformation occurred at the threshold of destiny. In that very instant, the battle general had once seen the handsome face of a mortal.
He had seen that his fate would ultimately converge upon that mortal.
But at the time, the general had no emotions. He had coldly cast aside that fleeting memory without a second thought.
Now, however, that memory surged back to the surface. That face once again appeared vividly in his mind.
The general slowly turned around to face the direction where Yan Shixun stood.
He lowered his sharp gaze, eyes fixed intently on Yan Shixun, as though he were pondering his identity—wondering why this living soul had appeared in that destined moment of divine ascension and in the vision of his ultimate end.
Then, the general lifted his long legs and began walking, one step at a time, firmly treading over the corpses beneath his feet. He descended from the summit of the corpse mountain, heading straight toward Yan Shixun.
The heavy armor on his body gleamed with a cold light, clanging with each step. Blood still trailed down the edge of the long, lethal blade in his hand. His aura was terrifying, as if he had just walked off a battlefield, radiating killing intent so intense that no one dared to approach him.
But Yan Shixun didn’t retreat or show any fear. He simply lifted his eyes and looked into the distance, locking gazes with the battle general.
Ye… Li…
That name, engraved deep within his heart, passed silently through Yan Shixun’s lips.
He stared with unwavering focus at the general—not at the warrior before him, but at the one he knew even better: The future Lord of Fengdu, a thousand years from now.
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