Jiang Che flew out toward the village, cursing as it went. Lang Jiuchuan, that wretched woman — in order to force it out, she truly had not cared whether she lived or died. Not even a word of warning, just straight to throwing a tantrum — the very picture of self-indulgence.

Mid-curse, it suddenly sensed something wrong.

Why had Lang Jiuchuan been able to press against it in the spiritual core like that — as though she could force it completely out whenever she wished, without incurring any divine retribution?

Jiang Che’s breath went a little shallow. Had it somehow missed a clause when they made their contract? Surely it hadn’t stumbled into a deep pit?

No good. It needed to ask her. That wretched woman had more schemes in her than anyone.

Jiang Che had just turned back when its spiritual consciousness suddenly jolted. It spun to look deep into the mountains, and its tiger eyes went wide. Every hair on its body stood on end, its gaze turning fierce.

What a vile aura.

And it dared bare its fangs at a tiger?

Jiang Che bounded forward and shot toward that direction at great speed, completely forgetting its earlier intention to settle scores with Lang Jiuchuan.

Below the mountain, Shen Qinghe’s group was making their way up. Accompanying him were his own trusted subordinates and guards, as well as the guards of the two families whose young masters had gone missing — all strong, capable men.

Given how uncanny this place had proven to be, they had been deliberately selected for the particular sharpness and ferocity of their own energy, the kind that could naturally suppress evil — to avoid a repeat of what had happened before, when people came away dead or gravely wounded.

The guards from the two other households, under their masters’ instructions to investigate the whereabouts of their young lords, had no objections to following Shen Qinghe’s lead. But they found it strange — why had a delicate, fragile little girl been brought along?

Looking at her — thin as a sparrow, as though a gust of wind could topple her — accompanying them to that place was no different from offering up a head. But the Lord Shen had said she was the key to solving the case. They would see, then. Just a young woman — if anything happened, they could sling her over a shoulder and run.

More than a few of the men cast glances at Lang Jiuchuan along the way, privately pondering whether to play the hero should she be unable to keep up.

Lang Jiuchuan walked along the stone-paved mountain path and felt beneath her feet a faint trace of pure devotional energy within the stones. She listened to what the guide Shen Qinghe had hired was saying, and a cold light entered her eyes.

This stone path up the mountain had come about because word had spread among the nearby villages that the mountain god’s shrine up at the village was remarkably efficacious. Worshippers who came to pray had taken it upon themselves to bring a stone or two each time, to pave the path and make the way easier. It was both an act of devotion and a practical convenience for future pilgrimages.

Over many years, those stones had accumulated into a full mountain path — and in this entire stretch of mountain, it was the only road containing genuinely pure devotional energy.

How earnest, the hearts of common people. It was just a pity they had no idea what they were actually worshipping.

Lang Jiuchuan was silent the entire way, cold and expressionless. The maidservant walking beside her was shivering — not entirely from the cold — and barely dared to breathe. She was rather afraid of the young miss beside her, whose presence felt even more commanding than the lord himself.

Shen Qinghe watched her cold, impassive face and felt a faint unease. She looked even more detached than she had when performing the exorcism. Was the situation particularly thorny?

“The village is rather insular and unwelcoming to outsiders. Once you reach the settlement, it’s best not to have too many people enter at once — angering the mountain god would bring misfortune,” the guide said to Shen Qinghe. “My lord likely knows this already, having been here before.”

Shen Qinghe’s personal attendant, Changgui, gave a cold snort. “Whether it’s the mountain god growing angry, or someone playing at being a god — the villagers know perfectly well which it is.”

The guide’s expression soured somewhat. He advised amiably, “Watch your words, young man. The mountain god may be listening.”

Changgui looked ready to say more, but Lang Jiuchuan suddenly asked, “If the men of the village go to serve the mountain god, the remaining women — how do they reproduce? Do they intermarry with outsiders?”

She had heard that the village had not always gone by its current name. It had once been called Red Maple Village. Then the mountain god made itself known and called for the men to enter its service, and year by year over the decades, the village had grown so dominated by women that it had been renamed the “village of daughters.”

But the village had not died out; people still lived there. Where there were people, there was reproduction — so how did it come about?

Lang Jiuchuan asked so plainly — a young girl, and about such a topic — that the people around her faltered. Shen Qinghe coughed pointedly.

She truly didn’t see herself as a proper young lady at all.

The guide recovered and said with a smile, “The women of the village practice walking marriages. The red maple forest there is breathtaking in deep autumn, and such scenery draws no shortage of visitors from afar. Men are drawn to beauty — and the women of the village are all quite lovely. It’s only a walking marriage, a night or a few nights with a beauty, and why would they refuse?”

A walking marriage — finding a passing man to serve as a husband for a night or several nights.

He was about to elaborate further, but Shen Qinghe coughed again in warning, with a meaningful glance that made the guide trail off sheepishly.

Lang Jiuchuan raised an eyebrow. “They are rather devoted to the village. None have ever thought to leave.”

Shen Qinghe heard this and tapped his fingers lightly against his leg. Indeed — they chose to raise their children alone rather than leave the settlement. But why?

The guide lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They say the mountain god forbids them to leave. Those born in the village who go away will fall ill with strange maladies. Even if they do leave, they cannot stay away longer than a year — otherwise they will die.”

Lang Jiuchuan and Shen Qinghe exchanged a look.

She turned back to that vast, vile, blood-red mass of energy, her gaze icy and sharp.

It won’t let them leave — afraid the village will be emptied of people and there will be no one left to worship it.

Was this how such dense blood energy had accumulated — by raising the villagers like insects in a jar, slowly siphoning away their essence and blood?

Half an hour later, they stood at the entrance to the village. It was built within a mountain valley, the landscape strikingly beautiful — a waterfall cascading down the cliffside. In the depths of winter, that waterfall had frozen solid, lending it a different, more austere kind of elegance.

Throughout the valley and surrounding the village grew vast groves of maple trees. Even in the depths of winter, some of the maples still clung to their leaves — trembling beneath the weight of snow-laden branches, their leaves red as flame.

Wooden houses with snow-covered rooftops were nestled across the terrain in irregular yet pleasing arrangement. Smoke rose from their chimneys. In the winter stillness, it was a picture of peace and serenity.

“How beautiful,” someone murmured involuntarily, eyes filled with longing. “A secluded paradise — nothing more.”

Lang Jiuchuan smiled coldly. What others saw as beauty, she saw only as sin and filth wrapped in an illusion designed to deceive.

A gust of wind carried a maple leaf toward her. She reached out and caught it. The leaf was beautiful — red as fire — but it was soaked through with malevolent blood energy, nauseating to the senses.

She closed her hand, then opened it again. Fire had ignited on her palm, and the maple leaf burned to ash.

Unlike the others who stood entranced by the winter scenery, Shen Qinghe had kept his attention on her the whole time. He saw this, and his pupils shrank.

That move — even more startling than anything he had witnessed before.

Then a peculiar fragrance drifted over. Shen Qinghe felt his breathing grow uneven, a sudden agitation rising in his chest, irritation flaring through him. The people around him began to look wrong — offensive, all of them.

He wanted to destroy her.

A thread of violent intent stirred in Shen Qinghe’s eyes. His hand moved to the dagger at his waist, restless, straining.

Kill her.

The upheaval struck at that very moment. He wrenched the dagger from its sheath and drove it with savage force toward the throat of Lang Jiuchuan, who stood at his side.