Once A’Piao had dealt with Sheng Huai’an, Lang Jiuchuan turned her attention back to the Exquisite Tower, gazing at the faint spiritual energy hovering around the white pagoda. She let out a quiet sigh.

The transformation in Sheng Huai’an within that brief half-hour had been profound — all because of losing the Exquisite Tower. Without it, the refined scholarly energy he had built up over the years began to disintegrate, turning murky and polluted, curdling into baleful energy. That was why he had become so utterly repellent, so unpleasant to behold.

And the longer that murky, baleful energy accumulated, the worse his fortune would turn. Especially having relied on the tower’s golden auspicious energy as his shield for so many years — now that it was suddenly stripped away, the karmic backlash would arrive swiftly and with crushing force.

The burn injury to his hand was only the beginning.

Was he deserving of pity?

No — this was getting off far too easily. Better that he not die too quickly, for how else would justice be served to this nameless Star of Literary Brilliance?

Lang Jiuchuan gazed at the Exquisite Tower, tracing her fingertip along its surface. Something caught her attention.

She turned the tower over — and on the base, she found an imprinted soul-mark. It was different from the remnant soul’s own mark. Her eyes grew cold.

So that was how it was.

Sheng Huai’an had made this Exquisite Tower his own life-bound spiritual instrument. He had been drawing on its spiritual energy, letting the golden auspicious energy within nourish and sustain him, sharing in the life-force of the tower’s original owner — its white bone creator.

He had absorbed boundless golden auspicious energy from the living, and countless scholars and students had revered him as a great scholar, pouring their faith and veneration into him. With that accumulated virtue flowing into Sheng Huai’an, his fortune grew stronger and stronger, his luck ever more prosperous — and all of that good fortune bore down upon and suppressed the tower’s original spirit. Over time, of course, the original spirit grew weaker and weaker.

Just like Fuqi and the Fuqi Army — endlessly giving away their own spiritual energy, receiving nothing in return. They would inevitably be drained dry.

No wonder only a faint, weakened remnant soul remained.

A’Piao listened to Lang Jiuchuan’s explanation and frowned. “Then how did he manage to escape from the tower?”

“Everything has its turning point. I found him attached to that anthology — and if the anthology contains his examination essay, then that essay is his lingering obsession. When a soul’s obsession grows strong enough, and resentment sets in, it transforms into a haunting grievance.” Lang Jiuchuan thought of the policy essay in that examination paper, and her voice carried a note of regret. “That essay spoke of the nation’s foundations, of anchoring policy to the homeland and placing the people first. To write something of such depth — to hold the world in one’s heart, to think of the people’s welfare — whoever wrote it would have been a blessing to the realm. What a waste.”

Lang Jiuchuan looked closely at the locking chain inside the tower, then let her gaze fall to one corner of the meteoric iron cage. Suddenly she smiled. “Oh — the cage’s rune is broken. Truly, as fate and circumstance would have it.”

A’Piao leaned in to look. At one corner of the cage, where a rune had been inscribed, a fingernail-sized section had been worn away and severed.

That was fatal.

For a rune to function, it must be complete. With a section broken away, that rune was nullified.

“Truly — those who persistently do wrong will bring ruin upon themselves,” A’Piao said with a cold laugh.

Lang Jiuchuan simply summoned her jade-bone inscription brush, erased the rune on the cage entirely, then transformed the brush into a rigid blade to shatter the chains wound around the tower. She touched the tip of the brush to the white pagoda, and a point of spiritual light poured from the brush into it. “You are free.”

Order restored. Heaven’s wrongs reversed.

The spiritual energy of the Exquisite Tower surged — enough to draw cries of admiration from both A’Piao and Fuqi.

But…

“Aren’t you going to erase that Sheng fellow’s soul-mark? Leaving it there is just asking for irritation.”

Lang Jiuchuan tapped the white tower lightly. Her small face was pale as snow. “Debts have their debtors, grievances have their sources,” she said quietly. “He deserves the chance to seek his own justice.”

Now that the tower’s master had been freed of his shackles — with his lingering grievance intact — he would pursue his own revenge. Whatever Sheng Huai’an had taken from him, every last bit of it would be returned.

That was karmic backlash.

To erase the mark for him — to let him die a cleaner death — would be letting him off far too lightly.

The Exquisite Tower gave one faint pulse of light, then settled back into stillness.

But everyone present knew: the tower had changed. The one who had been suppressed was stirring at last.

At that same moment.

For the sake of his right hand, Sheng Huai’an had not dared delay. He had actually gone to the Qianjin Hall not far from Tongtiange to have his hand treated.

But when the blood-soaked handkerchief was unwrapped, the sight of that hand — deep enough to show bone, flesh charred and blackened — sent pieces of scorched meat sliding off.

Cries of shock filled the room.

“How did this happen?” The attending physician’s voice was trembling. He looked at Sheng Huai’an with an expression caught between alarm and something strange.

Even if burned by fire — how could only the palm be charred to the wrist, leaving everything above perfectly unscathed? As though it had been measured and cut to precision?

Sheng Huai’an felt faint at the sight of it. He bit down savagely on the tip of his tongue, the pain forcing him to stay conscious. His voice came out in a shudder. “My hand — treat it. Quickly.”

“Sir — I — this cannot be treated,” the physician swallowed hard. “Your hand has been burned to this state — it has already turned to char…”

“How dare you!” Sheng Huai’an barked — but even that shout was drained of its former force, like an old tiger that had had its teeth pulled, with no real threat behind it.

In the spirit of the healer’s calling to relieve suffering, the physician braced himself and pressed on. “Sir, your hand has been burned far too severely. The flesh and skin are already necrotic. Applying burn ointment alone will not suffice.”

Under Sheng Huai’an’s murderous gaze, he continued, “If you simply apply ointment and leave the dead flesh and bone untreated, the rot will spread further. By then, it will not only be your hand you lose — your life may well be at risk.”

Sheng Huai’an heard those words and felt something rise sweet and bitter in his throat. He spat a mouthful of blood and collapsed backward.

His personal attendant caught him, crying out sharply, “Give my master treatment immediately — if anything happens to him, you won’t live either.”

“Young man, I want to live too. I’ve said it clearly — ointment isn’t enough. The hand needs — it needs to be amputated. Leave it any longer and his life is forfeit.”

Sheng Huai’an had vomited blood and could no longer feel his hand. His heart was pounding violently, as if about to leap out of his chest. His voice came out hoarse. “Bandage it for now. Take me home. Summon the Imperial Physician.”

But the attendant had gone rigid, staring in horror at his master’s hair — inch by inch, strand by strand, turning white before his eyes. How was this possible?

The transformation struck everyone present with visible alarm.

Was he possessed?

How else to explain this — the man had injured his hand, yet his hair was visibly whitening in full view of everyone. This was nothing like overnight grief turning a person white. It was happening before their very eyes — and then there was his face.

Was this still the great scholar known as Master Liufeng, whose presence had always made people feel as though warmed by a spring breeze?

Sheng Huai’an’s consciousness began to grow hazy. His vital energy was draining away. Though he had lost all feeling in his hand, he could distinctly sense it — slowly rotting, spreading upward, reaching toward his heart.

Aware of the horrified gazes around him, his throat gave a rattling gurgle. He turned his head stiffly — and caught the reflection in the window glass. There, a white-haired elder was making a final, feeble struggle against the void.

Geh… geh…

Sheng Huai’an’s throat made a dry rattling sound. His eyes rolled back, and he went utterly, completely unconscious.

In the last moment before his awareness dissolved entirely, a memory surfaced in his mind — the Daoist traveler Fang You had once warned him: Once the Exquisite Tower loses its spirit, karmic backlash will fall upon you. Have you truly thought this through?

Karmic backlash. Reaping exactly what one had sown.

Sheng Huai’an collapsed softly to the ground.

Thought I was capable, turns out I’m not — wrote six thousand words and ended up with both shoulder blades aching when I tried to sleep. How much one can earn truly is a matter of fate — better to stay alive first. A weary laugh…