Sheng Huai’an had known his good days were over. The karmic backlash had arrived, and he had steeled himself for it — yet he had not expected the retribution to strike so heavily, damaging not only himself but everything he had accumulated, including his descendants.

Within a short span of time, his descendants had been dying one after another or suffering grievous injuries. Even his most beloved little grandson had not been spared. He understood that if he did not act now, the Sheng Family would be utterly wiped out.

What was seized unjustly must be returned in kind.

Sheng Huai’an had this powerful, visceral certainty. And so, though he could barely move anymore, he still had his household servants carry him here. Whatever the price, he would recover the Linglong Pagoda.

If he could only get it back, he was willing to pay any cost.

Sheng Huai’an had even mobilized several student scholars who studied under him, and they in turn had gathered more people, intending to use these loyally impassioned scholars to pressure A’Piao into returning the item.

One had to say — the karmic backlash had rebounded so thoroughly that it had even damaged his mind. His judgment had plummeted by three thousand feet. Everything he was doing was a fool’s move. If he truly wanted to make a plea, the proper approach would have been humble and supplicating. Instead he staged this grand, theatrical scene, treating Tongtian Pavilion as if it were some ordinary merchant’s shop. He had genuinely miscalculated.

Did he not stop to think — would Tongtian Pavilion even care about the condemnation and opinions of a group of scholars?

But Sheng Huai’an could no longer afford to consider all of that. He desperately wanted to reclaim the Linglong Pagoda. He was certain that as long as it was back in his possession, everything would be all right again.

Sheng Huai’an had descended into a state of mad obsession.

When A’Piao and the others saw Sheng Huai’an being carried out of the carriage, they were all struck dumb. Was this still the refined and dignified great scholar? Were it not for the expensive and distinguished robes wrapped around him, one might have mistaken him for one of those night-soil collectors who cleaned out the latrines.

His hair was sparse and streaked with white, too thin to even be gathered into a proper topknot. Deep wrinkles lined his entire face, making him look like a man past seventy. His complexion was a ghastly pale-blue, his lips were bloodless and white, and two or three of his teeth had fallen out.

And his right hand — it had been severed at the forearm, leaving half a sleeve hanging empty. It seemed likely that the limb had been amputated in a desperate bid to preserve his life.

But whether the wound had not yet healed or for some other reason, from within that sleeve came wave after wave of a putrid, rotting stench that could be smelled from quite a distance away.

As for the man himself, he was shriveled and frail, unable even to stand on his own, and had to be carried by two household servants.

“His karmic backlash is quite severe,” A’Piao said in shock.

Lang Jiuchuan looked at the tangled mass of ill fortune, baleful energy, and yin energy swirling around Sheng Huai’an, her gaze cold and impassive. “He seized the good fortune meant for countless common people — did he think repaying it would be so easy?”

“What do you mean?”

Lang Jiuchuan said: “If he had not harmed Master Ning — a Star of Literature reborn — Master Ning’s talents would surely have led to great achievements, benefiting the people at large. He severed that fortune. Naturally, the karmic retribution must be paid by him.”

A’Piao drew a sharp breath and glanced at Ning Long standing nearby, a trace of awe in his expression.

Sheng Huai’an was now no more than a third-ranked Censor. As for the Star of Literature himself — to what heights might his official career have risen?

So Sheng Huai’an had committed a truly monstrous transgression.

“Even so, he has held out remarkably well. To survive a backlash like this without dying — truly, evil endures a thousand years.” A’Piao shot a sidelong glance at Sheng Huai’an as he was being carried over, clicking his tongue with an expression of utter contempt and barely concealed regret.

Lang Jiuchuan continued: “The Linglong Pagoda contains his blood and essence fused into it. Since he shares soul and life’s fortune with Master Ning, as long as Master Ning’s soul and spiritual energy have not dispersed, Sheng Huai’an will continue drawing breath alongside him — though it is nothing more than a precarious, lingering existence. And his karmic backlash extends not only to himself but also to his family members. He himself has one foot already in the coffin, needing only to close his eyes — yet he is forced to watch his family be destroyed piece by piece. That kind of torment is worse than death itself.”

For a man who clings to power and wealth, there is nothing more agonizing than watching everything he possesses slip away before his very eyes, piece by piece, until nothing remains.

This was precisely the extreme agony Sheng Huai’an now endured — he did not dare to die, yet still harbored the desperate hope of reversing his fortunes and returning to the heights of his former glory.

But was that even possible?

Lang Jiuchuan’s lips curved in a cold, derisive smile. She had said it clearly: he had stolen the good fortune meant for countless people. The karmic backlash would not be as simple as losing a hand, a foot, or an eye.

By this time, the street outside Tongtian Pavilion’s entrance was packed with onlookers. A number of scholars in their student robes pressed forward in a cluster around Sheng Huai’an. When they saw the once-refined and dignified great sage reduced to this ghastly state, they were inwardly shaken beyond words — but remembering what had befallen the Sheng Family of late, as though they had offended some malevolent deity, none dared voice their thoughts.

Sheng Huai’an was in no condition to attend court anymore. When his right hand had burned to ash, he had immediately filed for leave. Now that leave had become indefinite — presenting himself before His Majesty looking like this would be more than enough to frighten the Son of Heaven into a state of terror.

But even on leave, he was still an official. Those scholars were merely men of no rank at all — how would they dare speculate carelessly?

Sheng Huai’an was carried up to the entrance. He extended his remaining hand and said: “Help me down.”

Two household servants lowered him from the reclining chair. Before he had even steadied himself, Sheng Huai’an collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud directly before A’Piao. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

“Master Liufeng!”

The scholars were stunned. A man’s knees are worth their weight in gold — for a man of learning especially, he should carry the upright spirit of a true scholar. One bows the knee to Heaven, to Earth, to one’s parents, to one’s master and the sages — but to kneel before a mere merchant, a mere shopkeeper?

This was an unspeakable humiliation.

The scholars glared at A’Piao in unison, rolling up their sleeves and flexing their fists, fury burning in their eyes — accusing and demanding with their very gaze. Who did he think he was, that the venerable great scholar Master Liufeng should kneel to some nobody shopkeeper?

He was not worth it!

A’Piao’s eyes went wide, his expression darkened, and he let out a cold laugh.

Well, well. Here they were with the same trick again — moral manipulation, trying to prop him up as the villain in public, using these foolish scholars’ voices to denounce him and make him stumble from a great height.

Dream on.

A’Piao was completely unafraid. His master was watching from the back hall — he had nothing to fear. And even without his master, the rightful author of that top-ranked essay was standing right beside him. He had even less to fear. The one who should be afraid was Sheng Huai’an.

Heaven’s gate stands open and you refuse to walk through it — instead you force your way through the gateless doors of hell. Coming here was walking straight to your own doom, stepping forward to present your own face, and handing over a blade for someone else to flay you alive.

No one could say what would be left of your dignity once that skin was peeled away.

A’Piao gave a cold, amused snort: “What is Master Liufeng’s purpose in this bow?”

Sheng Huai’an tilted his head back. His eyes, laced with red veins, were clouded yet shone with the dim gleam of a man consumed by madness. “I beg the shopkeeper to return my Linglong Pagoda to me. It is my family’s most treasured heirloom, passed down through generations. I, Sheng Huai’an, am willing to surrender my entire fortune in exchange. I will resign my post and retire from office, and return with my entire family to the countryside to live as farmers and till the land.”

As he spoke, he began to knock his forehead against the ground — once, twice — until blood and torn flesh made a gruesome sight of it.

These words, heard by everyone present, sent shock rippling through the crowd. To surrender his entire fortune and resign from office — all for a family heirloom? A mere merchant had brought a great scholar to such a pass?

The scholars surged forward in a tide of outrage, mouths already opening to unleash a torrent of abuse.

But A’Piao raised a hand, touched the pin in his hair, blew lightly on his fingers, and looked at Sheng Huai’an with a cold laugh: “This so-called Linglong Pagoda — could it be the ornament that Master Liufeng killed a man for, ground his bones to extract them, imprisoned a soul, and stripped a life to create, which he then wore at his waist every day? Rather than begging me, you would do better to beg Master Ning Long. See whether he agrees or not.”

Sheng Huai’an’s pupils contracted sharply. His body began to tremble slightly.

Ning Long?