Lang Jiuchuan gazed at the Daoren standing before her — a man draped in a purple-gold Daoist robe, his hair and beard stark white, yet his face appearing no older than a man in his early forties. The anger and resentment coiled in her heart surged outward without restraint, and her eyes gradually turned red as a scene unbidden rose in her mind.

This man before her — he had condensed his technique into a blade at his fingertip, cleaved open her abdominal cavity, and then, with his hand wrapped in spiritual power, forcibly extracted that lustrous white bone suffused with faint spiritual energy.

His face had been utterly expressionless, like a cold and unfeeling weapon. He had treated her as though she were a lifeless corpse — ignoring her terror and despair, looking down upon her with the contemptuous hauteur that belongs only to the strong.

How amusing. Looking down upon her, was he?

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze turned ice-cold and razor-sharp.

Lingxu Zhenren — ranked among the top five of the Rong Family, one of only two Foundation Establishment cultivators on the path of the Dao. He must die by her hand, to appease the grievances of the dead.

Lingxu Zhenren had come under orders to investigate the true circumstances of Zhengyang Zi’s death and determine whether any remnant soul had survived — yet to his surprise, the moment he stepped into the Ren household, he laid eyes on Lang Jiuchuan.

No. This woman had already died at his and Zhengyang Zi’s hands. Whatever now occupied this body was some wandering spirit from who knows where — and when he had entered, he could not detect even a trace of her aura.

“What manner of monster are you, to dare possess a corpse and cling to existence like this?” Lingxu Zhenren fixed Lang Jiuchuan with a cold stare and interrogated her harshly.

A familiar interrogation — the same words as before — yet not the slightest flicker of guilt or remorse for what he had done.

Storms churned in Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes. She was about to move when she sensed Old Master Cui returning. She cursed under her breath, and her figure shot forward with blinding speed toward Lingxu Zhenren. A talisman flew from her hand.

Boom.

Lingxu Zhenren’s wide sleeves billowed as he shielded himself with True Yang steel energy, deflecting the lightning power unleashed by the talisman. His body sustained no damage, but his sleeves were scorched to char.

An insufferable humiliation!

His brow sank into cold severity. Watching Lang Jiuchuan scramble away in hasty flight, he let out a cold snort: “Wretched spirit — where do you think you’re going?!”

Lingxu Zhenren gave chase.

Old Master Cui re-entered the residence, only to find not a trace of Lang Jiuchuan anywhere. He frowned involuntarily. When had she left? Well, no matter. He would tell her when she returned.

Meanwhile, Lang Jiuchuan swiftly executed her Body Movement Technique and arrived at a mountain gorge on the outskirts of the city known as Moon-Gazing Pool. Before she could even catch her breath, a terrifying force struck from behind — a surge of energy laced with killing intent, dense as a sphere, slamming into her with crushing force.

Ugh—

Lang Jiuchuan felt a dull ache in her heart. Something metallic and sweet rose in her throat, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.

So this was the power of a Foundation Establishment cultivator.

But so what?

Every fellow cultivator stronger than I am now — if they are my enemy, they shall become a stepping stone on the path of my cultivation!

The stronger the opponent, the stronger she would become.

“Monster — will you not surrender and be captured?!” Lingxu Zhenren’s voice boomed from behind as he hurtled toward her, resonant as a great bell, so loud that the birds and beasts of this stretch of forest fled in every direction.

The response that greeted him was three clear, crystalline tones — sharp enough to pierce gold and split stone.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

Lang Jiuchuan gave her wrist the faintest flick. The Dizhong, gripped in her palm, erupted with a cold, sonorous clarity that shook one’s chest and set blood surging — and the sound surged straight toward Lingxu Zhenren in an attack.

The bell’s sound rolled out like thunder, its might resonant and awe-inspiring.

The massive boulders flanking Lingxu Zhenren were struck by the sound waves and exploded apart, fragmenting into sharp shards that flew at him like shooting stars, the steel energy crackling like thunder.

Pff. Pff.

Hiss.

Steel-energy-wrapped shards tore through his purple-gold Daoist robe, and a fragment grazed his cheek, leaving a bloody cut. He cried out in pain, and the impact drove him back a full zhang.

Lingxu Zhenren set aside his contempt and fixed his gaze on the Dizhong in Lang Jiuchuan’s hand. That small bell — ancient in craftsmanship, no larger than a palm — was indistinguishable from the divine bell of a certain heavenly deity he had read about in old texts. Its magical power was boundless.

A gleam of greed broke through his expression. The muscles of his face twisted with it, and from within his deep-set eye sockets surged a fierce and consuming desire to possess it at all costs.

Yet even having reached Foundation Establishment, Lingxu Zhenren, while proud, was not foolish.

Whatever manner of magical artifact that small bell was — if it allowed Lang Jiuchuan to unleash such devastating power, it proved that her true strength was far from as weak as she appeared. After all, magical artifacts require spiritual power to activate and deploy.

Without formidable cultivation strength, even a celestial treasure placed in one’s hands would never reach its true potential — it would be nothing but a waste of a priceless instrument.

And yet Lang Jiuchuan was making that small bell unleash such fearsome power. That alone was sufficient proof of her strength — her cultivation was already far ahead of many of today’s fellow cultivators.

Lingxu Zhenren stood suspended in mid-air and spoke: “This Zhenren does not know what manner of being you are, that you must borrow a corpse to preserve your existence. But Heaven cherishes life. If you are willing to submit to my Xuan Clan, this Zhenren shall petition Heaven’s way on your behalf and permit you to remain in this world. I may also take you as my personal disciple — my direct lineage.”

He was not without an eye for talent. If he could recruit her, cultivate her as his own disciple, and drawing on his Foundation Establishment cultivation, he might well establish his own sect, found a lineage, and leave his name to posterity. Why would he need to remain a mere Elder under the Rong Family?

Lang Jiuchuan laughed coldly. “Old thief — cut your own throat right now, and I’ll think it over. Once you’re dead, I’ll gladly inherit your legacy.” And then grind your bones to dust and scatter your ashes to the wind, so that your soul is utterly destroyed — the highest expression of filial piety toward myself.

Lingxu Zhenren’s fury erupted. “You insolent child! You don’t know what’s good for you!”

Refusing the wine freely offered and choosing punishment instead — then she would simply die!

The moment his words fell, from within his sleeve he produced a cloth banner no larger than a woman’s silk handkerchief. His lips moved in a low incantation, and the banner suddenly expanded. An impenetrably thick black fog of malevolent killing energy poured from it in an endless stream.

“Ungrateful wretch — today I shall use your blood essence and soul to consecrate my Seven Fiends Banner. Arise!” Lingxu Zhenren pressed two fingers together, aimed them at the banner’s pole, and sent it hurtling toward Lang Jiuchuan.

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze turned glacial. She watched the Seven Fiends Banner swell to even greater size, her expression ice-cold, her chest filling with towering fury.

She looked upon this so-called Seven Fiends Banner — it was neither cloth nor silk, but a sheet of blood-red. The supple surface of the banner appeared to be crafted from human skin, and across it, countless faces of resentful souls writhed and twisted grotesquely, as though straining to burst through the surface itself.

This was an evil artifact forged from human skin and the most bitterly resentful of souls!

How amusing — this self-proclaimed righteous man was nothing but a demon wearing a human face!

Lang Jiuchuan’s grip tightened. With cold eyes she watched as seven dense streams of black malevolent energy, thick as a man’s arm, poured forth from the banner’s surface. They writhed like massive serpents, their gaping maws formed of condensed killing energy yawning open, spewing a thick and viscous black mist of yin resentment — churning and billowing until it swallowed the entire mountain gorge whole.

The sky turned black, the earth went dark, and the air seemed to carry the permeating stench of rot. The black fog condensed into a thick, nauseating slime that seeped into every crack and crevice.

Sss, sss. The slime corroded her clothing.

Lang Jiuchuan had long since shielded herself with steel energy. She let out a heavy grunt, concentrated her Daoist resonance in her palm, channeled it into the Dizhong, and gave her wrist a sharp shake.

Clang.

“Resplendent divine might, blazing golden radiance — vanquish all evil, dispel all malice. Break!” she intoned in a low, commanding voice.

The deep, weighty toll of the bell rang out like a sacred bell struck at a Buddha’s seat, reverberating through the black fog and erupting in golden light that blazed across the mountain gorge.

Slash.

Golden light surged like a dragon, its upright and righteous energy mercilessly shredding through the filthy, resentment-laden black fog. In an instant, brilliant radiance flooded everywhere; wherever the light passed, the black fog hissed and writhed, and those resentful souls wailed before being annihilated and scattered beneath the golden brilliance.

“Pfft!” Lingxu Zhenren spat out a mouthful of black blood and was sent flying backward.