A jet-black streak of blood sprayed out, startling the head eunuch into a shriek. An He Emperor’s face turned deathly pale as he staggered back two steps and collapsed onto the soft couch.

He stared blankly at the black blood on the back of his hand, his mind buzzing with a numbing hum, his expression filled with terror—yet he failed to notice that Lang Jiuchuan, seated below him, had quietly crushed something within her sleeve: a talisman she had long prepared, pitch-black in color, exuding a strange, unsettling aura.

The corner of Lang Jiuchuan’s mouth curved in an almost imperceptible smile. In this place sheltered by the Emperor’s dragon fortune, she could not use her arts so openly—but she could use a talisman. This one she had meticulously crafted for An He Emperor: a Thousand-Nightmare Dream-Luring Talisman. She had used a Panguan’s talisman brush as her instrument, her own essence-blood as cinnabar ink, the realm of the Nine Abysses as its foundation, and the profound intent of Mystic Darkness as its brush strokes—silent and imperceptible, targeting the spirit and soul directly.

This talisman had consumed no small measure of her spiritual power!

As the talisman was crushed, an invisible and deeply concealed ripple instantly spread outward from her sleeve, enveloping the entire side hall. The dragon-saliva incense in the dragon cauldron grew thick and cloying; the fragrance drifted through the air carrying a strange, soporific force.

An He Emperor fixed his gaze on the back of his hand. Suddenly, it felt as though something in the surrounding air was pressing in on him. His vision swam. He jerked his head up—only to find that he was no longer in the side hall. He stood alone before a high platform, a zhang in height, upon which hung a great mirror facing east, as wide as ten arm-spans. Upon it were inscribed seven characters.

When An He Emperor read those characters clearly, his pupils contracted violently, and his hands began to tremble.

Before the Mirror of Sins, there are no good men.

This—was this the location of the Underworld’s Mirror of Sins?

Legend had it that good men never came before the Mirror of Sins. So why had he arrived here? Did this mean he was not a good man?

Impossible. He had devoted himself diligently to ruling as Emperor. He had never dared to be corrupt and incompetent, never dared to indulge corrupt officials and bring suffering to the people. Though he had not yet achieved perfect clarity above and below, the common people still lived in relative peace and security, with no great wars. He asked himself: he had fulfilled his duties as Emperor. Even if he could not be called an enlightened ruler, he was absolutely no tyrant.

If he dared be so corrupt as to bring suffering to the people, the State Preceptor would tear him apart!

So how could he possibly be at the Mirror of Sins? This was false—an illusion.

The scene before the Mirror of Sins shifted. It showed the tragic deaths of the two successive wives of the Prince of Jing. In particular, the woman surnamed Chen—her eyes bloodshot, her hair disheveled—crawled out from within the mirror. Those eyes, weeping thick, congealed tears of blood, locked onto him without wavering. Behind her, not far away, was the young man from the Liu family with whom she had once been betrothed. He carried his own severed head in his hand, his eyes filled with murderous fury, walking slowly toward him.

Indeed. The woman surnamed Chen and young Master Liu had once been betrothed. It was the Prince of Jing who had set his eyes on Chen Shi, requesting a royally decreed marriage—which nullified the Chen and Liu families’ prior engagement. But after Chen Shi entered the Prince’s household, the Prince had gone inexplicably mad and sent a band of so-called mountain bandits to ambush and murder young Master Liu. They say when the body was found, his head was connected to his neck by only a single layer of skin.

If there had been no royally decreed marriage, none of this blood and sin would have come to pass.

“Protect the Emperor! Protect the Emperor!” Watching the two figures crawl toward him, An He Emperor felt his courage shatter entirely. He opened his mouth in a soundless shriek, only to discover he could produce no sound at all—he could only wail without voice. He tried to flee, but when he looked down, his legs were being gripped tightly by unseen hands and he could not move.

It was Imperial Consort Liu and Noble Consort Xie!

They bared their teeth at him in eerie smiles. “Your Majesty, where do you think you are going?”

Noble Consort Xie’s upper half—bisected at the waist—was crawling with maggots. He had been the one to order her body thrown into a mass grave, forbidden from burial in the imperial mausoleum, because she was deemed unworthy.

A hoarse, rattling sound rose from An He Emperor’s throat. The scene snapped to another—he watched in the mirror as members of the imperial family died from all manner of accidents, one by one, none surviving. Above all, he himself: cut off without heir or descendant. The figures of imperial princes and princesses twisted and writhed, swarming toward him, blaming him for forcing others against their will, for defying the heavens’ ordained course, for provoking that madwoman Lang Jiuchuan.

And the dragon throne he held most dear transformed into a scaffold of bleached bones. He sat upon it. Below the throne, someone stood with their back to him, holding a dragon-slaying sword.

That figure slowly turned around. It was Lang Jiuchuan—the frail young woman with that strange fate, she who brought ruin to husbands and to the Tantai line alike.

She stood before the dragon throne. Beneath her feet were countless wailing souls of the imperial family. The dragon-slaying sword in her hand slowly rose. Heaven’s thunder split the sky from above and struck the blade, unleashing a terrifying aura of heaven-destroying, earth-shattering destruction. She swung the sword down in a sudden, devastating arc toward his dragon throne.

“No—!” As the dragon-slaying sword fell, An He Emperor felt a crushing, annihilating despair and a bone-piercing cold. The entire Tantai imperial clan shattered to pieces—the realm changed hands, and the bloodline was extinguished.

An He Emperor saw the State Preceptor. He descended like a deity—yet not to save him. Instead, with revulsion and bitter hatred, he demanded answers; boundless fury radiated from him, and the gaze he turned upon An He Emperor was the gaze one turns upon a filthy piece of refuse.

The State Preceptor raised one hand and mercilessly seized his soul, then closed his fist—and with a thunderous crack, it burst into ten thousand fragments.

“Aah—!” An He Emperor let out a shrill, agonized wail and rolled off the soft couch.

In reality, Lang Jiuchuan watched him slam his head back and tumble from the cushioned seat. She closed her hand into a fist. His face had gone the pale yellow of gold foil; he was drenched through with sweat, his body shaking violently, his pupils dilated to their utmost with absolute terror, his throat emitting a hoarse, rattling sound.

Extreme terror was nearly swallowing him whole.

The head eunuch rushed over in a panic to support him. “Your Majesty, what has happened?! Someone come—protect the Emperor! Summon the Imperial Physician! Send for the Grand Elder!”

Lang Jiuchuan toyed with the talisman brush and lightly traced it in An He Emperor’s direction. A pure, clear aura surged toward him. An He Emperor’s spirit and soul jolted, and he slowly began to calm. He found himself still in the side hall, his expression momentarily blank—yet relief washed over him. Sure enough, it had only been an illusion. But the shock and terror in the depths of his eyes refused to dissipate.

It had been too real. Everything the Mirror of Sins had shown felt as though it would truly come to pass—each image a warning, each one reminding him: if he persisted in his chosen course, the Mirror of Sins had shown him his end.

Those terrifying visions were like a cursed brand seared into his spirit and soul, filling him with a dread and wariness that reached into the marrow of his bones.

Lang Jiuchuan—it was her!

“What have you done to Us?” An He Emperor turned a dark, shadowed gaze toward Lang Jiuchuan. She stood calmly in her place, her expression one of puzzled inquiry, a look of perfect innocence on her face—as though everything that had just occurred had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

Lang Jiuchuan furrowed her brow. “This humble Daoist does not understand Your Majesty’s words. However—yin poison has entered your body, Your Majesty. It must be treated. The Prince of Jing stands as a cautionary example before you.”

Yin poison?

An He Emperor looked at his own hand. The black blood had ceased flowing, but that foul and tainted blood was an unmistakable reminder of what had occurred.

Had his vision of the illusions shown by the Mirror of Sins just now also been caused by this yin poison?

Supported by the head eunuch, he was helped back to the soft couch. His chest heaved violently. He stared at his hand, then looked again at Lang Jiuchuan, his gaze filled with suspicion, with an unspeakable shock and trembling, with wrathful fury—and with a thread of fear that would not leave.

The head of the Rong Family had been right about one thing: she would become a great threat.

A fierce and murderous intent surged in the depths of An He Emperor’s eyes. But the moment that thought arose, the wound that had only just stopped bleeding suddenly began to sting sharply. He let out a muffled groan and curled forward, as though feeling his blood turn cold and tinged with yin energy—his entire body shaking and shivering uncontrollably.