Did this mean the pearl she swallowed contained the power of a curse?

So, should she now research what exactly a curse was? Feng Miao Jun smiled bitterly. With her shallow knowledge, this was already the limit of her speculation. If only she could directly ask Mo Ti Zhun or Yun Ya about these matters—these two were probably like living encyclopedias, weren’t they?

Thinking of this, she couldn’t help but fall into silent contemplation. Ever since learning of the Ao Fish’s malicious intentions, she had avoided Yun Ya at all costs. But with his knowledge and abilities, could he break the curse of their connected lives? If the answer was affirmative, then her solitary exploration here would be meaningless.

But if the answer was negative… well, then approaching him would be like throwing a meat bun at a dog. Feng Miao Jun shuddered, and after a moment’s consideration, suppressed this tempting thought.

The risk was too high; it wasn’t worth betting on.

She emptied her mind and temporarily set aside her frustration, beginning a new round of reading.

Walking past the bookshelf from last night, her gaze inadvertently swept toward the jade tablet section. This place was like a jade exhibition hall—jades of different colors, shapes, and sizes glowed softly, dazzling to the eye. But this contrast only made one item stand out as particularly incongruous.

It was a thin booklet, less than a finger thick, with a cover that seemed to be made from some kind of animal skin. It emitted a faint silver glow, its surface smooth as if washed, surprisingly free of dust. The pages inside were creamy white and appeared brand new.

The cover bore no design, only five magnificent characters written in a flowing style: “Mortal’s Path to Immortality.”

These characters weren’t sloppy, but possessed a peculiar grandeur—looking at them was like seeing a divine dragon appearing amid clouds, extending its claws with majestic and unrivaled prestige.

It sat there, dim and inconspicuous, placed on the bottom shelf where it wasn’t easily found. Somehow, Feng Miao Jun had noticed it at first glance yesterday. Only upon closer inspection could one discover it was somewhat different.

Full of curiosity, she asked: “Why is this book categorized here?”

The monster’s typically wooden voice carried a hint of helplessness: “The last person who read this book felt it belonged better in this section. No one after that objected, so it was never moved.”

The monster had repeatedly emphasized to her that books should be returned to their original places after reading. Yet the previous reader of this book could be so arbitrary, clearly indicating a vastly different status and position from hers. “Who was that person?”

“Hao Ming Huan.”

Though she had never heard the name before, it somehow seemed vaguely familiar. So the monster added: “People nowadays usually refer to him by his posthumous title, ‘Emperor Li Li.'”

Feng Miao Jun’s breath hitched slightly, then she exclaimed: “Emperor Li Li—the Emperor Li Li who stopped the Celestial Demons from attacking the city?”

When a dynasty is evaluated by posterity, the most easily remembered monarchs typically fall into three categories: first, the founding emperors; second, the rulers who revitalized the Kingdom; and third category would be those who watched their country crumble in their own hands.

Judging from Emperor Li Li’s posthumous title alone, he undoubtedly belonged to the third category. Feng Miao Jun had just read about some of his deeds yesterday, and her deepest impression was that this emperor was as wise in the first half of his life as he was muddleheaded later on. Had he died earlier, he might have been known as a wise ruler, rather than being labeled with “Li” (meaning fierce) by later generations.

Later generations generally believed that it was his tyranny that invited heavenly punishment—”Heaven’s disgust”—which brought the unprecedented calamity of Celestial Demons attacking the city to the Hao Li Kingdom. Although the imperial capital, Ying Shui City, was defended, the heavenly punishment didn’t end, but continued until the Hao Li Kingdom collapsed more than a decade later.

Such a renowned emperor had read this small booklet? Feng Miao Jun’s interest grew even stronger.

Taking it down and opening it, she saw another line of small characters on the title page, the handwriting apparently from the same person who wrote the cover.

“Listening to the sacred sounds of Xuan Tian for forty-nine days, with a clear mind and spiritual enlightenment, I hereby supplement the Path to Immortality to guide the people and conform to Heaven’s will. Those who practice this method will ascend to immortality step by step.”

The author did not sign his full name but instead stamped a large red seal, which still looked as bright as blood even today.

The seal impression resembled a fierce beast with a raised head and swinging tail. She struggled to discern it before barely making out the character of “tiger.”

It was too pictographic. “Expansion, do you know who authored this book?”

“Of course,” the monster’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The seal you’ve seen was left by Emperor Hao Li.”

Feng Miao Jun immediately understood. This booklet was authored by the founding emperor of the Hao Li Kingdom. Emperor Li Li, as his direct descendant, naturally needed to examine his ancestor’s written legacy. Not just him—perhaps all successive emperors of the Hao Li Kingdom had read this book.

The weight of this small booklet in her mind instantly increased tenfold.

Emperor Hao Li had made it very clear—he had written his insights in the book to guide commoners step by step toward becoming immortals and considered this one of his benevolent measures by Heaven’s will. As for listening to the sacred sounds and such, she didn’t quite understand; perhaps these were the emperor’s self-flattering words. Also, what did “supplement” mean instead of “author”? But these were minor details, which she glossed over without further investigation.

Could one truly become immortal by understanding this book? She took a light breath and turned to the following pages. On each page was a drawing of a person in different postures, with dense annotations in small text around it, presumably the verbal formulas. Flipping from front to back, she found that the figures’ movements became increasingly difficult, with joints and limbs twisted in unimaginable ways. Even though she had practiced yoga in her previous life, she could never perform so many bizarre postures.

So, should she try to learn a bit?

Feng Miao Jun didn’t hesitate at all.

Fortunately, although this body lacked foundation, it had been immersed in many secret medicinal baths in the An Xia royal palace since childhood. Her tendons and bones were more flexible than the average person, and given her young age, her skeleton was far from fully developed. She tried several initial movements in succession without much difficulty. However, coordinating with the breathing methods in the small-print annotations became somewhat overwhelming.

In just a few breaths, her whole body heated up, with warmth flowing through her limbs and body, feeling quite comfortable.

When she tried to imitate the later movements, her heart immediately pounded like a drum, sweat poured down like rain, and soon she felt dizzy. She stopped at once, knowing these exceeded her physical limits and could only be gradually approached in the future, not forced.

The handwriting on this page was completely different from the previous illustrations.

Come to think of it, the small text on the first few illustrations differed from Emperor Hao Li’s handwriting on the title page, though she hadn’t noticed. Only upon seeing the distinctive style on this page did she realize they were written by two entirely different people.

Turning further, sometimes after seven or eight pages, sometimes after three or four, sometimes after ten or more, Emperor Hao Li’s illustrations and text would appear again.