Chapter 28: The Realm of Absolute Yin

A cloud of black smoke sprayed onto Han Bingli’s face.

Suddenly, her mind grew hazy; the world spun wildly, and she lost all sense of direction. In the air, a whistling sound cut through the silence—ropes coiled around her body, growing tighter the more she struggled.

“How dare you!” Han Bingli cried out, her voice crisp.

Only now did she realize she’d fallen into a trap. Clinging to what clarity remained, she hastily summoned her inner strength.

Boom!

Sword energy surged within her core.

Her vermilion lips parted, exhaling a stream of white breath.

It transformed into a smoke dragon, which let out a piercing cry.

In that moment, sword intent slashed through the air, sending forth a biting cold. Frost spread across the walls.

The white smoke dragon, as nimble as a darting fish, circled her body; the ropes, hard as forged steel, were sliced apart.

No sooner had Han Bingli freed herself than a foul stench assaulted her senses. The old beggar, nimble as a cat, brandished an iron club and brought it down toward her head.

“Heh heh, so you’re a female cultivator. Even after inhaling my Mind-Befuddling Smoke, you can still muster a third of your strength.” The old beggar’s laugh was lecherous. “Tsk tsk, tonight I’ll savor the delights of a female cultivator. Down you go!”

The iron club fell!

There was no time to dodge.

Gazing at the descending weapon, Han Bingli’s thoughts turned unbidden to Lu Qian.

That man said he’d pretend to get separated from her—could he have truly gotten lost?

It was her fault. The sight of the old beggar’s pitiful appearance had made her drop her guard for a moment.

Suddenly, a massive bronze hammer, as large as a human head, smashed the iron club aside.

Instinctively, the old beggar looked up. Before him stood a general, ten feet tall, clad in fish-scale armor, a phoenix-winged helm atop his head, and a face like polished jasper.

The general grinned. The beggar’s vision darkened, and he lost consciousness.

Behind the golden-armored general stood Lu Qian, who was smiling and nodding at her.

“What is that?” Han Bingli asked in astonishment, staring at the general.

“Oh, just a paper figure,” Lu Qian replied with a wave of his hand.

The golden-armored general turned to ashes.

After breaking through the Qi Refining stage, his paper figures had doubled in size, and he wielded them with ever-greater ease.

“Were you following me the whole time?” Han Bingli suddenly realized, her cheeks flushing.

Her performance had been truly shameful—bullied by a beggar who hadn’t even entered Qi Refining.

“Of course. In a direct fight, he couldn’t withstand a single move from you. You simply lack experience. Always keep your guard up—if you fall for a trick again, who knows who’ll be there to save you.” Lu Qian’s tone was gentle.

It was obvious Han Bingli came from a privileged background, untouched by the hardships of the world.

People like this beggar, when given a chance, were often the most ruthless.

Lu Qian nudged the unconscious beggar with his foot.

“I believe we’ve found the true culprit. He preyed on the compassion of naïve young girls, lured them into dark corners, and knocked them out.”

With that, Lu Qian roused the beggar.

Two golden-armored generals pinned him down.

“Ha, I really misjudged you, you filthy pair.” The beggar spat with hatred, a twisted smile on his face.

“From now on, I ask, you answer.” Lu Qian tossed a jade vial in his hand, up and down.

“First question: where are the other girls?”

“Why should I tell you?” the beggar sneered. “If you kill me, you’ll never find them.”

“Wrong answer,” Lu Qian said with disappointment, tossing the vial to a paper figure.

The figure opened the vial, poured out a luminous green powder, and sprinkled it onto the beggar’s right foot.

Sss!

A puff of white smoke rose; the right foot slowly melted into a puddle of pus.

A sickening stench filled the alley.

“Ah!” The beggar screamed, his cries so piercing they made one’s scalp tingle.

Han Bingli wrinkled her brow at the smell.

The cultivator beside her was far more ruthless than he appeared.

If she had known Lu Qian’s past, she would have understood his cruelty.

Of course, she did not object. Their enemy deserved whatever means were necessary.

“This is Bone-Melting Powder, refined from Parasitic Fungi. You’re the very first to experience it.” Lu Qian smiled faintly.

“I’ll ask again—where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

Sss!

Another puff of green smoke. The beggar’s entire right leg dissolved into foul liquid.

“I really don’t know! They take the girls away—I never see where!”

The agony forced the beggar to confess all.

He had drugged and assaulted his victims, then handed them over to some mysterious figures. The Mind-Befuddling Smoke came from those same people.

“Who are they?”

“The Fragrant Sect. I just overheard them talking—they’re from the Fragrant Sect—ah!”

Suddenly, the beggar’s face twisted; his skin flushed crimson, veins bulging.

“Back!” Lu Qian shouted.

Boom!

The beggar exploded, flesh and blood splattering, his colorful entrails strewn across the alley.

“We must find Yu Ci and the others. I have a bad feeling,” Han Bingli said with a frown.

It seemed the beggar had been implanted with a deadly restriction.

The two exchanged a glance; their forms turned into shadows, gliding swiftly over rooftops and vanishing into the distance.

Lu Qian followed closely behind Han Bingli, cloaked in the power of Black Yin True Water.

Yin Kui True Water constantly strengthened his body.

His physique now far surpassed those of his peers—ordinary blades and arrows could not harm him.

Though his cultivation was slightly lower than the woman beside him, his formidable body allowed him to keep pace.

Han Bingli was quietly astonished.

Who knew how many secrets Lu Qian still concealed? He was a mystery unto himself.

The two traveled in single file, arriving at a mountain range.

The night was cold, the wind howled.

Ghostly lights flickered among the peaks.

The air was thick with an eerie chill, as if they’d stepped into the underworld.

The mountain was small; on its shadowed side, bizarre flowers grew in perpetual darkness.

They resembled sunflowers: petals as large as a palm, a central disk bearing the closed, translucent green face of a person.

When the breeze stirred, the flower’s nose twitched slightly, as if alive.

Tiny white worms, the size of a thumb, clung to the green petals—some already spun into cocoons.

“Ghostface Flowers, with the power to calm the spirit and nourish the soul—a boon for refining Qi and mind. Ice Silkworms, whose threads are impervious to fire and water—perfect for crafting protective talismans.”

Lu Qian’s eyes gleamed as he employed his herbalist skills to identify the plants before him.

At the center of the garden was a sacrificial altar, nine yards long and wide, five feet high.

Upon it stood Yu Ci and her group.

Han Bingli and Lu Qian joined them.

Intricate arrays of copper wire and gold thread adorned the altar’s surface.

At its heart yawned a bottomless pit, from which a surge of chilling Yin energy poured forth.

“Did you find them?” Yu Ci asked.

“We did—the Fragrant Sect was behind it. The culprit’s dead,” Lu Qian replied, greeting Jin Yang with a smile.

Jin Ying stood behind, clearly displeased; perhaps, after his last beating, he was too intimidated to make threats.

“What is this?” Han Bingli gazed at the altar.

“Ghostface Flowers need extreme Yin to grow. The altar stabilizes the Yin energy,” explained a small, wiry old man.

He was the abbot of Five Spirits Monastery, caretaker of this land of darkness.

“Every year we sacrifice twenty boys and girls to maintain the Yin property of the land,” the abbot said, gesturing toward the bones.

“Of course, the parents all volunteer.” Jin Yang took over, smiling broadly. “Lives are cheap. Children’s lives are even cheaper. Each child is worth a hundred taels of gold—people line up to offer theirs.”

A hundred taels of gold would let an ordinary family of five live in comfort for two centuries.

In these times, infant mortality was high—who hadn’t lost a child?

Most accepted it. A child died in the morning, was buried by noon, and life went on as usual.

The annual festival drew crowds eager to offer their sons and daughters, vying for the chance.

Some would accept only fifty taels, others just ten.

Jin Yang, unwilling to make exceptions, settled it by drawing lots.

Those picked rejoiced—it meant instant wealth, fine clothes, and luxury for life.

All it cost was a single child.