Chapter Four: Murder

Suddenly, a shout rang out, and Lu Qian’s hair stood on end. If this secret of his were to be discovered by anyone else, it would certainly mean a death without burial. At the end of the day, Lu Qian was nothing but a greenhorn, new to the world.

He turned to look behind him.

There stood a young girl clad in fiery red, holding a long whip, with a three-foot jade-green sword strapped to her waist, her eyes fixed intently on him. At her side were two men with shifty eyes and sly expressions.

The girl was none other than the arrogant and ruthless Mo Ling’er, and the men at her sides were Lu Qian’s neighbors.

“Sneaking around, did you steal something?” Mo Ling’er demanded.

By nature, Mo Ling’er was lively and mischievous, fond of games and pranks. Recently, Lu Qian had been keeping to himself, reclusive and hidden, but over time, such things are difficult to conceal from prying eyes. Upon hearing a report, Mo Ling’er had hurried over, dragging others with her.

Not long ago, Mo Ling’er had struck Lu Qian on the head with a stone. Mo Liang, her grandfather, had not punished her, merely scolded her lightly. Lingering resentment still festered in her heart; if any evidence of wrongdoing was found, she would show no mercy in beating this lowly servant to death.

The two men by her side smirked maliciously. Lu Qian was always solitary and aloof, never currying favor with anyone. They’d long since disliked his airs and made it a point to inform Mo Ling’er, never expecting an opportunity would truly present itself.

“I was only gathering firewood on the mountain, not stealing, Miss, you’re mistaken,” Lu Qian replied with a smile. Yet his hand crept behind his back, fingers swiftly forming a secret sign.

“Oh? And what’s this? You two, bring it here. Wretched servant, don’t move.”

Noticing the paper figurine beside him, Mo Ling’er’s eyes sparkled as if she’d found a new toy.

“Yes, Miss,” the two men responded eagerly, striding up with a sense of triumph. As they passed Lu Qian, they cast him a gloating look.

“Lu the Teacher, you’re finished...” they sneered.

Lu Qian’s refined manner, at odds with the rough ways of others, had earned him the mocking title of “Teacher.”

“Is that so?” Lu Qian’s voice was calm as it drifted to their ears.

The two glanced at him instinctively, seeing his tranquil gaze—then, in the next instant, a fierce light flashed in his eyes.

“Spirit Officer! Kill!”

In the Art of Paperfolding Spirits, the paper figure was known as the Spirit Officer.

With a crack, the gold-armored paper man flashed with golden light and came alive before their eyes. Brandishing a forged blade, the air swirled with the sound of steel, the blade glimmering like water.

With a slash, both men felt a chill at their throats. Looking down, blood poured freely, staining their garments red.

“You... you...” One clutched his neck in disbelief.

With a thud, the body collapsed to the ground.

“Wretched servant, you’ve been secretly practicing martial arts! Grandfather will never let you go!” Mo Ling’er blanched as Lu Qian exploded into violence, killing two men and revealing a power he’d kept hidden. Yet her words remained defiant as ever.

She drew the emerald-hued sword at her waist.

This sword was called Jadewater, its entire body gleaming like liquid, the fish-scale patterns rippling like waves.

With a crash, the gold-armored Spirit Officer appeared at Mo Ling’er’s side, his curved blade striking Jadewater aside and pressing cold steel to her throat.

Mo Ling’er, though also trained in the ways of inner energy, was no match for the Spirit Officer, not even for a single exchange. The Spirit Officer’s speed was terrifying, his presence bewildering the mind. Where Lu Qian saw only a paper figure, others saw a fierce warrior.

Even Mo Ling’er could not tell how this warrior had arrived at her side.

“Do you know the next level of the Nameless Heart Method? Speak, and I’ll spare your life,” Lu Qian said, picking up Jadewater and approaching her.

“My grandfather knows all sorts of spells. Don’t think you’re anything special just because you know a few tricks—release me at once!” Mo Ling’er, pampered from birth, resorted to threats even as her life hung by a thread. In her eyes, Lu Qian was still the meek little Daoist boy.

The gold-armored Spirit Officer pressed a little harder, drawing a line of blood at her neck, crimson flowing freely.

“It seems my gentle tone has led to a misunderstanding. My apologies,” Lu Qian’s smiling face turned suddenly cold, a chill emanating from him. “Next time, it will be your head.”

“I... don’t know. If you let me go, I’ll have Grandfather give it to you,” Mo Ling’er stammered, fear finally subduing her tongue, though resentment still burned within.

“Goodbye.”

Mo Ling’er’s world went black, and consciousness faded. Her beautiful head tumbled to the floor, eyes staring wide.

When the blood had drained away, Lu Qian wrapped the head in a rag, cradling it in his arms. He was not one to fawn over beauty; besides, Mo Ling’er was his enemy. Even if she were a stranger, in this situation, he would have done the same.

“No time to waste. Tonight is the night.”

A dark, windy night—a night for killing. Even the heavens seemed to sense the murderous intent, for a thick mist veiled the moon, and the wind heralded an approaching storm.

Within a quiet chamber, an old man sat cross-legged, flanked by candlelight. In daylight, Mo Liang might have seemed an immortal sage, but now he resembled nothing so much as a decrepit fiend. His skin was shrunken and tree-bark dry, his face mottled with black spots, a foul stench lingering about him, so pungent that only incense could keep it at bay.

Mo Liang opened his eyes; the whites were turbid, ashen, lifeless.

A fit of coughing wracked him as he shakily produced a lacquered box.

Inside lay a blackish-red powder, reeking with an unspeakable foulness that filled the entire room.

Mo Liang pinched a small amount, approached the candles, and crumbled it between his fingers, letting the powder fall gently into the flame.

As the fire consumed the powder, its glow turned green, casting the room in a ghastly, spectral light.

Wreaths of blue smoke rose and lingered in midair, coiling into twisted, serpentine runes.

From the void came faint, agonized wails.

Mo Liang closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, a look of satisfaction on his face. The age spots on his cheeks faded noticeably; his complexion gained a ruddy glow, and he seemed decades younger.

Reluctantly, Mo Liang closed the box and sighed, “So little yin powder left.”

He was already in his nineties. In his youth, he’d suffered a mortal wound in a struggle. He should have perished, but by chance discovered the remains of a true cultivator, learning a few secret arts that prolonged his life.

This life-prolonging art was called the Defiled Yin Longevity Method. It required the heart’s blood of humans, mixed with alchemical ingredients and refined into powder. The blood of cultivators was best. The yield was meager; less than two mace of powder could be extracted from one person’s heart’s blood, enough for only half a year of life.

All these years, his disciples had ended up as mere dust in that tiny box. This was not a path to immortality; the time gained grew ever shorter, and those with potential had almost all perished. The supply of yin powder dwindled, and Mo Liang grew anxious.

Scanning the room, he carefully took out a red-wrapped bundle.

Inside was a palm-sized jade pendant of vivid green, carved with intricate cloud patterns, beastly motifs, and at its center, the character for “Nether.”

“If only I were twenty years old again,” Mo Liang whispered greedily, caressing the jade.

On the back of the pendant was an inscription: “Seventh day of the seventh month, the Gate of Ghosts opens; cast into water to seek the path, and a true immortal will appear.”

This was a token for entry into the immortal gates, obtained from the remains of a master. At the appointed time, casting it into water would summon a true immortal to lead the way. But entry required one to be under twenty—Mo Liang was too old. He pinned his hopes on Mo Ling’er, that she might find a treasure pill or secret art.

Reluctantly, he set the jade aside, barely having time to put it away when a knock came at the door.

“Master, someone seeks an audience,” a servant announced.

“Hmm? What is it?” Mo Liang frowned. Such interruptions were not permitted at night unless it was urgent.

“It’s Lu Qian. He says he’s sensed the first stirrings of energy.”

“What?” Mo Liang’s joy was uncontained as he leaped to his feet. “A pillow delivered when I’m weary! Let him wait for me in the main hall.”