Lu Qingmo’s piercing gaze bore into Han, as if she could slice through his clothes and see straight to his core.


    Han met her stare for a beat, then spoke up. “Aunt Mo, I’m sharing good news, and you’re yelling at me?”


    He leaned into the act, playing up the hurt and woe for all it was worth. What’s the big deal? I just burned a little—nothing crazy! How’d she spot that pie-chart flicker in his eyes? Somebody teach me that trick!


    “Days since you mastered your water-aligned organs—how many?” Her expression softened, but her tone stayed sharp. “I know your Visceral Realm pace inside out. How’d you hit mid-tier today? Did you use a forbidden art?”


    Anyone else might’ve just marveled at his speed, no questions asked. But Lu Qingmo? She’d been with him day in, day out—knew his rhythm cold. Steady progress, then bam—this toughest, slowest final step blasted through in days? Something’s fishy. Han’s recent moves were an open book to her—no sudden windfalls, just a haul of forbidden arts. Bai Ruoyue had mentioned his chamber lock-ins too. When things get weird, there’s a reason. The truth was screaming at her.


    Facing her grilling, Han ached to shout, Yes! You’re spot-on, Aunt Mo! But no way he’d fess up. I know you’re freaking out, but chill—let me spin this slow.


    It all started back then. To grasp the cosmic twist of fate, check the Journey West for the key.


    “Fine, fine, Aunt Mo—doubting me like this!” He feigned outrage, stepping closer. “Check me yourself—see if I’ve touched a forbidden art.”


    She didn’t hesitate, pressing a hand to him, probing every inch with precision. Then her edge melted away.


    “You actually broke through—and no forbidden arts…” She shook her head, incredulous. “How?”


    “Why not?” Han pushed the act harder. “Impossible stuff happens to me all the time, right?”


    Fair point—maybe it did.


    “I even woke the six organ gods—locked ‘em in for good. Isn’t that more impossible?”


    “…”


    Guess I’m the frog in the well now.


    “Aunt Mo, you’ve wounded me—suspecting me like that,” he wailed, head tilted back in mock despair. “I rush to share the good vibes, and this is how you treat me? Where’s the basic trust between us? My heart’s breaking!”


    Lu Qingmo saw through the theatrics—too over-the-top to fool her sharp senses. Still, she owned it. “My bad—I spoke out of turn.”


    “Then make it up to me,” Han said, dropping the mask with a sly grin. Slimy guy move!


    “What do you want?”


    He went for it. “Thunder Seal.”


    She nearly laughed through her irritation—what’s that brain of yours cooking up? Thunder Seal? That’s not what you’re really after, and I’m not calling it out.


    “Earthfire Seal’s plenty for you now,” she said, leaving the door cracked—not a hard no, just a “not yet.” Who else would get Thunder Seal if not him?


    “Fine…” Han sidled closer, whispering a fallback.


    “No way—pick something…” Her refusal cut off as he wrapped her in a hug.


    She stiffened, ready to pull away. “Aunt Mo, just a sec,” he murmured—half-hypnotic, half-dreamy—easing her resistance.


    I’m helpless against you.


    “You know, I jolt awake from nightmares every night. Only now do I get a breather.”


    She snorted, amused despite herself. Awake all night, huh? Nightmares my foot—smooth talker.


    After a stretch, she patted his back—let go—but he didn’t budge. “You’re not playing fair.”


    “I totally am!” Releasing her, his hands slid down naturally, brushing her curves. Her face flared red, glaring at him—itching to knock some sense into that smug mug.


    Han blinked innocently. What’d I do?


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    “Keep the six organ gods hush,” she warned. “If word gets out, it’ll draw greedy eyes.”


    “No worries—only the tightest lips know,” he assured her. Rare feats like that sparked curiosity about the how—and leaks could spell trouble.


    Post-soul training, Han zipped to An Lang, diving into alchemy with her. He wasn’t aiming to master it—just needed enough skill to brew the Reverse Fate Pill. What’s a recipe without the chops?


    Lu Qingmo watched them go, a silent smile tugging her lips. Little man, big schemes—always plotting.


    Next morning at the hall, outsiders were waiting. “Young Master Han, finally!” A plain-faced middle-aged man perked up.


    “Who’re you?”


    “Yuan clan,” he said, flashing a token Han recognized.


    “What’s up?”


    “On Young Master Yuan Fang’s orders, I’m here with a heads-up,” the man said. “Tianlong Gate’s Fang Zhenyu’s digging into Fang Cheng’s death—hit up every major faction in Tianyue City already. Next stop’s likely Black Cloud Town.”


    “Fang Zhenyu? Who’s that?” Han played dumb, all huh?


    “Fang Cheng’s dad—True Blood Realm, Tianlong elder from Gulong Peak,” the man clarified. “He’s hell-bent on answers. Came to our Yuan clan too—pushy as hell, demanded to soul-search our disciples.”


    “I know Fang Cheng didn’t make it out of the cavern,” Han said, puzzled. “But what’s that got to do with me? Never saw him down there—not my doing. His dad can dig all he wants; it won’t lead to me.”


    The man shook his head. “Just passing on Second Young Master’s word. Message delivered—I’m off to report back.”


    Han watched him go, shrugging, then hit the back courtyard. Bai Ruoyue approached; he signaled with a glance and spoke up. “Yuan clan guy—says Tianlong’s Fang Zhenyu’s chasing his son’s killer.”


    “Pointless telling us—we’ve got zilch to do with Fang Cheng’s death,” she said, nodding. “Yuan Fang’s probably just tipping you off—worried Fang Zhenyu might lash out if he hits a dead end.”


    “Straight arrow fears no shadows,” Han said with a light grin.


    That night, back at the grove, he spilled it to Lu Qingmo first thing. “Aunt Mo, Fang Zhenyu’s hunting Fang Cheng’s killer!”


    He knew who Fang Zhenyu was, obviously—but in front of that Yuan guy, he’d played clueless, keeping it neutral. The man claimed Yuan ties, but who knew? Could be Fang Zhenyu’s plant testing him. Slip up, and he’d be toast. Yuan tokens weren’t foolproof—snag one off a corpse, easy. Yuan Fang sending a heads-up made sense… and didn’t. So Han kept mum about Fang Cheng at the hall, even with Bai Ruoyue. Better safe than sorry. Only here, with Lu Qingmo, could he spill free—her presence locked out any True Blood eavesdropping.


    “No chaos, no panic,” she said coolly. “Let him dig. It’s all buried in the cavern—who’d pin it on you and Ruoyue? Plenty of Bone Refining beasts down there—they’re the real threat.”


    “I’m not sweating it,” Han replied. “Just wary he’ll pull something sneaky.”


    “Stick to Black Cloud Town for now,” she advised. “Here, even if Fang Zhenyu shows, I’ve got you covered.”


    At dawn, mid-training, a chilling surge rippled from one edge of town. Han vaulted onto the hall’s roof, peering that way. Manifestation vibes and Marrow Cleansing might mingled—topped by a monstrous, crushing aura dwarfing both.


    Black Cloud wasn’t huge—especially to Manifestation or Marrow Cleansing pros. That unleashed energy? Anyone with decent cultivation felt it. The rest of Taibai joined him up top.


    Zhang Yuantao squinted. “That’s… the Dong clan’s turf?”


    “Someone’s picking a fight with the Dong clan? They’re state capital big shots!” Shen Long gaped.


    Han and Bai Ruoyue swapped a look. That overwhelming force stomping Manifestation and Marrow Cleansing? They had a hunch—Tianlong elder Fang Zhenyu. The Dong clan had been in the cavern too.


    The ruckus didn’t last—quieted fast. Black Cloud’s current mash-up of factions kept everyone on edge; a full-blown brawl would draw a pile-on no one could tank—especially with Suzhen Palace in town. Tianzhou’s top dog wasn’t one to cross lightly.


    Back in the courtyard, Han said, “Bet that was Fang Zhenyu stirring the pot.”


    Bai Ruoyue blinked. “Bold move—the Dong clan’s no pushover.”


    “With Tianlong Gate backing him, as long as he doesn’t burn bridges, he’s probably fine,” Han shrugged.


    “Uh-oh,” Shen Long clapped his hands. “You two hit the cavern—he won’t swing by Taibai next, will he?”


    “He’s not some immortal, doing whatever he pleases,” Han laughed, unfazed. He’d seen this coming since learning Fang Cheng’s dad was True Blood-tier. A son’s death? Pops would move mountains. Haizhou to here in days—right on schedule. Regret icing Fang Cheng? Nope—guy swung first; self-defense wasn’t optional.


    Han kept training, cool as ever—no fretting over Fang Zhenyu. Later, a commotion erupted at the gate. Shen Yu peeked out, then bolted back. “Senior Sister—Tianlong Gate’s here!”


    Bai Ruoyue’s face tightened; she and Han traded a glance before the crew marched out. Tianlong folks loomed at the entrance, bristling with menace.


    A middle-aged man in plain white robes stood center—rugged, authoritative, but his eyes simmered with gloom. Flanking him were familiar faces—disciples and deacons from Tianlong’s Black Cloud stint—plus a few sharp, unfamiliar youths.


    “I’m Fang Zhenyu,” the man rasped, voice gravelly. “Tianlong inner disciple Fang Cheng’s father.”


    His stare pinned Han and Bai Ruoyue—a True Blood’s weight crashing down, locking their bodies taut. Just a look, and the pressure was suffocating.


    “You two—were you in Wangfeng County’s cavern last month?”


    “Yeah,” Han nodded.


    Fang Zhenyu’s face stayed stone-cold, not a ripple. “Open your spatial pouches or rings—let me inspect everything. No hiding, no shuffling. Then drop your defenses—my Tianlong Taoist experts will soul-search you. We’ll see if you’re tied to my son’s death. If you’re clean, I’m gone. Resist? Dead men’s souls still talk.”


    The Taibai seven stiffened—those demands were outrageous. Spatial gear was a cultivator’s private vault—letting outsiders rummage through it was a gut-punch of humiliation. Back at Black Mountain, snake-bit and desperate, Han had cracked Bai Ruoyue’s pouch—and even with their bond, he’d explained it fast. This Tianlong crew demanding it? Straight-up insult.


    Soul-searching? That wasn’t even treating them as human. No soul wards? Your whole life—memories, secrets, thoughts—laid bare. Who’d stomach that? Even the gentlest search dinged your soul—painful as hell, like someone gutting you, yanking out organs raw. Worse, your soul’s at their mercy—one flick of malice, and you’re dust. Tianlong Gate—arrogant bastards!