Han eyed the Tianlong Gate crew, every one of them oozing arrogance, acting like the world owed them everything they demanded. Even with requests so outrageous—downright humiliating, borderline murderous—they strutted like kings.


    And why wouldn’t they? With a True Blood elder in tow, who in Black Cloud Town could they possibly fear, aside from the mysterious Mountain God?


    Soul-searching wasn’t rare among cultivators—standard fare for mortal enemies locked in irreconcilable feuds, caught and cracked open by their foes. If Han and Bai Ruoyue’s killing of Fang Cheng had been exposed, with Fang Zhenyu holding ironclad proof, Han would’ve gritted his teeth and taken the soul probe—retribution for a son’s death, fair enough. He’d still fight it, mind you—he wasn’t wrong here. Fang Cheng had provoked them repeatedly, even attacked Bai Ruoyue—what choice did he have but to end him? Down in that cavern, Fang Cheng made his play and paid the price.


    But right now? No way Han was bending to Fang Zhenyu’s demands. The guy had zero evidence—treating them like confirmed killers from the jump. Well, fine—two can play that game. They were Taibai’s enemies now.


    Han shook his head firmly, rejecting the demands outright. “Those terms are way too rude and over the line. Can’t agree.”


    “Insolent!” a young Tianlong disciple barked beside Fang Zhenyu. “You dare defy my master’s orders?”


    Han’s brow twitched—same old smug mug. Fang Cheng’s crew had that vibe back then, and now Tianlong’s whole squad carried it too. They could dish it out—ordering folks around, swinging blades—but everyone else? Supposed to just roll over and take it.


    “Tianlong Gate’s big, sure, but Taibai Martial Hall isn’t your lapdog—your rules don’t apply here,” Han shot back. “We don’t kiss boots either!”


    “A puny, unranked hall—bottom-tier trash, barely a blip in Daqi—daring to mouth off like this?” the youth sneered. “My master gracing you with words is an honor you don’t deserve—know your place! Hand over your spatial pouches and tie yourselves up—now!”


    The Taibai seven met Tianlong’s glare with icy stares of their own.


    Bai Ruoyue’s voice cut through, cold as steel. “Taibai might not match Tianlong’s clout or fame, but we’re not spineless pushovers. These rude, bullying demands? No chance we’re agreeing. Want to throw your weight around because we’re smaller? Bring it—we’ll see. Soul-search us? Over our dead bodies!”


    As the hall master’s daughter, no one spoke for Taibai louder than her—every word she spat was the hall’s will incarnate.


    Fang Zhenyu’s gaze swept over them—sharp as a blade, heavy as a mountain, pressing down like a tangible force. The seven felt it hit: bodies sinking, bones creaking, blood stalling, hearts slowing to a crawl. Yet not one flinched—defiance burned in their eyes.


    “Plenty of backbone,” Fang Zhenyu said, “but pointless. I’m searching your souls today—truth comes out, one way or another.”


    Han’s resolve flared, voice steady. “Come try it!”


    “Clueless fools,” Fang Zhenyu muttered, shaking his head. Ungrown genius—what’s it worth?


    “Tianlong Gate sure loves flexing its muscle,” a voice called from afar. Lu Qingmo stepped out of the air, landing at Taibai’s gate, facing off with Tianlong. “First Tianyue City, strong-arming everyone—now Black Cloud Town’s your playground?”


    She locked eyes with Fang Zhenyu. “Done with Taibai, what’s next—Shenhua Sect? Someone uninformed might think Tianlong runs Tianzhou.”


    Stolen story; please report.


    “Anyone who went into that Wangyue Peak cavern—I’m not letting a single one slide,” Fang Zhenyu said. “I’m just avenging my son.”


    His pattern was clear—hit the weakest first: county clans, easy pickings; then the Dong clan, Taibai, and finally Shenhua Sect with its Yellow Spring heavyweights.


    “Lu Qingmo, you meddling in this?” he asked.


    “And if I am?” Her tone stayed cool. “Black Cloud Town isn’t Tianlong turf—I’m the Ghost God Division Commander here.”


    “You’re shielding them—Xuandu disciples, are they?”


    “Bai Ruoyue grew up under my watch; Han’s a seventh-rank Ghost God Inspector,” she replied. “You’re moving on them?”


    Fang Zhenyu stepped forward, voice chilling. “My only son’s dead.”


    “Who killed him? Them? Got proof?”


    “I’m finding out!”


    “Then show it,” she snapped, voice stern. “No evidence—just barging in to soul-search a seventh-rank inspector? Tianlong’s got some nerve. Hey, I suspect you’re cozy with the Heavenly Mother Cult—drop your guard, Fang Zhenyu, let me search your soul. Clean slate if you’re innocent.”


    He glared, teeth gritted. “Xuandu’s just as high-handed.”


    “Not happy?” Her voice edged up. “Take it up with our Temple Master—let Tianlong’s head honcho chat with him. He’ll teach you some manners.”


    Fang Zhenyu went silent, then relented slowly. “Fine—no soul-search. But they open their spatial gear, and my Tianlong cultivators extract their cavern memories for me to see. That’s my final offer.”


    It wasn’t soul-searching—just memory projection. Needed their cooperation, no resistance, recalling the moment for a high-tier cultivator to pull it out and display. Han laughed. Look at this guy—knows the softer way but starts with the hardball anyway.


    “No chance!” he shot down. His memories? Off-limits. Secrets galore—if they spilled, Black Cloud would quake, ripples hitting the whole damn world, drawing every eye. Plus, he and Bai Ruoyue practiced forbidden arts—exposed, they’d be mobbed.


    Lu Qingmo doubled down. “Not a single demand of yours gets a yes from me.”


    “Today, I’m finding out if they’re tied to my son’s death!” Fang Zhenyu roared. “You can’t stop me! I’m not here as a Tianlong elder—just a father hunting his boy’s killer.”


    Translation: if Lu Qingmo blocked him and he struck, it’d be personal—no Tianlong banner. She smirked inside. Oh, claim the elder title when it suits, ditch it when it stinks? No free lunch, buddy.


    “I said—no deal,” she stated firmly. “Want to swing at me? Go ahead and try. I’m just Manifestation-tier, but a True Blood like you? Not scared.”


    Different stakes from facing the Impermanence Hall ghost elder back then—that guy went for the throat, no holds barred. Fang Zhenyu? Public stage—he wouldn’t dare kill an Xuandu prodigy. Holding back meant no full throttle.


    Fang Zhenyu’s eyes shut briefly, Fang Cheng’s face flashing by—his only son, diligent, loyal, racking up merits, humble despite his shine. True prodigies praised him as a gentleman; elders got his respect. A kid that good, Tianlong’s future, snuffed out in a cavern. No killer, no vengeance—how’d he face his son in the afterlife? How’d he tell his wife? Xuandu disciple or not, he’d dig.


    “If it’s not these two, I’ll spare them—apologize to you after,” he said. “Third Brother, nab ‘em when I move. They play nice, go easy. They don’t? Soul-search—dead or alive.”


    No sugarcoating—straight orders. He’d pin Lu Qingmo; his Manifestation-tier brother, Fang Zhenxing, would mop up these Visceral punks. What’re they gonna do about it? Tianlong’s muscle and grit on full display.


    Han sized up Fang Zhenxing—Manifestation-tier. Once a towering wall, but now? With his tricks, not untouchable. Exposing cards, though—tricky. Life-or-death? He’d hit like thunder.


    Whoosh! A righteous gale whipped up, bone-chilling, frosting the air. Fang Zhenyu’s control was razor-sharp—lethal power locked tight, no stray ripples hitting bystanders. Still, the vibe alone, contained or not, rattled hearts a hundred meters off—like a mountain on their chests. Unleashed? Most around would drop dead instantly. True Blood energy—leaps beyond Bone Refining or Marrow Cleansing—sublimed to a new plane.


    Fang Zhenxing didn’t flinch either, lunging at Han and Bai Ruoyue to bag ‘em for the soul rip. Lu Qingmo’s eyes iced over—she’d counter. True Blood? Bring it!


    Shing! Air tore apart—a longsword streaked from the distance, blindingly fast, a blur aimed at Fang Zhenyu’s heart. Its aura roared, slicing through all, laced with tangible gales.


    Fang Zhenyu’s face shifted—his strike at Lu Qingmo pivoted to block. Clang! Flesh met steel with a metallic ring—True Blood toughness on display. The sword ricocheted, but its gale burst outward. He struck again, quelling the gusts to shield his crew.


    Then—some gales morphed, coiling into a finger faster than Fang Zhenyu could blink, jabbing Fang Zhenxing. “Bold move!” he roared, swinging—but caught off-guard, he couldn’t fully stop it. Boom! Thunder cracked; Fang Zhenxing flew back, his arm—mid-strike at Han—shattering to dust. Blood sprayed as he crashed, howling, gravely wounded.


    “Who?” Fang Zhenyu whipped around, locking onto the sword’s origin. “Who dares meddle with Tianlong Gate?!”


    Footsteps approached, a figure emerging—gasps erupted. “No way!” “Him?!”