Morning light spilled into the valley as if hauled up from water—heavy, damp, and cold.
Time thickened under the pressure.
Three factions occupied the valley like predators sharing a watering hole. On the surface, all was calm. But through The Resonance of Ten Thousand Spirits, Jiang Mucheng could hear the tension cracking beneath it.
The Golden Armor Sect disciples were wiping their shields more frequently—three beats faster than before. The man from the Thunder Hall let arcs of lightning skitter restlessly between his fingers. And within the shadows, the Ghost Manor disciples traded glances too sharp to be coincidence.
Everyone was waiting.
Waiting for Jiang Mucheng to summon a reinforcement that didn't exist.
Yet Jiang Mucheng remained seated beside the teleportation array, jade flute resting across his knees, eyes closed in meditation. He hadn't moved since the night before.
"Junior Brother Jiang," Lu Hanshan approached for the third time, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's been seven hours… Are you sure Master Shijia Mingkong will come?"
"He will," Jiang Mucheng replied without opening his eyes.
"But we never sent word—"
"No need." Jiang Mucheng finally opened his eyes. "The one who needed to come… is already here."
The moment the words left his mouth, footsteps echoed from the valley entrance.
Soft.
So soft they barely brushed the grass.
Yet each step landed with uncanny precision—not on the ground, but in the spaces between heartbeats. The suffocating pressure in the valley loosened, breath by breath, as the sound approached.
Every head snapped up.
The morning mist parted.
A monk in moon-white robes stepped into view, unhurried and immaculate. His cassock was spotless, untouched by dust. A single vermilion mark rested between his brows, vivid as a drop of blood. In his hand, dark prayer beads turned slowly, each rotation releasing a faint trace of sandalwood.
Ling Mountain Temple.
Shijia Mingkong.
He arrived as if this were a casual detour on a morning stroll.
Ghost Elder rose first, bone staff leveled defensively, suspicion hardening his gaze. "A monk from Ling Mountain?"
Mingkong pressed his palms together.
"This humble monk is Shijia Mingkong. Greetings, benefactors."
His voice was gentle—yet it struck the valley like cool water splashed into boiling oil. The tension snapped loose, if only for an instant.
Jiang Mucheng stood and bowed deeply. "Master."
Mingkong's gaze settled on him, a flicker of understanding crossing his eyes. "We meet again, Benefactor Jiang."
"You arrived at the perfect time," Jiang Mucheng said, wasting no breath. "The suppression array here is damaged. An ancient demon spirit is awakening. I promised it release—but I need your help."
"A demon spirit?" Mingkong turned toward the teleportation array, his eyes lingering on the dark crimson runes. He sighed softly.
"The Ancient Demon-Sealing Array… forged three thousand years ago. No wonder the resentment runs so deep."
He knelt and placed his fingers upon the stone platform.
The crimson runes flared violently, twisting like enraged serpents. Yet the pale golden Buddhist light blooming at Mingkong's fingertips was calm, unhurried—seeping inward like warm water.
The runes resisted… then stilled.
"It is indeed an ancient demon," Mingkong said gravely as he rose. "Its resentment has fused with its very soul. Benefactor Jiang—have you spoken with it?"
Jiang Mucheng summarized the encounter from the previous day.
Mingkong fell silent for a full ten breaths.
"To guide a demon into rebirth…" He looked up, approval and concern interwoven in his gaze. "Do you know the price of such a vow?"
"Please enlighten me."
"Demonic souls do not enter the Six Paths," Mingkong said, fingers sliding over his prayer beads. "To transcend them, a Buddhist cultivator must carve a Rebirth Seal directly into the soul, using their own Dharma as the anchor."
"If it succeeds, the demon dissolves and returns to heaven and earth.
If it fails—"
His voice lowered.
"—the one who carves the seal will suffer demonic backlash. At best, cultivation is destroyed. At worst, the soul is corrupted forever, barred from rebirth."
The valley fell silent.
The cost was staggering.
"Can you do it?" Ghost Elder asked bluntly.
Mingkong met his gaze, eyes clear as a still lake. "I can. But why should I?"
The question cut straight to the bone.
Compassion was not stupidity.
Why gamble one's path—for an unrelated demon?
All eyes turned to Jiang Mucheng.
He stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"I would never force you. But if this succeeds, there are three gains."
"Oh?" Mingkong raised a brow.
"First—the demon is freed, and the array fully restored. This land will never be threatened again.
Second—you gain immeasurable merit, beneficial to your cultivation."
Jiang Mucheng paused, then lowered his voice.
"Third—I will offer a fragment of the Diamond Sutra… and owe you a personal debt. Whatever you require in the future, I will do my utmost to repay it."
Mingkong's gaze sharpened.
The first two were formalities.
The third was the real weight.
A Diamond Sutra fragment was a Buddhist treasure beyond price. And this debt—the karmic web surrounding this young man was vast. Mingkong had no doubt Jiang Mucheng was destined for greatness.
A worthy investment.
"You drive a hard bargain," Mingkong chuckled softly. "Very well. I accept."
He swept his gaze across the factions.
"The rite requires silence, time—and no interference. Can you guarantee that?"
"How long?" Ghost Elder asked.
"Three hours at minimum. One full day at most."
"A day…" Ghost Elder considered, then nodded. "The Ghost Manor will not act."
The others followed suit.
The agreement was sealed.
Mingkong sat cross-legged at the center of the array, prayer beads floating before his chest, hands forming the Subjugation Mudra. Sutras flowed from his lips—first a murmur, then thunderous, each word manifesting as golden sigils drifting into the depths.
The array trembled.
Dark demonic qi surged like boiling water, colliding with the sutras in shrieking bursts of smoke. From the depths came a furious howl—
"Bald monk… you would seal me too?!"
"This is not suppression," Mingkong replied evenly. "It is release. Your suffering ends today."
He bit his tongue.
Blood sprayed across the prayer beads.
Golden light exploded like a rising sun, flooding the valley. The demon screamed, thrashing as chains of scripture wrapped tighter and tighter around it.
This wasn't salvation.
It was conquest.
Time dissolved into chanting.
Mingkong's face grew pale, robes soaked through with sweat—yet his voice never wavered.
The demonic struggle weakened.
The black fog thinned, revealing a vague human figure—a middle-aged man, twisted features softened by something close to relief.
"Three thousand years…" the demon murmured. "At last… I can rest."
The final syllable faded.
Silence.
From the depths of the array floated a dark red bead, settling into Mingkong's palm—pure, cleansed.
Mingkong exhaled and swayed.
Jiang Mucheng rushed to steady him.
"I'm fine," Mingkong waved him off weakly. "Just exhausted."
He handed over the bead.
"The demon's core. Its malice is gone, but its essence remains. I have no use for it—you may."
The bead was warm, smooth as polished jade.
"Thank you, Master."
"The array is repaired," Mingkong added. "You may use it freely."
Yet Jiang Mucheng noticed something else.
A faint golden sigil—perfectly integrated.
A hidden coordinate.
Mingkong smiled faintly, transmitting quietly:
If you face death, activate it. You will arrive within a hundred miles of Ling Mountain.
An investment, indeed.
The teleportation activated.
Light swallowed the eight figures.
And when the world snapped back—
They stood within a realm of impossible beauty.
Seven-colored skies. Golden waterfalls. Vast fields of blossoms—each flower blooming with a face-sized corolla, fragrance intoxicating.
The heart of the Mistveil Forest.
No monsters.
No fog.
Just silence.
"Watch for illusions," someone warned.
Too late.
The flowers stirred.
Petals lifted—and formed figures.
Loved ones.
Lost faces.
For Jiang Mucheng—
His mother.
Reaching out.
Smiling.
The most gentle—and deadly—attack had begun.
Licking the Dao:
True schemes aren't built on control.
They're built on letting everyone believe they've gained something—
only to realize later… every gain leads back to you.