Ghost fog swallowed the world in a single gulp.
One breath, Jiang Wu and Ghost Mu were still trading veiled threats.
Next breath, the mountain, the array, the blood moon, everything vanished behind a wall of screaming faces.
Mo Fan stepped out of the mist as if it were a curtain.
Plain black robes, plain face, only the tiger tattoo on his brow flickering like living fire.
“Thousand Phantom Prince.
Ghost Mu of the Corpse Yin Sect.
Two dogs, one leash.”
Jiang Wu’s thousand butterflies froze mid-wing.
“You…”
His voice cracked like porcelain.
Because the ghost fog had already peeled the first layer of illusion from his skin.
A second Jiang Wu, identical down to the blood on his sleeve, stood behind the first, mouth sewn shut with silver thread.
Ghost Mu tried to rise from his coffin.
Chains of black smoke snapped around his wrists, yanked him flat.
The coffin lid slammed open on its own; inside lay a second Ghost Mu, this one long dead, eyes replaced by glowing runes.
“Borrowed toys,” Mo Fan said, tapping the Soul-Devouring Banner against his shoulder.
“Return them.”
Ghost fog condensed into two words that burned in the air:
CHOOSE.
Jiang Wu’s pupils split again, sixteen, thirty-two, until his eyes were black snowflakes.
“Mo Fan, we can negotiate.
The saintess inside the array, nine yin meridians, perfect for dual cultivation.
Half for you, half for—”
Mo Fan flicked a finger.
The sewn-mouth Jiang Wu exploded into a cloud of mirrored butterflies.
Every butterfly showed Jiang Wu dying in a different way: throat slit, heart torn, skull caved, face peeled.
The real Jiang Wu dropped to his knees, real blood now mixing with the fake.
Ghost Mu’s voice came out a rasp.
“Refining Soul Sect traitor! You dare trap a Corpse Yin true disciple?
When my sect—”
Mo Fan crouched, eye-level.
“Your sect will thank me.
One less mouth feeding on their corpses.”
He pressed two fingers to Ghost Mu’s forehead.
Black runes spidered across the man’s skin, sinking into the cinnabar mole.
Ghost Mu’s eyes rolled white.
Memories spilled: mass graves, auction lists, the exact coordinates of three hidden Corpse Yin vaults.
Mo Fan drank them like wine.
Bai Shuang drifted out beside him, white robes untouched by the fog.
She studied the magus array thirty paces away.
Inside, devil qi still boiled, but cracks were forming.
“Time’s short,” she said. “The girl’s burning her own meridians to break free.
Five breaths and the array collapses.”
Mo Fan nodded.
He turned back to the two kneeling men.
“Rules,” he announced.
“One.
You will open the array and drag the saintess out alive.
Two.
You will swear a heart-devil oath to serve me for a hundred years.
Three.
You will smile while doing it.”
Jiang Wu’s face twitched, trying to form a thousand different lies at once.
Ghost Mu spat black blood.
“Never.”
Mo Fan sighed.
The ghost fog answered.
It folded the two men like paper dolls, pressed them face-first into the dirt, and carved the oath directly onto their souls with frozen ghost script.
Their screams harmonised for exactly three breaths.
Then silence.
The array shuddered.
Twelve magi dropped their staves, eyes blank, mouths moving in perfect unison:
“Master.”
The crimson runes peeled away like old paint.
A girl stumbled out, barefoot, white hair to her waist, nine yin frost swirling around her like living snow.
Her gaze, ancient ice, locked on Mo Fan.
“You freed me,” she said, voice layered with nine echoes.
“Name your price.”
Mo Fan rolled the Soul-Devouring Banner shut.
“Simple.
Walk with me to the dragon’s grave.
Anyone who tries to peel your face loses theirs instead.”
The girl’s lips curved, the first thaw in a thousand years.
“Deal.”
Behind her, Jiang Wu and Ghost Mu rose, smiles stapled to their faces, souls screaming behind their eyes.
Bai Shuang flicked a wind-thunder coin; it spun, landed on Jiang Wu’s tongue, and melted.
“Leash secured,” she said.
Mo Fan offered the saintess his arm.
“Shall we?”
The four of them, master, traitor, corpse-puppeteer, and living glacier, stepped over the ruined array and continued up the mountain.
Behind them, the ghost fog folded into a single black tiger that padded at Mo Fan’s heels.
Somewhere far above, thunder growled, Lei Yu Zidian had felt his spear vanish.
The true hunt was only warming up.
