Volume One: The King's Decree Chapter Sixty-Two: Blessing or Curse

“With the strength of the Celestial Treasure Auction House, you won’t be treated unfairly. It’s normal if you can’t cure her, but please, both of you, hurry—I fear the young lady won’t last much longer,” Ma Wu said anxiously.

The young lady’s condition was dire. Hosting two souls in one body for so long had taken a tremendous toll, and it was only thanks to countless rare treasures that she’d survived thus far.

Inside the room, a calming incense burned, its murky smoke curling through the air. Under the dim, flickering light of the soul-capturing lamp, the atmosphere was heavy and somber. Ma Wu stepped outside, produced an iron token, and planted it in the courtyard, conjuring a faint blue barrier.

“Please, Masters, focus on your work. I’ll be on guard outside—just call my name if you need anything,” he said.

Before closing the door, Ma Si handed over two strings of stone beads—magical implements meant for channeling spiritual energy, ready to be used at a moment’s notice to replenish one’s strength during spellcasting. Such artifacts would fetch a fortune, at least a thousand gold taels, and were nearly impossible to find on the market. In real combat, the ability to draw upon extra power could make all the difference.

“These must be worth a lot. This trip wasn’t in vain,” someone remarked.

“They’re Dragonfish Prayer Beads—top quality, worth at least a thousand taels. More than enough for saving her.” Meng Qiaoqiao was a true lover of wealth. Once she’d secured the beads, she deftly produced a set of silver needles and began piercing them, one by one, into the young lady.

“Don’t just stand there—help me hold her down. Use that binding spell you know,” she instructed, not knowing the Nine-Word Mantra but aware it could restrain someone.

The needle technique had been taught by Bai Yiting and was more comprehensive than most. The 108 silver needles were not only of the finest quality but also forged in varying lengths for different acupuncture points, ensuring maximum effect.

From the center of the brow, down the philtrum, and all the way to the energy sea, the needles gleamed as they were inserted. With the final needle in place, the young lady fell still, no longer thrashing about.

Outside, Ma Si and Ma Wu whispered to each other. “These two young Daoists are truly skilled. They actually got the young lady to stop screaming.”

“Let’s hope it works. You know what the master’s temper is like. If anything happens to the young lady, even the Grand Sect Gathering won’t be peaceful,” Ma Wu murmured, a hint of dread in his voice. The master’s glare before they parted had been murderous.

The Feng and Gong families were powerful, but only in Yanliang Prefecture. The Celestial Treasure Auction House, however, spanned all nine provinces—a difference that couldn’t be overstated. If the auction house ever meddled in bloodshed, the Fengs wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I just wish that damned vengeful spirit would leave. Why must it haunt the young lady? I don’t understand,” Ma Si said, shuddering at the mention of the specter.

He’d seen it himself during the first attack—a demon from the depths, far more terrifying than any guardian statue outside a temple.

Martial artists were often deceived by the surface of Daoist arts—they rarely cultivated their souls and were easily frightened by appearances. Meng Qiaoqiao, however, had traveled widely with her master and seen much worse. When the silver needles forced out the vengeful spirit, an old man in a gray robe, four long horns curling from his head, lunged menacingly at her—only to be effortlessly repelled by a talisman.

“The dead, what unfinished business do you have? Daring to linger in the world of the living—reveal yourself at once!”

The talisman flared with golden light, its power suppressing such spirits. This soul’s eyes bore bloody streaks—tears of injustice at the moment of death. Its resentment was fierce; attaching itself to living creatures, it would soon drain their life and drag them into the cycle of rebirth.

Some made a living by exorcising such spirits, but everyone brought in so far had been grievously wounded by it, barely escaping with their lives.

The constant stream of people disturbing it had only made the spirit more irritable. Gray light streamed from its horns, rapidly corroding the talisman.

Meng Qiaoqiao was furious. That talisman was a semi-artifact, cultivated with her own spiritual power. Seeing it corroded by the spirit hurt her deeply. She quickly produced a brush, flicking it through the air.

This brush was a common tool among soul-cultivating Daoists, used to bind and capture spirits. Most practitioners kept several on hand. But to her surprise, the vengeful spirit showed no fear—its mouth gaped wide and swallowed the ink dots whole.

Liu Xiaoyi watched, alarmed that Meng Qiaoqiao might come to harm, and quickly summoned his black-and-white chess pieces to shield the spirit, hoping to lend his aid.

The gray light from the spirit’s four horns touched the chess pieces, and instantly Liu Xiaoyi felt his connection severed—his spiritual power wiped away and absorbed by the spirit.

“A spirit that can devour magical artifacts… even I’ve never seen such a thing. This ghost must have a formidable origin. We’re no match.”

The 108 silver needles trembled violently. After devouring the chess pieces, the spirit’s power surged, nearly shaking the needles loose. Meng Qiaoqiao clutched the prayer beads in her left hand, channeling pure spiritual energy to stabilize them.

But the spirit extended its arms, shredding the remaining talismans, and faced Meng Qiaoqiao head-on. Ethereal and insubstantial, it yearned desperately for a physical body. Its oppressive resentment smothered the surrounding energies, pushing the soul-capturing lamp’s light aside. Its three-inch claws came within a hair’s breadth of Meng Qiaoqiao’s face, but Liu Xiaoyi thrust his sword between them just in time.

“Spiritual power can be channeled into weapons… what kind of artifact is this?” In desperation, he poured his energy into the Iceblade Sword, and it held the spirit at bay.

Dual-use weapons like this were costly; the Iceblade Sword had been casually forged by an expert from Drunken Sovereign Sea, but it was a truly fine blade.

“He’s on the left! He’s moving again!” Meng Qiaoqiao, flustered, grabbed two handfuls of talismans and flung them everywhere.

The room pulsed with shifting lights, colors swirling in waves of surging power. Meng Qiaoqiao, steering her little boat through this sea of magic, dared not relax—one misstep and she’d be swallowed by the vengeful spirit.

The spirit attacked with cunning ferocity. The flying talismans blocked many claw strikes from impossible angles, but any time its claws touched flesh, spiritual power was sucked into the spirit.

“Rin!” Liu Xiaoyi cried, but his sword could not harm it. He could only gather his strength to fend off the onslaught.

But the difference in cultivation was too great—his solidified energy was pierced in an instant. Liu Xiaoyi was slammed against the wall, ghostly claws emerging from within to bind his limbs, pinning him tight.

The vengeful spirit opened its mouth wide, extending a blood-red tongue. It stabbed straight into Liu Xiaoyi’s abdomen, and a soul-searing pain shot through him. His eyes widened—and he lost consciousness.

In his haze, a golden-robed phantom appeared, wielding a wooden sword. With a single slash, the tongue was severed, the spirit stumbling back, howling in pain. The phantom pressed a finger to the spirit’s brow; gray light shattered, revealing the figure of a young man.

He wore the robes of the Heavenly King Sect. His eyes slowly cleared, and seeing Liu Xiaoyi still imprisoned, he hurriedly released him and drew back the resentment into himself.

Meng Qiaoqiao would have attacked again, but the golden-robed figure stopped her, then faded away.

“That senior… was he your master? Incredible!” Some core disciples of prestigious sects carried such life-saving trump cards; the force left in Liu Xiaoyi by the golden-robed Daoist had saved him at the last moment.

Having visited death’s door more than once, Liu Xiaoyi was not easily rattled. He flexed his wrists, seized the other man by the collar, and pinned him to the wall. “Is your Heavenly King Sect full of bullies who prey on the weak?”

The other man, though somewhat older, had delicate features that Liu Xiaoyi found instantly off-putting. Every encounter he’d had with Heavenly King disciples had been unpleasant, leaving him disillusioned with the sect.

If even the great righteous sects behaved this way, the whole martial world was a cesspool—rotten to the core.

“I’m sorry, it was my mistake. I never meant to trouble you—please forgive me.”

“What good is an apology? The girl you possessed nearly died—how will you make amends?” Liu Xiaoyi punched him in the gut, making his knees buckle and nearly knocking the wind out of him.

“Let me go—I’ll restore her soul myself.”

Liu Xiaoyi hesitated, fearing the man would turn back into that vengeful spirit. Sensing his concern, the man forced a bitter smile. “Your elder shattered my Dao heart. I cannot survive. I’ll scatter my soul in recompense for the girl—it’s the punishment I deserve.”

“You’re not dead? After what I saw, I don’t believe it,” Liu Xiaoyi muttered, but finally released him. The man caught his breath, formed seals with his hands, and began chanting. A gentle green glow radiated from his body and drifted into the unconscious girl behind him.

“The path of cultivation is endless. But had I not encountered your elder today, I’d have been lost forever. My thanks—accept a disciple’s bow from Daoxuanzi!” He knelt in the direction where the golden-robed Daoist had vanished, bowing deeply.

Liu Xiaoyi stared, astonished—such miraculous events, and he’d witnessed them firsthand. As the green light faded, the man’s form grew fainter.

“I have nothing left but a key to my cave estate. Take good care of it…” he said, his voice growing distant.

Soon, the spirit vanished completely, leaving only a simple bronze key etched with mysterious symbols.

“Ever seen anything like it? Do all cultivators act this way?”

Meng Qiaoqiao shook her head. The most she’d seen was her own master hustling for meals with parlor tricks—she’d hardly witnessed any real Daoist magic.

“And who’s this Daoxuanzi?” Liu Xiaoyi asked, but Meng Qiaoqiao had no idea.

“Did your master only teach you how to scam people? You seem to know nothing at all…”

“Talk less. As if you know any better!” Meng Qiaoqiao snapped back, but before they could argue further, a third person in the room began coughing.

The young lady was awake! The pure soul energy she’d absorbed had rekindled her fading life force, bringing her back from the brink.

Meng Qiaoqiao produced a restorative pill and sent it into her mouth with a pulse of magic. “Don’t speak yet—wait until your soul has stabilized.”

The two men waiting anxiously outside, having heard nothing for some time, grew increasingly restless. After pacing for a while, Ma Wu quietly pushed open a crack in the door and saw the young lady sitting on the ground, gasping for breath.

“Young Miss! I thought I’d lost you!” Despite his age, Ma Wu crawled to her side, sobbing with relief.

“If you want her to live, shut up!” A talisman flew out, sealing his mouth and silencing his cries.

After such ordeals, a fragile soul needed time to rest quietly, lest excessive movement cause it to scatter once more.