Huang Er, what do you think?

At this moment, seeing Chen Huangpi’s face filled with murderous intent, Song Qiuyue was consumed by regret.

She was only eighteen or nineteen, yet she had already attained the Nascent Soul stage. Her life had just begun, and she had nearly eight hundred years of blissful days ahead. Now, having discovered that Chen Huangpi possessed the secret to practicing the ancient method, she was all the more desperate to survive at any cost. She feared death—she wanted nothing more than to live.

Had she known things would come to this, she would not have cared about her dignity or sent Zhao Hai and the other cultivators to the guest rooms to spare them from witnessing her debasement. If only they were here, perhaps their collective pleas could persuade Chen Huangpi. As for resisting by force, she dared not even entertain the thought. She was not yet ready to die.

Song Qiuyue collapsed onto the ground, clutching Chen Huangpi’s trouser leg as she pleaded, “Young lord, you seek fortune, I seek life—why must you kill me?”

“You have the nerve to ask? You owe a debt and refuse to pay; why shouldn’t I kill you?” Chen Huangpi replied irritably, kicking her aside.

Song Qiuyue half-crawled on the ground, tears streaming down her face. “The Song family of Qinghe is as wealthy as a nation! Even just our lands in Xu Prefecture, the copper coins alone could fill the surrounding hundred miles. If you spare me, all this can be yours—even I can be yours.”

She wept bitterly, her beautiful face streaked with tears. She was strikingly lovely, dressed in plain attire that only heightened her pitiful allure. Anyone else’s heart would have melted at the sight. Fortunately for her, she was facing Chen Huangpi.

He had two hearts. One was called conscience, soft and hard by turns—it only beat for good deeds and could be suppressed with a little effort. The other was a killing heart, hard as steel—once awakened, it would not rest without blood.

Seeing Song Qiuyue in such a state, Chen Huangpi shook his head inwardly. He was not an unreasonable man; the contract had been written in black and white. If there was no money, then a life must be paid. If she could not pay now and did not wish to die, she should have proposed some other compensation from the start.

Yet he had already shown mercy once to Granny Tang and her wretched followers. To be merciful too often was to cheapen his mercy. With this thought, Chen Huangpi shook his head and said, “You’re not worth anything—what would I want you for?”

“Chen Huangpi, you’re still so young—you don’t understand a woman’s worth. If you spare me, you may use me as you wish,” Song Qiuyue said, cheeks burning with shame as she placed her soft hand on the thin ribbon at her chest. Her garments were cleverly designed to easily reveal her youthful, beautiful body with a simple tug.

“You’re an odd one,” Chen Huangpi remarked, puzzled. He turned to the brass oil lamp, “Huang Er, what do you think?”

“I’m watching!” the brass oil lamp replied, eyes wide open, eager not to miss a detail.

At that, Song Qiuyue gave a bleak laugh, abandoned all pretense, and pulled the ribbon at her chest sharply downward.

Just then, Chen Huangpi’s expression changed. He frowned and looked out beyond the temple.

Though the Pure Immortal Temple was not large and could not compare to the old temple from the previous night, it was still far grander than ordinary temples, with a main hall, side halls, guest rooms, pill rooms, kitchen, storerooms for Daoist scriptures, and a grand gate.

At that moment, dozens of cultivators in the same attire as Zhao Hai and his companions came rushing over as if fleeing for their lives. They soared through the air, moving so quickly that they were almost invisible to the naked eye, like the wind or lightning. In a blink, they were inside Pure Immortal Temple.

As soon as they entered, they unleashed their spiritual power and cried out, “Miss, are you here in this temple? Miss! Miss…”

“I’m here! I’m here!” Song Qiuyue replied, her face lighting up with wild joy. She realized at once that the divine spirits must have sent word to Xu Prefecture, and her uncle had dispatched people to rescue her.

Just then, it seemed the old Daoist was not present—perhaps there was truly a chance to escape.

But in the next moment, when the dozens of cultivators appeared, Song Qiuyue felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her, extinguishing her hope.

“Miss, we finally found you. These Hundred Thousand Mountains are terrifying—the white mist, so dreadful… There’s something in the white mist; it’s too frightening…”

The cultivators trembled with terror, their courage utterly broken. The migration was a matter of grave importance, and they ought to have gathered here at dawn. But the white mist they encountered yesterday was unimaginably terrifying—devouring everything, living or dead. Before the divine spirits could even act, a bone-chilling voice echoed from within the mist: “Human aura! Human aura!”

The voice was mad beyond reason. Then, all saw an old Daoist emerge from the fog, dressed in a white robe embroidered with red plum blossoms and black hems.

As soon as the old Daoist appeared, he took a deep breath toward the assembled divine spirits. The incense aura from forty divine spirits coalesced into a pillar of smoke and was swallowed into his mouth.

Suddenly, the old Daoist seemed to convulse; his robe shifted from white to purple. Then, with a sweep of his sleeve toward nearly ten thousand mortals, all vanished in an instant.

“Second Brother, I won’t let you gorge yourself!” But as soon as he spoke, the robe turned white again.

“Eldest Brother, you’re too cruel!” The old Daoist howled, “I want to eat people! You won’t let me because you fear I’ll become stronger and make you grovel before me. You can’t stand to lose!”

The next moment, the robe turned purple.

“You’re the cruel one! Don’t think I don’t see through you. If you eat your fill, you’ll seize Chen Huangpi’s prime moment when I’m off guard. I’m a good master—I won’t allow it!”

The old Daoist seemed to contain two warring wills, switching back and forth, the white and purple robes flickering.

In the end, the robe became half white and half purple. The old Daoist’s head suddenly tilted, and another identical head grew from his neck—one angry, one insane.

The mad head cried, “I’m the good one! You want to refine him into a pill—you’re the worst!”

The angry head retorted, “I haven’t refined him yet, so I’m not bad now. But you always want to eat Huangpi—you’ve always been bad!”

“Nonsense! I love Huangpi—I’m his best master!”

“Lies! You only make porridge; I make offerings. I’m the better master!”

Suddenly, both heads turned to the cultivators and divine spirits. “You—tell us, who is Huangpi’s best master?”

The cultivators shouted in unison, “You are! Grandmaster, you are Huangpi’s true master!”

The divine spirits all cried, “Nonsense! Huangpi’s only true master is the Second Master!”

Thus the two heads manipulated the divine spirits and cultivators into rounds of mutual accusation, cursing, and slander. Only after nightfall did the two wills reach an agreement.

The cultivators declared, “The Third Master is the worst—he must not be released!”

The divine spirits said, “He loves Huangpi most—he even makes candied hawthorn!”

Then, the angry head interjected, “That’s not certain. Huangpi won’t let me eat recklessly—I don’t eat people anymore. Even if the Third Master appears, Huangpi still loves me.”

The mad head panicked, “What about me then? Maybe I shouldn’t eat… No, I’m hungry—so hungry…”

“Ahhh! Let me think, let me think!” The mad head screamed, then rammed into the other head. Instantly, the two heads merged into one, and the Daoist’s robe became purple. It seemed the white-willed self truly went off to ponder if he should give up eating humans.

The purple-robed Daoist vanished. Left behind were the cultivators and divine spirits, shouting over and over, “Grandmaster is Chen Huangpi’s true master—the whole Hundred Thousand Mountains knows it. Grandmaster is good and kind—the Second and Third Masters are evil, especially the Third; he’s the worst!”

They shouted all night, regaining their freedom only after dawn, and then fled in desperation to find Song Qiuyue.

Yet, Song Qiuyue was not their savior. In truth, they were her only hope.

“Do you have any money?” she asked.

“Money?” The cultivators exchanged glances and shook their heads.

“If you have no money, what good are you?” Song Qiuyue exploded with rage. “Get out! All of you, get out! If I must die, you may as well die too! Die! All of you, die!”

“Miss, what do you mean by this?” Startled, the cultivators looked up, but after a single glance, quickly dropped their heads in terror.

What did they see? Song Qiuyue, half undressed, her face streaked with tears, looking as if she had been humiliated.

She was a noblewoman, a lady of great standing, always attended by Zhao Hai and other guards, with sixty divine spirits protecting her. Who could possibly dare to offend her? Who would not fear death?

“You shouldn’t have come!” Song Qiuyue closed her eyes in utter despair.

She had thought her master had sent rescuers, but it turned out they were the immigration party who’d left just before her. The immigrants were gone—it hardly mattered. But even the forty divine spirits’ incense aura was now so faint as to be almost undetectable. Even if, at full strength, they would be no match for that strange old Daoist, being wiped out in a breath. But something was better than nothing.

Hearing Song Qiuyue speak only of money, a cultivator couldn’t help but say, “Miss, money’s for mortals. We’re all Nascent Soul cultivators—if we want something, mortals will offer it to us. We have no use for such vulgar things.”

“Vulgar?” Song Qiuyue laughed almost madly. “Money that could buy my life is vulgar to you? Without money, you die; with money, you live!”

Hearing this, Chen Huangpi agreed, “That’s right. If you can’t produce money, not only will your lady die, but the cultivators in the guest rooms will die as well.”

“Outrageous!” one cultivator said angrily, about to rebuke him.

But before he could finish, Song Qiuyue slapped him from across the air. “Silence!” The man, shocked, covered his mouth and quickly bowed his head. “I deserve to die!” he stammered.

“What use is your death?” Song Qiuyue panted, voice full of hatred. “Money! I want money—enough to make two mountains! Copper coins! Yes, copper coins.”

She stepped before the cultivators, all dignity lost, and begged, “Please, think of a way to get me that much money. If you do, I’ll have my uncle make you officials, even divine spirits!”

She was nearly deranged, as if she had fallen into a pit of greed.

The cultivators looked at each other, bewildered. One recalled, “Miss, I remember when I was just a Qi Refining cultivator, I had some copper coins.” He patted the pouch at his waist, and a string of coins flew out.

Song Qiuyue, overjoyed, held out the coins to Chen Huangpi. “Let me repay part of what I owe you—just give me more time for the rest, please?”

As the words left her mouth, a blade of sword energy flashed and slashed at her hands, blood spraying everywhere. Her delicate, pale hands fell to the floor.