Chapter Nine: Fang Mu’s Audacious Maneuver

"Your feeble true energy, even combined with hers, is nothing," the village chief thought, a sense of unease rising in his heart. He didn't attack Fang Mu immediately but retreated instead. Having lived a long life in his previous existence and now transformed into something uncanny, caution was second nature to him.

Once he had pulled back a safe distance, the village chief relaxed a little. Prolonging the fight—that was his plan. The ghostly domain was vast, and with the scant true energy Fang Mu possessed, there was no chance of outlasting him. Once Fang Mu was spent and desperate, everything would fall neatly into place.

"Ah, those seniors from before always met foolish villains. Why is the one I encounter so cunning?" Fang Mu sighed, clutching the village chief’s severed head. The true energy within him, plus what Qing Ruowu had transferred over, was still pitifully small, and under the constant erosion of sinister energy, it dwindled at a rate visible to the naked eye. At this pace, it would vanish completely in no time.

He’d originally planned to wait for the village chief to approach and then deliver a fatal blow. But perhaps the chief was simply too cautious. Weren’t villains supposed to be dumb?

A cold laugh echoed from the village chief as he turned his body toward Qing Ruowu.

Despair flickered in Qing Ruowu’s eyes. Was it all for nothing in the end? From the start, Fang Mu had left a profound impression on her—unflappable in crisis, calm and collected. Given time, he would surely achieve great things. Yet now, he had followed her to his death. The thought of this dire predicament filled her with remorse—not for herself, but for her recklessness, which had dragged an innocent man down with her.

Suddenly, Qing Ruowu gasped, her voice edged with pain.

Hearing her cry, both Fang Mu and the village chief looked in her direction. Dark red sigils once more flared across Qing Ruowu’s body, and against their glow, her face appeared even paler.

"She’s burning her soul!" The village chief’s features twisted as he lunged forward. "You’re a perfect vessel—I can’t let you die!"

Despair filled Qing Ruowu’s eyes. There simply wasn’t enough time. She had intended to burn her soul, but the distance between her and the village chief was far too short—so short she had no time to act.

As the chief closed in, Qing Ruowu could only sigh. "Can’t even use my final desperate measure?"

Hopelessness enveloped her. The thought of her head being severed once more made her hair stand on end.

The village chief’s gnarled arm drew ever closer, about to touch her—when suddenly, he stopped.

Stunned, Qing Ruowu froze. Then she heard a voice.

"I admit I was gambling, but I guessed right."

"That’s... Fang Mu’s voice?"

A steaming dagger flashed past, severing the village chief’s right hand.

A guttural scream burst from the chief’s mouth, but was abruptly cut off. The dagger did not stop—it swept forward in a flurry.

Three swift arcs of blazing red light traced through the air, slicing off the chief’s remaining limbs. Now reduced to a torso, he crashed to the ground.

Qing Ruowu stared blankly at the sight behind the chief. Fang Mu stood there, one hand gripping the ghostly dagger, the other holding the chief’s severed head. Draped over the head was a blood-stained bellyband.

In the critical moment just now, Fang Mu had pulled out the blood-stained bellyband and covered the chief’s head with it. He had originally planned to wait for the chief to come close and then cover him with it, but hadn’t expected such caution.

The old saying held true: "With age comes cunning."

On the brink of disaster, Fang Mu had suddenly remembered the head in his hand. Why not risk it? He’d gambled—and won. Once the blood-stained bellyband was slipped over the chief’s head, it paralyzed him for five seconds.

"Quick!"

Fang Mu uttered a single word.

Qing Ruowu stared at him, confused by his meaning.

At that moment, the five seconds expired, and the sinister energy surged once more.

"Ha! To think I'd fall to you after all! You'll pay for this!" the village chief howled from beneath the bellyband.

He could not fathom why the blood-stained bellyband had such power. His severed limbs regenerated, reattaching as he twisted upright.

Qing Ruowu’s expression changed. "Look out!"

A wave of relentless sinister energy crashed toward Fang Mu, seeking to destroy him.

But Fang Mu remained calm. He raised his hand, pinched a corner of the bellyband—lifted, covered.

Five seconds, reset.

"How do I kill it? Tell me, now!" Fang Mu demanded urgently.

Qing Ruowu snapped out of her stupor and replied, "You must—"

Five seconds elapsed. Sinister energy surged again, mingled with the chief’s enraged roar.

Lift, cover—reset. The sinister energy faded without a trace.

Qing Ruowu was dumbfounded. What kind of trick was this? Tonight, Fang Mu had shattered every preconception she held. Was it really possible to control something uncanny in this way?

Fang Mu swayed—he was not unscathed. Within the ghostly domain, the true energy Qing Ruowu had given him was draining rapidly; once depleted, he wouldn’t even be able to lift the bellyband.

Catching Fang Mu’s urgent gaze, Qing Ruowu understood the gravity of their situation. She spoke quickly, "Find the heart of the ghostly domain—destroy what it values most."

What it values most?

Fang Mu’s gaze swept the surroundings, finally settling on the five jars placed before the wooden hut.

The letter had stated the chief killed while holding four jars. That meant these jars hid some secret.

Fang Mu strode over, raised his foot, and kicked.

Shards flew as four jars shattered.

A gust of wind blew by—nothing changed.

The village chief's howls echoed from under the blood-stained bellyband. Fang Mu could only cover him once more, but his true energy was nearly spent.

"Strange. What is it that he values most?"

Pondering, Fang Mu looked toward the hut and stepped inside, all the while repeatedly lifting and lowering the blood-stained bellyband.

The moment he entered, a foul stench assaulted his nostrils—a mix of corpse rot and pickled vegetables, a scent he knew too well.

"Hiding the smell of a corpse with pickles?"

Fang Mu followed the odor to a wooden bed, upon which lay a highly decomposed, swollen corpse—dead for a long time.

From the tattered clothing, it was clear: this was the village chief’s body, headless.

So, the thing outside was the uncanny, and this was the corpse it left behind? And the missing head—was the one in his hand.

Fang Mu approached the bed, raising the ghostly dagger.

With nothing else to go on, he decided to try the corpse.

Just then, the time on the blood-stained bellyband expired, and the village chief’s plea rang out.

"Spare me! I’m so pitiful!"