In the middle of the Mass Grave, a well mouth appeared between the mounds. The well mouth was built with stone slabs, its rim worn smooth by footsteps—clearly a place people frequented often.
Wang Ziming stopped by the well, glanced down, then turned back and gestured to the group.
“The target is down there.”
He was the first to climb over the stone rim, stepping onto the iron rungs embedded in the well wall, descending rung by rung.
His movements were practiced, clearly not his first time taking this path.
Peace followed him down. Her descent was completely different from Wang Ziming’s—he climbed down steadily rung by rung, while she slid down the rungs, making almost no sound.
Wang Ziming looked up from below, said nothing, but his heart lurched.
‘These people aren’t just acting bold—they really have the strength to back it up. Earlier I was weighing whether to turn on them right after tonight’s operation… Now it seems I need to be careful.’
He suppressed the thought inwardly, not letting it show on his face.
So the big shot peddler from before was connected to them—no wonder.
Mu Yingying followed down.
Little Frost was at the very top. She lifted the small scooter.
It wasn’t a light vehicle; an ordinary person couldn’t lift it.
But Little Frost gripped the handlebars with one hand and supported the body with the other, hoisting the whole thing off the ground.
She placed one foot on the rungs and said quietly to White Night, “Hold tight to the bike basket. Don’t fall.”
White Night shrank her Soul Body deeper into the bike basket. “I know, Auntie Frost.”
Little Frost descended.
The well was deep—over thirty meters—narrowing and darkening the further down she went. Little Frost carried the scooter with one hand and gripped the rungs with the other, steadily climbing down rung by rung.
By the time she reached the bottom, a vein stood out on the back of her hand.
She set the scooter down gently and flexed her wrist.
The ache in her shoulder went deep into the bone. She said nothing, silently waiting a few seconds for the numbness to fade, then let out a breath. ‘Recovered.’
At the bottom of the well, it was pitch black—you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
Wang Ziming fumbled something out of his pocket and twisted it on. Blue light.
The beam wasn’t harsh; it was a cold blue, casting a ghostly chill over the ground.
“This blue light has a special wavelength,” he explained in a low voice. “It won’t alert the Mayor. Everyone stay close to me and don’t turn on any other light sources.”
He led the way ahead. The passage wasn’t wide; the walls were dry stone, and the ground was covered with gravel and scattered bones that crunched underfoot.
No one spoke.
The silence wasn’t the absence of sound—it was a silence pressed down by something.
The air carried an indescribable stench, the same smell as the Mass Grave, only thicker.
After walking about ten meters, the passage turned a corner. An eerie red light seeped from beyond the bend, as if something was emitting it on its own. Wang Ziming raised a hand to signal everyone to slow down. They pressed against the wall and crept forward.
As they rounded the corner, the view opened up. A large tomb chamber. At its center, a hexagram was drawn on the ground. The lines of the hexagram were painted with some thick, dark red liquid, occasionally oozing light. In the middle of the hexagram sat a creature. It was bulky, over two meters tall, with greenish-blue skin, interlocking fangs, a high nose bridge, and deep-set eyes. It sat cross-legged in the very center of the hexagram, motionless, with its eyes closed.
The surroundings were quiet, but White Night’s Soul Body could sense… it was absorbing something. Something was being absorbed by it.
White Night shifted her gaze to the six points of the hexagram. On each point was placed a… human head. Six heads. They had all been severed from living people, clearly without any psychological preparation. Every pair of eyes was wide open, pupils dilated to the max, frozen in that moment of terror. That terror was what remained after seeing death clearly—frozen, never to dissolve.
From the crowns of each head, wisps of black qi floated upward. The black qi moved slowly, and the green-skinned monster drew it in gradually. With each wisp it inhaled, its chest rose and fell slightly.
White Night’s Soul Body trembled. She felt nauseous. It was a revulsion rising from the depths of her soul.
Little Frost placed one hand on the edge of the bike basket, shielding her from the creature.
Wang Ziming turned back and made a shushing gesture to the group. His face looked pale in the blue light, but his expression was focused. He pulled a pitch-black object from his chest. White Night’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse—she saw that the tip of the pen was still dripping something… thick, dark red liquid, drop by drop. It wasn’t charcoal. It was blood. Blood that had coagulated and partially melted, shaped into the form of a pen.
Wang Ziming gripped this blood pen and began to move carefully around the hexagram. He made almost no sound. The blood pen touched the ground, slowly drawing an arc. The arc circled around the hexagram, gradually closing into a complete circle. It encircled the hexagram and the monster sitting in the middle.
The creature never moved the entire time. It was too absorbed. Its cultivation was at a critical juncture—everything outside was a blur to it.
Wang Ziming finished the last stroke, rose gently from the ground, and quietly let out a breath. He tucked the blood pen back into his chest. Then he pulled a gun from behind his waist. A silver pistol. The body of the gun glinted coldly in the blue light.
He turned to the group and lowered his voice, “Get ready for combat. I’ll aim this shot at the center of its brow. We need to kill it in one hit.” He paused, his tone growing heavier. “If we fail to kill it outright and it breaks free in a berserk state, one of us will likely fall here.” The warning was cautious.
Peace gave him a cold glance, her tone clear and indifferent. “Don’t waste time. Just do it.”
Just those three words, nothing else.
Wang Ziming looked at her in surprise. He had originally thought that the one directing the battle would be Little Frost or Mu Yingying—those two looked like fighters. The white-clad girl who had been silent all the way, walking at the front… His heart sank. ‘That Door-Knocking Aberration from earlier—I heard it from a distance; it didn’t even struggle before it was gone. I didn’t see who did it then. Now I understand.’
It was her.
Wang Ziming’s throat bobbed. He mentally pushed back the thought of turning on them after the operation yet again—‘I’ll wait until after this fight to decide.’
He tightened his grip on the silver pistol. Steadied his hands. Aimed the barrel at the center of the green-skinned monster’s forehead. Inhaled. Pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The gunshot exploded in the tomb chamber, the echo crashing against the stone walls, reverberating back and forth. The bullet shot out.
The next instant.
The monster’s eyes snapped open. Eyes like brass bells, with vertical pupils, a ghastly green.
Wang Ziming’s pupils constricted sharply. ‘Too fast.’ It had been jolted awake by instinct at the moment of life and death… This kind of thing didn’t wake up through its ears—it woke up through something deeper. ‘If I had come alone, I’d be done for tonight. Good thing I brought help.’
The monster’s head jerked to the side. The bullet grazed past its cheekbone, slicing open its face and tearing out a large chunk of greenish-blue flesh. Blood spurted out. Not red. It was a slimy green, thick enough to form strings, splattering on the ground with a gurgle.
Then… sizzle.
A plume of white smoke rose from the ground. The blood was corrosive. The moment it touched the stone, it corroded a small pit into the surface, white smoke mixing with a pungent, stinking odor that slowly permeated the entire tomb chamber. The smell drilled straight into people’s brains.
Little Frost pushed White Night’s bike basket behind her with one hand while the other hand went to her waist.
Mu Yingying’s blades were already fully drawn before the first wisp of white smoke had dispersed.
Peace stood still on the spot, not moving. She lifted her chin, her tone flat and unruffled. “It’s awake.”