Shen Xian’s eyes sharpened. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the Mysterious Armor Spirit-Seeking Turtle from the [Blood Jade Ring].

The small spirit beast chamber Lin Lang had integrated into the ring proved its worth; the turtle emerged with a low thrum of energy. As its millstone-sized body settled onto the dusty ground, the creature looked up at him eagerly, its tiny, mung-bean eyes shimmering with anticipation.

Shen Xian chuckled softly, producing his final [Purple Immortal Mushroom]. “Don’t make me regret this investment.”

The turtle snapped up the spirit herb in a single gulp. Instantly, the Eight Trigrams inscribed upon its carapace ignited with a blinding auric radiance. Eight golden rays lanced into the sky, weaving together in the dim air to form a celestial star chart before finally condensing into a singular, blood-colored arrow. It pulsed with a rhythmic throb, pointing unerringly toward the dark heart of the [Ten Thousand Corpses Tomb].

With his path set, Shen Xian moved.

Guided by the sanguine light, he reached a sunken corridor deep within the wasteland—the descent to the second layer. Here, the bronze walls were a graveyard of history, scarred by sword gashes from a war fought three millennia ago. Faint wisps of black mist seeped from these ancient wounds, coiling around the hem of his [Profound Heaven Azure Cloud Robe] like hungry, spectral vines.

The turtle emitted a rapid, gurgling warning, the gold on its shell flickering fitfully. Beneath Shen Xian’s boots, the dark red grit gave way to a purplish-black sludge that squelched with every step.

Ahead, a stone staircase slanted into the abyss. The steps were coated in a thick, asphalt-like substance, preserving the frantic handprints of those who had died trying to crawl back out. The [Li Fire True Seal] between Shen Xian’s brows suddenly throbbed with a searing heat—a warning that the Malice in the air had reached a lethal saturation point.

“I’m in the right place,” he murmured. He ran a hand over the turtle’s carapace and felt a patch of biting cold; the golden trigrams had begun to frost over.

At the base of the stairs stood a shattered bronze gate. Black mist bled from the gap, twisting into leering, ghostly countenances that shrieked in a silent, soul-piercing frequency.

As Shen Xian crossed the threshold, the world buckled.

The Malice here was a physical weight, surging like a tide. Frost patterns immediately raced across his robes, seeking a way in. He hummed a low note, activating the [Profound Origin Condensing True Art]. A pale golden [Heart Shield] flared into existence, holding the corruption three inches from his skin. The mist hissed against the barrier, a sound like millions of invisible teeth gnawing at his protection.

Squeltch.

The ground beneath him writhed. Looking down, he realized he wasn’t standing on stone, but a carpet of entangled black tentacles. Each one was lined with tiny, needle-toothed maws hungrily rasping at his shield.

Shen Xian flicked a finger. The [Markless Sword] flashed in a snow-bright arc. Severed tentacles sprayed a fountain of foul-smelling ichor, which hissed as it hit the ground, melting pits several feet deep into the floor.

ROAR—!

A hair-raising howl erupted from the gloom, the sonic force shaking loose black scabs of dried blood from the ceiling. Twelve demonic souls, clad in the jagged remains of ancient armor, drifted from the shadows. They possessed no true bodies; instead, their plate overflowed with that same asphalt-like Malice. Two pinpricks of crimson light glowed beneath each rusted visor, locking onto him with murderous intent.

The lead soul accelerated, its heavy blade singing with a ghostly wail. Shen Xian sidestepped, but as the edge grazed his [Heart Shield], it tore a jagged rent in the golden light.

Instantly, the corruption surged through the gap, assaulting his Divine Sense. His mind was flooded with a hellish phantasmagoria—mountains of rotting corpses and seas of boiling blood.

He bit his tongue hard, the copper tang of blood and the sharp jolt of pain snapping him back to reality. He pushed the [Taixu Reflecting Divine Mirror] to its limit, his Soul Formation-level Divine Sense lancing through the illusion like a hot needle through silk.

“So, you can rot the mind as well as the meat,” Shen Xian muttered, his gaze turning icy.

The [Li Fire True Seal] on his forehead flared. A torrent of supremely rigid, Yang-tempered flames erupted outward. In the wake of his improved fusion with the seal, the fire was absolute. The demonic souls didn’t just burn; they were erased, turned to nothingness by the holy heat.

Silence returned. Shen Xian stowed the turtle back into the ring and pressed on. The treasure waited in the third layer, and he had a gauntlet to run.

He moved through the air, his boots never touching the corrupted silt. As he neared the entrance to the next level, the sounds of a desperate struggle echoed ahead.

Five female cultivators were backed against a wall, surrounded by dozens of black-armored demonic souls—creatures far more advanced than the ones he had just faced, their forms semi-solid and bristling with bone spikes. The women wore different robes, but their belts all bore the insignia of the [Tianyao Sect].

Among them, a familiar face stood out.

Bai Qingyao’s pristine white dress was a ruin of blood and soot. The jade flute in her hand was covered in hairline fractures. She looked exhausted, her eyes wide with a terror she was trying to mask. She hadn’t expected the gatekeepers to be this powerful.

Shen Xian’s gaze was indifferent. He didn’t slow his pace, intending to detour around the mess. Tianyao Sect disciples? Hardly my concern.

“Fellow Daoist! Please!”

Bai Qingyao’s voice cracked. She had spotted him—a lone figure walking through the Malice as if it were a spring garden. She didn’t know his name, but anyone who could reach this depth alone had to be at the peak of the Golden Core Realm.

Shen Xian ignored her. He had a schedule to keep.

Seeing his lack of response, Bai Qingyao realized their lives were hanging by a thread. She took a deep breath and screamed over the roar of the demonic souls: “Help us, and I will give you a Heavy Treasure!”

Shen Xian’s boots touched the ground. He stopped.

The Tianyao Sect were masters of the healing arts, famous for possessing draughts and artifacts that could pull a soul back from the gates of hell. He thought back to the incident with Wei Zhaoli—how he had been forced to watch her suffer under the Gu poison because he lacked a proper healing catalyst.

A high-level healing artifact was a rare insurance policy. And to him, these demonic souls were merely a minor inconvenience.

Shen Xian turned, his expression unreadable as he looked at the blood-stained Bai Qingyao.

“I want a healing-type Spirit Treasure,” he said, his voice cold and transactional. “Agreed?”