The Xun Family inheritance came with a peculiar trait: their eyes couldn’t make out living creatures at night. Xun Ruosu wasn’t affected right now because her three souls and seven apertures were shared with Qin Yu, along with their visions, making them almost one person.
But just a few days ago, Xun Ruosu had been nothing more than a Xun Family descendant—an ordinary diviner. So how had she failed to see Zhong Li in the dark?
The puppet contained a departed soul, something that didn’t belong in the yang world. Xun Ruosu should have spotted it, but the Masked Man knew Xun Jian too well, and the entire Xun Family too. That knowledge had thrown him into confusion. Out of habit, he curled his fingers for a divination, only for Xue Tong to yank them back hard.
“The Xun Family motto goes like this: those skilled in divination, if they abuse their gifts, grow addicted to the thrill of holding everything in their grasp—a passing cloud in the sky, an ant on the ground. Anything unexpected leaves their mind in turmoil,” Xun Ruosu said with a faint smile. “That’s why it’s three divinations by day, three by night—no more, no broad queries, no natal charts.”
“How does it feel? Centuries immersed in flawless divinations, and now something slips your control. Uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
Xue Tong had wrenched the Masked Man’s fingers to the point of agony, but she couldn’t go further and poison him yet. She had to hold back; one wrong move could kill him and doom the whole dam.
“Now, it’s my turn to strike back,” she whispered in his ear.
Everyone gathered here formed messy entanglements—every trio had issues begging to be resolved. Xue Tong thought for a moment. “I don’t have much time. Zhong Wei, you stay. Everyone else, go wait next door.”
Her “everyone else” naturally excluded Xun Ruosu. And given that Xun Ruosu was sharing senses with Qin Yu right now, the little girl sweetly calling out “sister and mommy” got to stay too. Everyone but Jiang Changting stared in shock; no one had expected Miss Xun to have such a grown daughter.
“Go ahead and wreak your havoc, you two,” Jiang Changting said with an admiring thumbs-up. “Just keep the karma away from me when it bites.”
Zhong Wei was only in his early thirties, decent-looking enough, but exhaustion weighed on him now, shadows pooling under his eyes. Before he could speak, Xun Ruosu cut in. “My failure to see Zhong Li at night doesn’t mean she’s still alive. These eyes of mine are complicated; maybe she just met some condition. The dead can’t linger in the mortal world—you should know that better than I do.”
The Xun Family tended to go with the flow. They had plenty of books at home but didn’t force their descendants to study them. Bloodline lore got a brief rundown at best—conscientious parents might spend half a day on it, careless ones wrapped it up in two sentences. Nothing like the Zhong Clan’s meticulous, upright approach.
The first lesson every Zhong Clan child learned was this: the dead extinguish like a lamp. Once they entered reincarnation, they had no ties to their past life. No clinging to loved ones, no matter how dear.
Zhong Wei’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. They stayed that way until his wrists flushed red and white in patches. Only then did he slowly unclench them. “I know what the Hall Master wants to ask. I haven’t uncovered everything, but I’ve pieced together most of it.”
“The Zhong Family genealogy isn’t complete. The main branch looks continuous now, with just one ancestor at the top. In truth, that old ancestor wasn’t the original one. From what I’ve found, the true founder committed some error and erased his own name.” Zhong Wei paused. “Among the side branches, only my line never died out, and we have records: his name was Zhong Qianfan.”
The name Zhong Qianfan rang unfamiliar bells. Household registries got tallied every few years even now, and people could tweak them legally with enough effort. Back then, centuries ago when IDs were scarce, it was even easier. Today Zhong Qianfan, tomorrow Zhong Wanqian—names meant little.
Still, a name was a name, and no diviner could ignore it. Besides, Xun Ruosu was running some serious cheats these days; peering into ancient history posed no problem.
“Indeed, it was him.” Xun Ruosu’s thumb lingered on her wound—the scrape from the copper coin still stung.
“Back when the Tenth Hall had no lord, the plan was to select candidates from mortal souls with the purest compassion. But being Tenth Hall Lord is no easy task. They had to learn to exorcise the ghosts of the Underworld, unravel karmic obsessions, and bear others’ karmic obstacles.”
Xue Tong had heard bits and pieces of this before but never paid it much mind.
Xun Ruosu continued, “Those souls came from the human world in the first place—they understood suffering best and possessed compassion. But they hadn’t let go of their own burdens, and taking on others’ obsessions wore that compassion thin over time, birthing heaps of karmic obstacles instead.”
Those failed attempts led the Heavenly Dao to rewrite the rules. No more demanding a bodhisattva’s heart from the Tenth Hall Lord. Instead, candidates had to endure demonic temptations from the start, bind themselves through it, and survive nine bolts of Heavenly Thunder to be reborn anew.
“Everyone involved suffered some fallout. The stronger ones, like Xun Jian, even withstood the third Heavenly Thunder… Later, the Heavenly Dao crafted a lord for the Tenth Hall from lifeless flesh—no soul, no apertures—modeled after the first nine halls. And that lord is you.”
“To compensate those souls back then, and because they held the power to exorcise and guide reincarnation, clans like the Zhong and Xun families came into being.”
Only now did Xue Tong grasp the full chain of cause and effect. She had a question, though. “Xun Jian was that powerful—how come her line turned out so rundown?”
“Because she was the only one struck by Heavenly Thunder,” Xun Ruosu said, feeling compelled to defend her ancestor. “Ordinary souls couldn’t withstand it, so it granted her a one-of-a-kind gift—but at the cost of damaged souls. Her merits leaked away like water. Any descendant entered in the genealogy was doomed to squander them.”
Xue Tong had been friends with Xun Jian for a stretch. Back then, Xun Jian had always been frail, chugging medicine daily. Sky-high talent, but a short life. Turns out her souls had been the guinea pigs.
“Zhong Qianfan’s original name was Zhong Buman. He was the last soul to try becoming Tenth Hall Lord. You were created only after his failure.” Xun Ruosu sighed. “His flop was total, worse even than Xun Jian’s. They chose him for his tenacity, his refusal to yield. When the Zhong Family formed, he buried that history by shoehorning in a lie: Zhong Kui as their founding ancestor.”
He had the grit and unyielding spirit, all right. They had hoped he’d bull his way through nine Heavenly Thunders. Too bad excess ruined it.
“Now that I think about it, Zhong Buman and I have a bit in common,” Xue Tong said, somehow finding time to compliment her ruthless foe. “Either don’t try at all, or make damn sure you succeed—otherwise, hate it forever.”
“…”
Xun Ruosu knew she was mixing in personal baggage. Xue Tong had one major failure in all these years, but on reflection, it wasn’t truly a failure—otherwise, Xun Ruosu wouldn’t be standing here so openly now.
“These souls all paved the road for me, taking risks. Zhong Buman’s my karma, I guess.” Xue Tong waved Zhong Wei off. “Bring in Huang Xiaoran—that fierce ghost.”
Zhong Wei: “…”
He was past thirty, yet he suddenly felt like a schoolboy summoned to the dean’s office.
Huang Xiaoran arrived quickly, skipping doors and walls altogether by phasing right through one.
She had been bound alongside Zhong Li; evidently, Jiang Changting had loosened the ropes. This concerned the Tenth Hall’s ownership, after all—he didn’t want his adorable little sister suddenly turning into a fifty-something uncle.
Xue Tong had a laundry list of flaws: blind to kindness, rebellious and unfilial, spoiled, bratty, sharp-tongued. But she was still the child he’d raised. Jiang Changting was protective to a fault. When little Xue Tong had tripped on a pebble as a kid, he’d wanted to hurl the damn thing into the knife mountain and oil cauldron atop Contemplation Cliff. Now that she was grown and could handle her own affairs, he still quietly cleared away minor nuisances.
Xue Tong was perched on the bed, “enjoying” a massage from Xun Ruosu. The seventh Heavenly Thunder, plus the backlash from unsealing the Buddhist Seal, had left her covered in wounds. Her self-healing failed or slowed in two cases: bites from Xun Ruosu, or thunder from the Tenth Hall’s lord selection.
Of course, she’d only just learned that herself. Before Xun Ruosu, she’d had no weaknesses.
“Change your clothes in a bit,” Xun Ruosu said after tending her last major wound. “These are soaked with rain and mud. Even if you can’t get infected, it’s no fun.”
With that, Xun Ruosu unzipped a black backpack. Summer clothes were thin and easy to pack—several outfits fit with a good roll. Jiang Changting had brought it, and Xun Ruosu couldn’t help suspecting he’d vanished earlier to raid Xue Tong’s place for a spare set.
“Why wait?” Xue Tong glanced at the three others in the room: Xun Ruosu, Qin Yu, and Huang Xiaoran. “These little girls aren’t even old enough for peach fuzz. You afraid they’ll sneak a peek?”
“Please show some decorum, young lady.” Xun Ruosu smacked a wound on her back.
Xue Tong straightened up on instinct. Xun Ruosu had drilled respect into her over a century. Time and reincarnation had changed things—Xun Ruosu no longer sat prim on her lotus platform—but the habit was bone-deep. That smack dragged up old memories: dozing in class, the ruler cracking across her palm until it swelled red and sore.
“…”
Xue Tong seethed inwardly. One day, I’ll strip right in front of you and rip off that sanctimonious mask!
Qin Yu, witnessing it all, murmured an “Amitabha” to herself. She is she, I am I. Good thing I struck early.
As for Huang Xiaoran, only eight years old, she blinked with wide, innocent eyes. Legs together, hands on her knees, she sat primly to the side, waiting patiently for the grown-ups to finish before they’d turn to her.
Xue Tong’s gaze finally settled on her. True, she’d sicced Heavenly Thunder on the source-tracing talisman, letting the little one off to focus on the Masked Man. But Huang Xiaoran remained a fierce ghost. She might dodge today’s purge, but tomorrow? Someone would remember, and it’d be roast, boil, fry, and stew all over again.
“Come sit here,” Xue Tong patted the spot beside her. “Let me take a good look at you.”
