The courtyard within the Nine Saint Demon Gate's territory in Ancient Sky City was a sanctuary of constructed tranquility. While the streets outside roared with the clamor of a million cultivators and the chaotic commerce of the dead, this pavilion was wrapped in layers of isolation arrays that filtered the noise down to a gentle hum.
Inside, the air was thick—not with the tension of the impending burial, but with the lazy, cloying sweetness of high-grade incense and the warmth of intimacy.
Ling Feng lounged on a wide, plush couch carved from Deep Sea Cold Jade, though his posture suggested he was watching Netflix on a Saturday afternoon rather than preparing to invade one of the Twelve Burial Grounds.
He had one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped casually over the backrest, looking at the priceless artifacts scattered on the low table before him with the critical eye of a bargain hunter at a yard sale.
"So," Ling Feng drawled, picking up the legendary Heavenly Ancient Corpse Box. He flicked the lid open and shut, making a clacking sound that would have given the Gu Clan shopkeeper a heart attack. "This is the junk people bleed rivers for? A few wooden tokens, some moth-eaten clothes, and a dusty gong. Honestly, looks like stuff you'd find in a donation bin."
Sitting on the floor between his legs was the supreme beauty, Chen Baojiao. Her back rested against the couch, her posture completely relaxed in his presence. She leaned her head back, her eyes fluttering shut as Ling Feng's fingers lazily tangled into her cascading, silk-like hair, massaging her scalp.
"Young Noble," Baojiao purred, though her voice carried a trace of trepidation as she glanced at the items. "Do not underestimate them. These items possess a terrifying aura of death. Just looking at that cloak makes my blood run cold, as if the Underworld itself is breathing down my neck."
"That's just the aesthetic. It's branding," Ling Feng replied dismissively, twirling a thick lock of her hair around his index finger. "It's soaked in the energy of the Underworld Boats. It masks the breath of the living. To the horrors in the Burial Ground, wearing this is like putting on a staff uniform. It tells them, 'Relax, I'm part of the crew, don't eat me.'"
To his left, Xu Pei sat with the grace of a gentle stream. She was carefully peeling a Golden Sun Spirit Fruit, her movements delicate and precise. She sliced the radiant fruit into bite-sized pieces, holding a slice up to Ling Feng's lips.
He didn't lean forward; instead, he simply opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him. His lips brushed against her fingertips—a deliberate, teasing contact that sent a jolt of electricity through the gentle girl. Xu Pei flushed a deep, rosy shade of pink, ducking her head but refusing to pull her hand away.
"Sweet," Ling Feng murmured, winking at her. "And the fruit isn't bad either."
Standing by the window was Li Shuangyan. The descendant of the Nine Saint Demon Gate stood tall and straight, her icy temperament usually freezing the air around her. Yet, as she gazed out at the skyline of Ancient Sky City, her attention was magnetically pulled back to the man on the couch. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, not in aggression, but in a habit of protection.
"You really stole them right from under the Gu Clan's nose," Li Shuangyan remarked, her tone a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration. "The Gu Clan is mysterious, their roots tracing back to eras unknown. They have ties to the mysterious space of the Burial Ground itself. Are you not worried about Karma? In the cultivation world, cause and effect is a net that misses nothing."
"Karma?" Ling Feng scoffed, biting into another piece of fruit. "My dear Shuangyan, look at me. I'm an anomaly. I exist outside everything. The High Heavens can't track my IP address, so what makes you think a cryptic shopkeeper can? Besides, I didn't steal it. I... permanently borrowed it with the intent to repurpose. It's eco-friendly. I'm recycling."
He patted the empty cushion beside him, the gesture inviting and commanding all at once. "Anyways, come here, honey. Stop standing there posing like a statue. My Chaos Sense is telling me your meridians are stiff. You need to relax before the show starts."
Li Shuangyan hesitated for a heartbeat, her Dao Heart wavering between her ingrained propriety and her desire. With a soft sigh of defeat, she walked over and sat gracefully on his right.
Ling Feng didn't hesitate. He immediately wrapped a strong arm around her slender waist, pulling her flush against his side. Li Shuangyan stiffened for a fraction of a second—her natural defense mechanism—before she melted, her head finding a resting place on his shoulder. It was a comfortable silence, the kind shared by people who understood their places in each other's worlds.
"So," Chen Baojiao asked, tilting her head back to look at him upside down, her beautiful eyes sparkling. "The War God Temple. When are they coming? I want to see if their 'War God' reputation holds water."
"They were supposed to be here at noon," Ling Feng glanced at his bare wrist as if checking a Rolex. "It is now two past noon."
As if on cue, the space outside the pavilion rippled like water disturbed by a stone. A disciple of the Nine Saint Demon Gate rushed in, sweat beading on his forehead. He fell to his knees, bowing low, trembling slightly under the pressure of the powerful auras in the room.
"Young Noble! A message from the War God Temple!"
Ling Feng didn't get up. He didn't even stop playing with Baojiao's hair. "Read it."
The disciple nervously unrolled a scroll that radiated a golden, imperious light—the hallmark of an arrogant Great Power. "The... The Elder of the War God Temple sends his regards. He states that due to an unforeseen delay with the Ancestor's preparation, their arrival will be postponed by three days. They will rendezvous with us when the Underworld Boats arrive at the river."
Silence descended on the room. It was heavy, suffocating.
Xu Pei looked worried, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Li Shuangyan frowned, her icy aura flaring sharply; for a sect to delay a meeting with her Young Noble was a slap in the face. Chen Baojiao's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her hand instinctively drifting toward her saber.
Ling Feng, however, just started laughing.
It wasn't a happy laugh. It was a dry, sharp sound, like dead leaves crunching under a boot.
"Postponed? Three days?" Ling Feng shook his head, staring at the ceiling frescoes. "Wow. The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated entitlement. They really think the world revolves around their dusty old ancestors, don't they?"
He lowered his gaze to the trembling disciple. His eyes, usually warm and playful, were now cold pools of indifference.
"Burn the scroll."
The disciple froze. "Y-Young Noble?"
"Did I stutter?" Ling Feng's voice was soft, yet it carried more weight than a mountain. "Burn it. Right now. And if they show up in three days, tell them I went out for milk and never came back."
"You're ditching the War God Temple?" Li Shuangyan asked, though the corner of her mouth quirked upward. She knew his temperament; he was a dragon that refused to be leashed.
"I hate waiting," Ling Feng grumbled, standing up. The movement was fluid, powerful, displacing the girls gently as he rose. He stretched, his joints popping like firecrackers. "Really, too much arrogance from these crusty dudes. They think I'm some hired help they can put on the shelf until they're ready? Nah. I don't subscribe to that service."
He walked to the table and snatched up the Ancient Heavenly Corpse Adornment—the ragged grey cloak—and the Frightened Corpse Gong.
"We're doing this my way. We're going shopping right now."
He held up the grey cloak, inspecting the ancient, frantic stitching. In the original timeline, Li Qiye had to perform complex rites, burning paper money and chanting mantras to appease the spirits within the artifact. He had to negotiate.
Ling Feng didn't negotiate with equipment.
"Yellow Chaos Emerald. Wake up."
BUZZ.
In his Inner Void, the Yellow Chaos Emerald (Energy Manipulation) flared to life. A strange, alien frequency began to hum around Ling Feng's body. It wasn't Spirit Energy; it was the raw code of the universe.
He didn't just put on the cloak; he invaded it. He flooded the ancient artifact with Chaos Energy, analyzing its frequency—the specific wavelength of Death Energy it emitted—and then amplified it a thousandfold.
"The rules of this world aren't made for me," Ling Feng said, a smirk playing on his lips as the cloak settled over his shoulders. The grey fabric shimmered, accepting him not as a wearer, but as a master. "I don't need a boat to make me a Messenger. I just need to convince the dead guys that I'm one of them. With my energy control, I can fake the frequency of the Underworld so perfectly that even the death energy will think I'm their lost cousin."
He turned to his three women. Their eyes were wide, filled with a potent mixture of shock, reverence, and adrenaline. This man was insane, arrogant, and completely unhinged, but he had the power to back every single impossible word.
"Pack your bags, ladies," Ling Feng commanded, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with the thrill of the unknown. "We're skipping the line. We're going straight to the VIP section."
"Where?" Baojiao asked, standing up and grinning fiercely, her blood boiling with excitement.
"The Heavenly Ancient Corpse Burial Ground. And trust me," Ling Feng's eyes flashed with a neon-green light, "the view is to die for."
"Hold onto me. Tight. I don't want to leave anyone's arm in a different dimension."
Ling Feng's command was simple. The three women didn't hesitate. Xu Pei grabbed his left arm with both hands, Li Shuangyan gripped his right, and Chen Baojiao, bold as ever, stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, pressing her curves against his back.
"Chaos Control."
The Cyan Chaos Emerald (Space/Time) in his Inner Void spun like a turbine reaching critical velocity.
Cultivators used Dao Gates to tear holes in space, a violent and turbulent process. Ling Feng did something more elegant. He perceived the coordinates of the Burial Ground and the coordinates of the courtyard as two points on a sheet of paper.
He folded the paper.
Zwoop.
There was no nausea. No swirling vortex of colors. No dizziness. Just a sudden, instantaneous shift in air pressure, temperature, and smell.
One heartbeat, they were smelling incense. The next, they were smelling damp earth and ancient pine.
"We're here," Ling Feng whispered.
The women opened their eyes and gasped in unison.
They had expected a graveyard. Their imaginations had painted pictures of gloom, rotting flesh, thick grey mists, and the wails of ghosts.
What lay before them was a landscape of breathtaking, haunting beauty.
Rolling green hills stretched out to the horizon, the grass lush and vibrant, swaying in a gentle breeze that carried no scent of rot. Massive mountains pierced the clouds, their peaks shrouded in holy, white mists that looked like the breath of immortals. Waterfalls of crystal-clear liquid cascaded down sheer cliffs, pooling in serene lakes that reflected the azure sky like mirrors.
It looked like a paradise. A Holy Ground where Immortals would ascend.
But the horror—the true horror—was in the details.
"Look," Li Shuangyan whispered, her voice trembling as she pointed at a nearby cliff face.
Hanging from the cliff, suspended by rusty, ancient chains that groaned in the wind, were thousands of coffins. Some were made of rotting wood, some of bronze covered in verdigris, others of cold stone. They swayed gently, a forest of the dead hanging like fruit.
On the highest peaks of the mountains, singular, majestic sarcophagi sat like thrones, overlooking the world with silent arrogance.
Floating on the serene lakes were drifting wooden caskets, bobbing silently, bumping against each other with hollow thuds.
This was the Heavenly Ancient Corpse Burial Ground. The place where the invincible masters, the unparalleled geniuses, and the tyrants of eras past came to bury themselves. They came hoping for a chance at rebirth, hoping to borrow the geomancy of this land to live for one more generation.
"It's... beautiful," Xu Pei murmured, clutching Ling Feng's arm so tight her knuckles were white. "But it feels... wrong. My soul is shivering."
"It's a trap made of pretty scenery," Ling Feng said, his voice serious. He wasn't smiling now. The playfulness was dialed back, replaced by the sharp focus of a predator entering another predator's territory. He scanned the horizon with his Chaos Sense, the Green Emerald pulsing. "Every inch of this dirt is soaked in the obsession of the dead. Don't be fooled by the green grass. Underneath, it's all bones."
He turned to the three of them, his expression stern, leaving no room for argument.
"Rules of the road. Listen carefully. One: Do not touch anything. Not a rock, not a flower, and definitely not a coffin. Two: Do not speak loudly. The residents here are grumpy sleepers. Three: Do not move even five feet from me."
"Understood," they chorused. They had never seen him this cautious before. Even when facing the True God Evil Typha Tree of the Evil Infested Ridge, he had been cracking jokes. This place demanded respect.
"Good. Let's take a walk."
They began to trek deep into the hills. Ling Feng led the way, his steps light and soundless. He was wearing the Ancient Heavenly Corpse Adornment now, the hood pulled up. The grey cloak draped over him, and strange, ghostly runes shimmered on the fabric.
To the naked eye, he looked like a Grim Reaper, a messenger of the earth.
He exuded a faint, grey aura—a perfect mimicry of the Death Energy of the Burial Ground, synthesized by his Yellow Chaos Emerald. As they walked, they encountered the wandering Earth Corpses. These were shriveled, dried-up cultivators who had crawled out of their graves, their minds gone, bodies driven only by instinct.
They shuffled past the group, eyes hollow and milky. But when they sensed Ling Feng, they didn't attack. They paused, tilting their heads as if listening to a higher authority, and then shuffled aside, treating Ling Feng as one of their own hierarchy.
"It works," Baojiao whispered, eyes wide. "They think he's a dead Lord."
As they crested a large, verdant hill, a commotion broke the silence.
"Over there," Ling Feng gestured with his chin.
In the valley below, a group of cultivators had gathered. There were about fifty of them, dressed in uniform red robes embroidered with flame motifs. They radiated heat and arrogance. The leader was an old man, his aura surging—an Enlightened Being. The rest were Nobles. A powerful lineup for any normal sect, but here? They were ants.
"Idiots," Ling Feng muttered, shaking his head. "Look at them. Stomping around like they own the place."
The leader of the red-robed sect stood atop a mound of earth, pointing his sword at a bronze coffin that was half-buried in the hillside.
"This is the Feng Shui Treasure Land!" the Sect Leader roared, his voice echoing offensively loud. "Disciples! Dig up that coffin! That Bronze Coffin surely contains an Ancient Saint's legacy! The Heavens have blessed our Blazing Sun Sect today!"
"Dig! Dig!" The disciples cheered, their greed overpowering their survival instincts. They summoned their Life Treasures—flying swords, pagodas, massive hammers—and began to strike the earth, tearing up the holy soil.
CLANG!
The moment the first shovel hit the dirt, reality seemed to hiccup.
The wind stopped instantly. The clouds froze in the sky. The beautiful waterfalls ceased their flow, hanging in suspended animation.
From the ground around the bronze coffin, the soil exploded outward.
Hands shot up.
They weren't the rotten, fumbling hands of zombies. These were hands of dry, preserved skin that looked like old bark, fingers rigid and strong as steel.
Five figures crawled out of the earth. They wore the tattered, decayed robes of an era three hundred thousand years ago. Their skin was grey, their eyes closed.
Earth Corpses.
"Attack!" the Blazing Sun Sect Leader roared, panic flaring in his eyes as he realized his mistake. "They are just dead things! Burn them to ash!"
He channeled his cultivation, firing a massive blast of pure Yang energy. The fire took the form of a roaring dragon, scorching the air as it rushed toward the corpses.
One of the Earth Corpses—a small, withered man—simply raised a hand. He didn't use a spell. He didn't use a treasure. He didn't even open his eyes.
He performed a finger strike.
The Heavenly Piercing Finger. A technique lost to the world for three eras.
PFFT!
It was a soft sound, like a needle popping a balloon.
The finger strike released a beam of concentrated, grey death energy. It met the roaring fire dragon and obliterated it. The dragon didn't explode; it simply ceased to exist, deconstructed by the superior law.
The beam didn't stop. It punched through the fire, through the protective barrier of the Sect Leader, and drilled a hole clean through his forehead.
The Enlightened Being—a master who could dominate a region—dropped dead before his body even registered the impact. His soul was extinguished instantly.
"Sect Master?!" The disciples screamed, their formation shattering in terror.
The other four Earth Corpses moved.
They blurred.
They didn't shamble. They used footwork techniques that defied logic, stepping through the gaps in space. One moment they were by the coffin, the next they were in the middle of the crowd.
One Earth Corpse summoned a phantom sword—a manifestation of pure sword intent—and swept it horizontally.
SHING.
Ten disciples were bisected at the waist. Their upper bodies slid off their legs a second later, blood spraying like fountains, painting the green grass a horrific crimson.
Another Earth Corpse, a hulking figure, grabbed a disciple by the head with one hand and squeezed.
CRUNCH.
It was a massacre. A slaughter.
In ten seconds, it was over.
Fifty cultivators. Dismembered. Decapitated. Crushed. Their blood soaked the earth, making the grass look even more vibrant, as if the land was drinking greedily.
The Earth Corpses didn't eat them. They didn't gloat. They simply dragged the fresh, warm bodies into the hole the disciples had dug. They buried them efficiently, adding the biomass to the nourishment of the land.
Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the five Earth Corpses crawled back into the earth, crossing their arms over their chests and returning to their eternal slumber.
Silence returned to the hills. The waterfalls resumed flowing. The wind blew again.
It was as if nothing had happened.