Ling Feng's lips curled into a lazy sneer.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice soft but carrying the weight of an executioner's verdict. "You're going to crawl back to your tribes. Yin Moon. Black Chaos. All those names you like shouting so much when you're bullying people weaker than you."
His boot pressed a little harder.
Bone crackled underfoot.
The Yin Moon Prince and the Black Chaos Young Lord—two proud Royal Nobles whose names could shake the Nether Border—were half-knelt in the broken valley soil, ghostly qi spilling from their mouths with every cough of blood. The once-majestic ghost armor around them was shattered in several places, dark runes flickering like dying fireflies.
The battlefield still reeked of what they had tried to do.
White shadows—Snow-Shadow shadows—had been torn and frayed, their tribe's pale silhouettes carved apart by ghost blades and corrosive Yin. The grave valley itself had been ripped open in long, jagged scars. Old tombstones lay broken, grave mounds collapsed, ghost lanterns snapped and dangling.
Not so long ago, Yin Moon and Black Chaos banners had been flying in the wind here, full of swagger and murderous joy.
Now both banners were buried under rubble.
"And you're going to say," Ling Feng went on, eyes half-lidded, "that in the Nether Border, a crazy human helped Snow-Shadow."
His voice dropped, deep and calm.
"Say he likes killing annoying, arrogant Ghost Immortals," he said. "Say he doesn't mind stepping on second-rate tribes and small clans who think they can throw their weight around just because they piled their graves a little higher than everyone else."
Yin Moon Prince's fingers dug weakly into the cracked soil.
"You… think… you can provoke the Yin Moon—" the prince rasped, face pale with fury and humiliation.
Ling Feng twisted his heel.
There was a disgusting crunch.
The prince's scream tore out of his throat, high and ragged. Ghost bones that had been tempered for a hundred years collapsed like dry twigs. Soul light behind his eyes flickered wildly, about to gutter out.
"If you still have strength to finish a sentence," Ling Feng said lazily, "I haven't stepped hard enough."
Black Chaos Young Lord watched, eyes full of killing intent—and something else he couldn't swallow.
Fear.
Ling Feng's gaze slid between the two of them, dark eyes calm, as if he were deciding whether to keep a pair of cracked ornaments or throw them away.
"Go spread the word," he said. "Shout it to whoever will listen. Ghosts, humans, stone golems—don't be shy."
He lifted his foot at last.
Chaos energy slid invisibly from his toes into their mutilated bodies. It crept into broken skeletons, threaded through ruptured meridians, seeped into souls that were on the verge of dispersing. It did not heal. It did not soothe.
It simply pinned.
Like nails hammered through a shattered door, Chaos held their lifeforce in place, freezing them on the border between death and survival.
"You'll live long enough to make noise," Ling Feng added, the lazy smile returning to his lips. "Afterwards, well, I have no need for you to live."
He gave a light kick.
The Yin Moon Prince's body shot across the valley like a broken arrow, smashing through a row of leaning tombstones before finally slamming into a distant grave wall. Stone cracked, dust fell in sheets, and the prince slid down, leaving a long streak of ghost blood behind.
Black Chaos Young Lord followed, flung away like discarded trash, skidding across shattered stone, his body rolling several times before coming to a halt near a toppled grave stele.
They both remained alive.
But only because Ling Feng's Chaos casually refused to let them die yet.
In the silence that followed, the Snow-Shadow elites could hear only the faint, ragged gasps of the two young lords as they instinctively tried to stabilize their dao.
The shuddering of their broken qi seas.
The faint, pathetic crackling of failing ghost fire in their chests.
No one moved to help them.
Even the Nether winds seemed reluctant to come near that direction, as if sensing that the man who had just stepped on those two could decide the fate of anything caught between his fingers.
Ling Feng dusted his hands as if he'd finished some minor chore—a little dirt from mending a crooked tablet, nothing more—and turned back to Qiurong Wanxue's group.
His expression softened instantly, like a blade sheathed in velvet.
"Now then," he said. "Where were we?"
Peng Zhuang's grip on his halberd tightened.
Ling Feng raised a hand.
Emerald Chaos glimmered faintly at his fingertips—not bright, not ostentatious; not like the savage blast he had used to shatter Black Chaos' spear. This was a quiet light, a whisper in the Nether qi, as if the world itself were leaning in.
"Stand still," he said.
He waved.
A gentle wave of energy swept out.
It was nothing like Chen Baojiao's violent fist earlier, nothing like the crushing field that had knelt Yin Moon's ghost flames. This was soft. Warm. It felt almost like a basin of spring water poured over frostbitten limbs—seeping into aching bone, easing stiffness, waking numb flesh.
Snow-Shadow's elites stiffened on instinct. A few raised their weapons a fraction, white shadows flaring behind them.
Qiurong Wanxue lifted a hand.
"Wait," she murmured.
Her words alone were enough. The Snow-Shadow warriors trusted her. They forced themselves to still their dao, letting the emerald wave wash over them.
The effect was immediate.
Yin corrosion—cold, biting, insidious—was gently drawn out of their wounds like black threads being pulled from cloth. The nether frost that had settled in their meridians shivered and unraveled. Shattered pathways knit together with a speed visible to the naked eye; cracks that should have taken months of careful recuperation to mend sealed in the span of a breath.
Their white shadows, which had been ragged and thin as if chewed by beasts, grew solid and clear again. The pale silhouettes at their feet sharpened, ghost light returning to its full crescent glow.
Qiurong Wanxue felt the fractures in her own dao smooth out.
The pale crescent behind her—Snow-Shadow's totem—regained its full, round shape, its glow honed instead of dulled. The exhaustion buried deep in her bone marrow, from days of constant fighting and suppression, melted away like hoarfrost under a rising sun.
She exhaled softly.
No backlash. No hidden barbs. No forced imprint planted in her dao.
Just… restored.
Peng Zhuang stared at his own hands.
The wounds that should have required half a month of recovery—torn ligaments, cracked bones, ghost fire burns—were gone without a trace. When he clenched his fingers, power surged cleanly, with a flexibility he hadn't felt since before this campaign even began.
Around them, Snow-Shadow elites exchanged stunned looks.
They could feel it clearly—this wasn't crude, forceful healing, the kind that stuffed you full of foreign energy and left hidden poison for decades. This was precise. Careful. Even gentle. It had cleaned them, then retreated, leaving nothing behind but their own strengthened foundations.
Qiurong Wanxue's chest tightened.
'He doesn't even know us,' she thought.
Most powerful masters, when they reached down from their lofty heights to "help" minor tribes, did so with open palms and clenched fists. They would toss down a pill, extend one thread of dao, and then open their hand for oaths, pledges, chains of servitude that lasted generations.
This man…
He healed them like someone brushing dust off his sleeve.
No conditions. No demands. No attempt to bind souls or steal their dao imprint.
Ling Feng let his hand fall back into his sleeve.
"That's better," he said lightly. "Standing around half-broken is bad for morale."
He tilted his head and smiled at Qiurong Wanxue.
"Let's do this properly," he added. "Ling Feng. Just a human passing through."
He gestured casually at the women around him.
"And these are my wives."
Every single one of them reacted.
Su Yonghuang's brow lifted just a fraction. "Since when," she asked calmly, "did I sign any official marriage papers with you?"
Her voice was cool as an ancient well, but there was a faint warmth hidden deep under the surface, like embers under ash.
Bing Yuxia looked at him over her fan, the tips of her ears turning faintly pink. "Young Noble," she said, her tone frosty as always, "you speak nonsense quite quickly in other people's territory."
Chi Xiaodie's mouth twitched. "Your Lion's Roar princess did not agree to that phrase," she snapped. Then, grudgingly, "Yet."
Li Shangyuan's cheeks colored, but her eyes were soft, as if they were always smiling when they looked at him. "If you keep saying it so openly," she murmured, voice gentle as flowing jade, "then sooner or later, the world will believe it."
Xu Pei could only manage a helpless, shy smile—the kind of expression a maiden in love wore when her man decided something on his own and dragged her into it. Her fingers twisted a corner of her robe, but she didn't protest.
Bai Jianzhen said nothing.
She only glanced aside, fingers brushing the hilt of her sword, the tips of her ears suspiciously red.
Chen Baojiao snorted the loudest.
"Hmph. Shameless," she said. "You don't even give us time to protest before you throw words like that around."
Ling Feng chuckled.
"But none of you denied you were mine," he pointed out, eyes crinkling.
Scoffs. Eye-rolls. A fan snapping shut with a sharp sound. A sword humming. A quiet, hidden smile.
The atmosphere around them… shifted.
The heavy pressure that had filled the valley—the smell of fresh blood, the weight of almost-annihilation—was pushed back by this small scene of bickering intimacy, like a single shaft of sunlight slipping into a mausoleum through a forgotten crack.
Snow-Shadow's elites watched, expressions complicated.
Peng Zhuang's shoulders loosened. "At least," he muttered under his breath, "they seem more like people than ghosts."
Qiurong Wanxue's lips curved, almost despite herself.
She bowed slightly.
"Snow-Shadow's Qiurong Wanxue," she introduced herself formally. "Thanks Mister Ling and the ladies for your aid."
He waved a hand.
"No need to be so stiff," he replied. "If we hadn't passed by, those two would keep thinking they can do whatever they like out here. Someone needed to slap them."
Her brows knit faintly.
"Why?" she asked softly. "Forgive my bluntness, Mister Ling, but humans here usually avoid getting involved in our conflicts. We are ghosts. To many of your kind, we are ill omens, dangerous neighbors. Today, you not only intervened—you struck two tribes at once."
Her gaze met his, steady and clear beneath the pale lashes.
"What do you gain from helping us?" she asked.
Behind her, Snow-Shadow elites straightened unconsciously, white shadows bright and taut. Their eyes were full of hope and anxiety both.
Ling Feng looked at her for a moment.
Under the dim Nether sky, the white shadow at her feet shone faintly, drawing a soft circle around her boots. Even after the beating she'd taken, she stood straight, shoulders squared, back unbent. No groveling. No false pitifulness.
Just a chief bearing her tribe's weight on her own spine.
He smiled.
"You all looked like proud warriors," he said simply. "Even when things were going badly, you didn't bow your heads. I like that."
He jerked his chin toward Chen Baojiao.
"Besides," he added, "Baojiao's fists were getting bored. If I didn't let her lend a hand, she'd want to spar with me, and then things get really destructive."
Chen Baojiao clicked her tongue, but that small, pleased glint in her eyes betrayed her.
"And," Ling Feng finished, shrugging, "I'm glad we were able to help."
No lofty speeches about justice. No talk of destiny or heaven's will. No promises of "eternal protection" in exchange for their worship.
Just… that.
Qiurong Wanxue's heart trembled.
In a world where every favor was tied to invisible chains, this kind of answer felt almost unreal. Simple. Unadorned. Yet it carried a warmth that sank into bone.
She bowed more deeply this time.
"This kindness," she said quietly, "Snow-Shadow will remember."
Ling Feng smiled, eyes bending in amusement.
"Clearing trash like that is fun once in a while," he said lightly. "If you leave them lying around, they start thinking the road belongs to them."
Qiurong Wanxue didn't quite know how to answer that.
Her people had nearly been annihilated a moment ago. To this man, it was… "fun." Yet there had been no cruelty in his eyes when he stepped on those two young lords—only a calm, merciless certainty, like sweeping aside rotten wood.
Before she could gather her thoughts, he shifted as if to turn away.
"Alright," Ling Feng said, dusting his hands as though he'd done nothing more than straighten a grave tablet, "we'll head toward Necropolis. Take care of yourselves down here. The next wave that comes might not be so polite."
He moved as though the matter was finished.
Qiurong Wanxue's heart skipped.
"Wait."
Her voice came out quicker than she intended, cutting across the grave valley.
Ling Feng paused mid-step and glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes were calm, but there was a flicker of interest there.
Qiurong Wanxue straightened her back.
"Just now…" She drew a soft breath. "Mister Ling saved Snow-Shadow from calamity. This is a great kindness. Our tribe…" She hesitated.
Snow-Shadow was not a rich lineage. Their treasures were mostly graves and old stories. The few artifacts they possessed were tied to their duty and could not be given away.
"…Our tribe cannot repay you properly in a battlefield such as this," she finished.
Peng Zhuang clenched his halberd, lips parting, but he didn't interrupt.
Qiurong Wanxue continued, voice growing steadier:
"If Mister Ling and the ladies would be willing, I would like to invite your esteemed group to our tribe. Let us at least serve you a proper reception and burn incense before our ancestral graves to thank you."
Her words were formal, but her eyes were clear. There was no groveling, no shameless attempt to cling. Only the dignity of a chief who refused to treat this as a small favor.
Ling Feng studied her for a heartbeat.
Behind her, Snow-Shadow disciples stood in neat formation, white shadows now solid and bright. The battlefield still smelled of blood and shattered dao. Far away, the Yin Moon Prince and Black Chaos Young Lord dragged themselves through rubble, too humiliated to even look this way, each breath a jagged rasp.
He tilted his head, smile deepening a fraction.
"…Tempting," he said. "But not today."
A trace of disappointment flickered in Peng Zhuang's eyes. Even Qiurong Wanxue's slender fingers tightened minutely at her side.
"We have some business in Necropolis," he went on, tone still unhurried. "Moreover, I'm looking to… let's say, seek attention here. It's related to other matters we have in this world."
He let that sink in.
The idea of someone coming to Necropolis to "seek attention" was almost laughable. Most lineages treated that place with cautious reverence; they came quietly, left quietly, afraid that a wrong step would provoke some ancient existence hidden under those layered graves.
This man wanted everyone to look at him.
"But if you're heading toward Necropolis as well," he added more gently, "we can walk together for a while. Talk on the road. When we've finished our matters, I'll come to Snow-Shadow properly and disturb your ancestors in person."
Peng Zhuang's eyes lit up despite himself.
Qiurong Wanxue lowered her gaze briefly, thoughts moving like flowing frost.
With today's fiasco, Yin Moon and Black Chaos wouldn't retreat quietly. Two young lords had been crippled in front of their armies; their hatred would boil. Once they crawled back to their tribes, pressure on Snow-Shadow would only grow heavier.
Staying alone on these grave plains… was like waiting for a blade to fall.
But this man…
Her gaze lifted again, sweeping across his group.
Chen Baojiao, still standing on a shattered tombstone, crimson robes rustling in the Nether wind, aura wild and free—like a war goddess born from a battlefield spring.
Su Yonghuang, whose simple cloak could not hide the burning sun within her body; every breath she took seemed to weigh on the heavens.
Chi Xiaodie, fierce and sharp, like a lioness caged in human form.
Li Shangyuan, calm and refined, her jade-like heart radiating gentle strength.
Xu Pei, quiet but steady, the type who would follow one person to the end of the world.
Bing Yuxia, frost and pride wrapped in the figure of a graceful girl, the cold mirror at her side reflecting any gaze that lingered too long.
Bai Jianzhen, whose presence was like a sheathed sword—silent, yet the faint hum of murderous edge seemed to press on the very air.
And Ling Feng himself—hands tucked loosely into his sleeves, aura so deep it swallowed the Nether qi around him, yet his expression relaxed, almost lazy.
He had saved them without asking for anything.
He had healed them with a flick of his hand, then made jokes to ease their hearts.
He called them "proud warriors." He stepped on Yin Moon and Black Chaos like they were ants.
More importantly, none of his women looked like prisoners or vassals.
They teased him, scolded him, rolled their eyes at him, argued with him openly. No fear of speaking, no trembling because a single wrong word meant death. That alone said enough about the path they walked together.
Compared to most Ghost Immortal lineages and the rare human cultivators she'd seen… they were like clean moonlight beside gutter oil.
Qiurong Wanxue made her choice.
Her white shadow solidified beneath her boots. She clasped her hands and bowed.
"Then Snow-Shadow will accompany Young Noble Ling to Necropolis," she said softly. "If you don't mind the company of a declining tribe."
The word "declining" hung in the air like a self-mocking sigh.
Ling Feng's eyes narrowed slightly, then he smiled.
"Declining, hm?" he said.
He walked back toward her, closing the distance with unhurried steps. The Nether qi moved aside for him, like fog pulled by an unseen tide.
He stopped a few paces away and met her gaze directly.
"I see a chief who threw her life against two tribes without flinching," he said, voice mild. "Hard to call that 'decline'."
The words were simple. No grand rhetoric. No flowery praise.
Yet Qiurong Wanxue's composure rippled.
Her white brows moved ever so slightly; a touch of color rose in her pale cheeks. In the depths of her dao heart—burdened with generations of retreat and concession—something tightly wound loosened by a fraction.
Behind Ling Feng, seven women reacted almost in unison.
Su Yonghuang gave him a sidelong look that held both amusement and helplessness. She had heard that tone before, offered to peerless queens and arrogant lady descendants.
Bing Yuxia's fingers tapped her fan. "…Here it is," she murmured under her breath, lips curling. "His poisonous mouth."
Chi Xiaodie clicked her tongue. "He needs someone to smack the back of his head every time he starts talking like that," she muttered.
Li Shangyuan's eyes bent in a gentle smile. "Young Noble's mouth is as smooth as ever," she said quietly.
Chen Baojiao snorted, crossing her arms under her chest. "He sees a beautiful ghost chief and immediately starts polishing his tongue," she said, voice not quite as sour as her words suggested.
Bai Jianzhen's expression didn't change, but the hand resting on her sword hilt tightened a fraction. Her clear eyes slid once toward Qiurong Wanxue, then back to Ling Feng, silently marking every interaction.
Xu Pei sighed, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. "Feng… really doesn't know how to restrain himself," she whispered, though the warmth in her eyes said she'd given up expecting restraint long ago.
Ling Feng pretended not to hear any of that.
He gave Qiurong Wanxue an easy nod, as if he hadn't just thrown a boulder into a calm lake, and turned.
"Let's go," he said. "If we walk, we'll reach Necropolis by dusk. Plenty of time to chat."
...
The grave valley slowly receded behind them.
Snow-Shadow reorganized their lines with practiced efficiency. With their injuries gone and their dao stabilized, their steps became light again. White shadows flowed in neat formation behind Qiurong Wanxue, each ghostly silhouette moving like ripples of pale water.
Peng Zhuang stayed near the front, halberd resting across his shoulders. Every so often, his eyes would slide to Ling Feng's group with a mix of wariness and awe.
Ling Feng and his women didn't hurry.
They cut through the Nether plains like a wandering group on a scenic stroll, not like a force that had just crippled two major tribes' heirs.
Underfoot, the earth changed gradually.
From scattered grave mounds to denser fields of tombs.
From chaotic, piled bones to solemn ridges where stone steles stood in ordered rows, each one inscribed with ancient, weather-worn glyphs.
Ghost lanterns hanging from crooked poles became more regular, their pale flames forming faint lines that traced invisible veins through the land. Streams of Yin qi, too subtle for ordinary cultivators to notice, converged toward the distance, drawn by an unseen center.
Necropolis' outline slowly rose on the horizon: a city of black stone layered atop ancient graves, its walls etched with dao marks that had survived countless ages. Each tier of the city sat like an old ring on a tree trunk, built over the bones of the previous era.
Between here and there, the road wound through burial fields that seemed endless.
As they walked, Ling Feng naturally fell into place beside Qiurong Wanxue.
He did not walk too close. He did not loom. His hands stayed tucked in his sleeves, posture relaxed, steps steady.
"So," he said conversationally, "Snow-Shadow has been guarding these graves for how many generations?"
Qiurong Wanxue glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"…Our tribe's records say that when the first clans came to the Nether Border to claim land," she answered, "Snow-Shadow was already here."
Her gaze swept the surrounding mounds.
"We followed the Ghost River's call and settled among these old graves," she said. "Since then, we have watched over these tombs—collecting wandering souls, calming resentful spirits, stopping grave robbers when we can."
Her tone was calm, but there was a quiet pride beneath the words, the pride of people who had done their duty for so long that it had seeped into their bones.
Ling Feng nodded.
"Guardians," he said. "Not bad."
She gave a faint, self-mocking smile.
"Guardians who cannot even protect themselves," she replied. "In these generations, stronger lineages came."
She looked toward the distant horizon.
"Kingdoms, sects, tribes with deeper foundations," she continued. "They claimed the prime grave ranges. We were gradually pushed outward, then further outward… until now, when even these outskirts draw others' greed."
Her gaze lingered in the direction Yin Moon and Black Chaos had fled.
"Yin Moon came under the banner of 'order'," she said. "Black Chaos under the banner of 'protection'. In truth, they want these graves, these arts, the remnants buried underfoot. Snow-Shadow's land is too small, our foundation too shallow. To them, we are better off absorbed… or erased."
She spoke plainly, without self-pity.
Ling Feng listened, expression mild.
"Order and protection, huh," he said. "They love those words, don't they? Wrap greed in nice-sounding cloth and pretend no one can see the stains."
Qiurong Wanxue's lips twitched once, quickly suppressed.
"You speak as if you have seen many such things," she said.
"I've stepped on a few banners," Ling Feng admitted, smiling. "The words written on them are all the same. The people underneath are the ones that differ."
He looked at her, eyes curving.
"For example," he said, "a tribe that guards graves without stealing from them, standing their ground even when two bigger dogs bite from both sides… that's rare."
The ghostly light in her eyes rippled.
She looked away first.
"Young Noble Ling's tongue is truly skilled," she murmured, tone delicate.
Behind them, Chen Baojiao's snort was loud enough to make several Snow-Shadow disciples flinch.
"Tongue, my ass," she said under her breath. "He just says whatever pops into his head."
"Baojiao," Li Shangyuan chided gently, though her own eyes were smiling. "Language."
"What? I'm right." Chen Baojiao rolled her shoulders. "He sees someone he likes and immediately starts talking like that."
"Mm." Bing Yuxia hid half her face behind her fan, voice cool but amused. "He does that."
Chi Xiaodie's arms remained crossed, but her gaze kept drifting toward Qiurong Wanxue and Ling Feng, measuring the distance between them, weighing something in her heart.
"…She is calm," Chi Xiaodie muttered softly. "Not easily swayed. We've seen courts and sects. This one is… different."
Su Yonghuang smiled faintly.
"Feng is not the only one who chooses," she said in a low voice that only the women around her heard. "They choose him as well. So watch. If she is truly Snow-Shadow's chief, she will not bend just because he smiles at her twice."
Bai Jianzhen said nothing, but the sword at her waist hummed once, acknowledging a worthy presence walking ahead.
Xu Pei watched Qiurong Wanxue's back—the white cloak, the unbending spine, the way she never let her steps falter even while leading a wounded tribe.
"…She reminds me a little of you," Xu Pei whispered to Su Yonghuang. "That time back in Cleansing Incense… before you came with us."
Su Yonghuang's eyes softened, recalling snow and old pavilions, banners and incense, the feeling of walking alone with a sect on her shoulders.
"…Perhaps," she said.