Chapter 82.3

But he still didn’t give up. Knowing he no longer had the strength to fight, he said:

“You name the terms. Just give me a way to live.”

Li Zhuiyuan shook his head. “You have to die.”

“Why? I’ve never crossed you.”

Li Zhuiyuan answered with a straight face, “If we don’t kill you, the three of us came here tonight for nothing. We’d look like idiots.”

Mao Chang’an: “…”

Tan Wenbin chimed in, “Right, right. We came all this way at night. The show was great, sure, but we’ve got to do something. Otherwise it doesn’t feel like we participated.”

Mao Chang’an said, “Everything I’ve done was according to the rules. If you kill me, aren’t you afraid of divine retribution?”

Tan Wenbin pointed at the three of them. “It’s fine. There are three of us. We’ll split the punishment evenly—shouldn’t be much left.”

Li Zhuiyuan added, “If not for my warning earlier, Zhao Junfeng would’ve killed you in a sneak attack. So really, your life already belongs to me.”

Yin Meng glanced at Tan Wenbin. “That’s the difference between brains.”

Mao Chang’an collapsed to the ground with a dull thud. From his hand, he drew out a talisman and gently ran his fingertip across it. The talisman ignited.

He could barely walk now. If he didn’t stop the bleeding, the loss alone would kill him. He knew escape was impossible.

Selfish men fear death above all—but they fear even more being taken advantage of.

The talisman he just lit was a “key” from his family.

The moment it burned, the wind in the temple changed.

The previously balanced yin-yang layout began to rupture and collide. Dense waves of yin aura surged from the bronze door beneath the general’s statue. Clusters of greenish ghost fire rose into the air. Fiery lines flared up across the floor.

“My things… none of you are taking them. None of you…”

The flames spread without a gap, leaping up from every direction.

Yin Meng said, “Xiaoyuan-ge, I’ll go kill him. Then we leave.”

“We’re leaving,” Li Zhuiyuan said, already turning to run.

Yin Meng hesitated. Weren’t they just saying that not killing someone would make them look like fools?

Besides, while the fire had started, it wasn’t yet unmanageable. There was still time to kill him and get out.

Tan Wenbin had already followed. Seeing this, Yin Meng cast one last glance at Mao Chang’an sitting there, then also ran.

“Heh… heh…”

Watching the three figures flee, Mao Chang’an laughed. As flames rose around him, his face showed only desolation.

He reached into his robes and pulled out a book—white cover, black binding.

He looked at the cover. Hatred filled his eyes.

He knew. If not for this book, he and his son would still be living in peace, upholding their ancestral craft, safeguarding the living from Dead Sinkers, honoring their lineage.

It was this book that changed everything. It ruined him.

Yet greed and longing quickly replaced his fury. He loved this book. Deeply.

“To hear the Dao in the morning is worth dying by night.”

How could a common corpse retriever at the docks ever inherit true secrets?

This book had shown him brilliance—that the world could be so much more.

Zhushan, my dear son, my good disciple. You must’ve felt the same.

To glimpse that world’s wonders… so what if we lost our lives?

We only failed. We didn’t succeed. Since ancient times, how many ever do?

We, father and son, have seen more than most…

A chill wind lifted the first page.

Blank.

Mao Chang’an froze. He turned to the second page. Blank. Then the third. Still blank. Every page—blank!

The book was real. He remembered its paper’s texture.

But all the contents—the method for refining Dead Sinkers through yin-yang convergence, the needle-doll corpse control technique—they were gone.

“No. No, no, no!!”

He flipped desperately. He could accept failure. He could even accept the death of his own son as the cost. But not this.

Not that it had all been a lie.

The method for crafting yin-yang paired Dead Sinkers—it had never been real. The book had fooled him. Toyed with him and his son.

“No. This can’t be. Please, I beg you… give me back the words. Even if they’re wrong, even if they’re lies, just… give me something. Just a word…”

Suddenly, the headless Zhao Junfeng stood up inside the hall.

Mao Chang’an heard the movement. He turned.

Zhao Junfeng’s clothing slipped off. His chest, already shredded by the red thread earlier, exposed mangled flesh. From deep within that mess, a woman’s face began to squirm.

Qiu Minmin’s face.

The headless Zhao Junfeng walked up to Mao Chang’an and grabbed his head with both hands.

“Aaaargh…”

Bang!

The skull burst. Blood and brain matter sprayed everywhere.

Zhao Junfeng bent down and picked up the white-cover black-bound book. The filth splattered on its surface vanished instantly, as if absorbed.

The face in his chest opened its mouth. The book was fed into it, clamped between her jaws.

Sludge welled up around Zhao Junfeng, wrapping him. Before the flames reached him, he slithered away across the floor.

Breaking free of the fire, leaving the temple behind, he headed straight for the nearest river—like a fish returning to water.

Yet as he swam, the flames of the General’s Temple still flickered clearly behind him.

Eventually, the fish stopped.

The sludge receded. Zhao Junfeng scanned the surroundings. The woman’s eyes in his chest darted about.

He was trapped.

“Heh heh heh…”

Tan Wenbin slowly stood up, left hand gripping the Seven-Star Hook, right hand holding the Black Umbrella of Rebirth.

In a pinch, the Yellow River Spade would’ve been best. But with time and preparation, proper roles mattered.

Beside him, Yin Meng held a Yellow River Spade. With Runsheng absent, she was on offense.

“Heh heh ha ha…”

Tan Wenbin kept laughing.

Yin Meng gave him a sideways look. “You laugh like some TV villain.”

Tan Wenbin suppressed his grin and licked his lips. “Not gonna lie, being the villain feels kinda fun.”

Then he asked, “Xiaoyuan-ge, how’d you guess there was an extra?”

Li Zhuiyuan sat on a rock, calm.

“Not an extra. Just that the score didn’t add up—we missed a face.”

He rested his elbow on his knee, chin in hand.

“Don’t dawdle. Finish it before the fire draws people.”

Tan Wenbin gestured toward Li Zhuiyuan: See? He’s the real villain here.

Yin Meng didn’t argue.

The two of them muttered, “Three-threes give life, four-fours to Qian, two-eights for divination, three-nines to match…”

Li Zhuiyuan shielded his eyes, unable to watch.

Like students cramming multiplication tables before a test—painfully dumb.

Tan Wenbin extended the Seven-Star Hook, latching onto Zhao Junfeng. Though Zhao tried to evade, his movements twisted back forward—hooked cleanly.

Yin Meng charged in. Spade strike, full force.

As Zhao tried to resist, Tan Wenbin opened the umbrella, blocking all splattering sludge.

Then, timing it just right, he retracted the umbrella—and Yin Meng slammed down again.

Zhao Junfeng couldn’t flee. Couldn’t dodge. Every move was neutralized. Every blow landed.

His strength had already been gutted by Mao Chang’an, his “death” just a ploy to escape. In such a weakened state, under the pressure of a precisely laid array, he had no room to fight back.

Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng’s rigid tag-team rhythm left no space for reversal. No miracle. Just relentless attrition.

It was almost boring.

Li Zhuiyuan sighed. If Runsheng were here, it would be over already. Yin Meng lacked the brute force for this slot. She was better suited to Tan Wenbin’s role. And Tan Wenbin, frankly, better matched Li’s current position.

At Li’s feet lay several array flags. If the formation weakened or cracked, he’d have to plug the gap with one of these.

But with the current pace, the formation held strong. It would last until it dissipated on its own. Li had nothing to do.

This was why he couldn’t forgive Runsheng’s last mistake. They’d had better options. A cooler path. But Runsheng let emotion win out.

Li’s focus shifted to the book clenched in the woman’s mouth.

Unlike the coin left at Shigang, which stayed inert unless touched, this book seemed active—perhaps even seductive.

Enough. To end this faster, I’ll add fire of my own.

Li Zhuiyuan stood.

“Remember,” he called. “None of you look at that book. That book is mine!”

Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng thought the same:

Uh, was that necessary? Who else would it belong to? Even if you handed it to us, we wouldn’t dare open it!

Just then, the woman’s mouth opened.

The book dropped to the ground.

Zhao Junfeng froze where he stood—ready to die.

Even so, Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng stuck to their rhythm. Strike. Defend. Again and again—until Yin Meng smashed the face in Zhao’s chest to pulp.

Finally, with a thud, Zhao Junfeng fell back.

Pus oozed out. The black aura dispersed in a frenzy.

It was over.

“Phew…” Yin Meng exhaled, arms trembling with fatigue, palms torn and bloody.

Tan Wenbin braced himself with the umbrella, rubbing his sore back.

Toward the end, they knew they could’ve gone harder. The Dead Sinker had given up.

But with the mnemonic chant still in their heads, afraid of slipping up, they could only keep to the rigid tempo.

“Eyes closed.”

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