Half a month passed. Of the hundred women sent to Three Saints Mountain, barely half remained alive.
The once-ambitious “Become the Ancestral Master’s Concubine” faction had withered to a handful of stubborn dreamers. The Sect Leader’s “Win Him Over as His Disciple, and Maybe Take Him Down Someday” faction still clung on with a dozen members. But the largest group by far was the “I Have No Idea What I’m Doing Here, So I’ll Just Survive If I Can” faction—thirty women trembling together, living each day in fearful confusion.
Those who died in the first two factions had, for the most part, delivered themselves into the grave through their eagerness—either too forward, too foolish, or unlucky enough to stumble across the Ancestral Master’s whims. Every day, he roamed the mountain, and every day, disciples bled. Three Saints Mountain had become a grand stage for a grim performance: one merciless executioner against a hundred would-be attendants.
The survivors were gaunt, eyes shadowed with terror. They never knew when or where they would meet the Ancestral Master’s gaze—and meet their end. Without spiritual power to defend themselves, they were like ants before a demon. Even had their cultivation remained intact, it would not have mattered. Against him, they would still break like clay pots.
Sima Jiao, meanwhile, needed no effort to sense their terror. Fear, envy, greed, loathing—human emotions clung to the air like smoke, and he inhaled them all. Add to that the Si Ma clan’s truth-binding gift, the Oath of Truth, and no heart could remain hidden before him.
“I… I dare not go to him. Master-Aunt, please spare me!”
A young woman knelt weeping before Mu Ni Sheng, who stood grim and cold.
“What are you saying?” Mu Ni Sheng’s voice cut like a blade. “Was it not you who begged to come serve the Ancestral Master?”
The woman’s lips trembled. “I regret it now! Master-Aunt, I’m terrified. Hasn’t he… hasn’t he fallen into demonic ways? Why else would he slaughter our sect’s disciples? He killed Master Aunts, Master Sisters… he’ll kill me too!”
Her voice broke as memories rose: two senior sisters, caught in the act of attempting escape, bursting into clouds of blood upon the jade platform. Who else could have done that but the Ancestral Master? The aloof figure she had once imagined was nothing like this. He was merciless. Terrifying.
Mu Ni Sheng’s eyes darkened. She flicked her sleeve. “If you’re afraid, then crawl away. I told you all from the beginning—I came for the Ancestral Master. Until he accepts me, I will not retreat a single day. You cowards cannot endure even this small trial. How dare you dream of earning his notice?”
She was no ordinary disciple. A descendant of the Sect Leader’s line, she had been raised under his direct guidance. From childhood, she had seen him stare at Three Saints Mountain with worry in his eyes. From the moment she could speak, she had been taught:
“There is an Ancestral Master on this mountain. His existence alone has sustained our Gengchen Immortal Mansion for tens of thousands of years. You will one day serve him.”
The Sect Leader’s words still echoed: If you win the Ancestral Master’s regard, you will save our sect. If you fail, he may one day destroy us.
Thus Mu Ni Sheng knew of the forbidden bloodline, of the tragedy once wrought, of his temperament. She had been raised for him—and for no one else.
And indeed, she believed she had received his favor. Others had died daily, even Yun Xi Yue—her fiercest rival. Yet she, Mu Ni Sheng, still lived. Every morning, she went to kneel at the central tower, waiting devoutly before the door that never opened. She offered no flattery, no false front, only sincerity. The Sect Leader had warned: Before this man, nothing can be hidden. Bare your heart, or be seen through. So she had bared it, day after day.
To her, the Ancestral Master was not the monster the others imagined. He did not kill at random. Those who died must have carried thoughts he despised. She, without such ugliness, had never been harmed. Ignored, yes. But not harmed.
The others, too afraid, had long abandoned this daily vigil. But she persisted. And her persistence would move him. One day, she was certain.
That day, she knelt as always before the door.
And then footsteps sounded behind her.
Liao Tingyan arrived, her expression weary, like a corporate slave trudging into the office on Monday morning—only to find the “class monitor” already there, kneeling in perfect posture and chanting:
“This disciple has come to serve the Ancestral Master. Please accept this disciple.”
Liao Tingyan: …
What a warrior. She herself would rather hide far, savor her dwindling vacation days, than throw herself at the mercy of that unpredictable ancestor. Truly, Mu Ni Sheng’s psychological fortitude deserved admiration. If they could trade places, she’d happily let this “boss” handle it forever.
But life never allowed such swaps. What you longed for slipped away; what you dreaded arrived uninvited.
Mu Ni Sheng turned her head, her earlier devout fire extinguished into disdain. “You’re still not dead.”
Liao Tingyan almost greeted her, then thought better of it. They all said the same thing. Well, not today. Not dying today. She’d keep lying low.
Without a word, she walked toward the central tower.
Mu Ni Sheng’s lips curled in cold amusement. If that junior thought she could waltz up to the door and live, she was about to learn otherwise. Every rash attempt in recent days had ended the same way: blood mist. Mu Ni Sheng alone remained untouched.
But as she sneered—
The door opened.
Liao Tingyan stepped calmly inside.
Mu Ni Sheng’s smile froze, cracked, collapsed. What? Since Yun Xi Yue’s death, this door had never opened. And now—now a junior disciple had entered with a knock?
Her pride, her conviction, shattered in an instant. Heart pounding, she lunged after her. She would see for herself what trick this girl had pulled.
The instant she crossed the threshold—
A scream. A burst of blood.
Silence.
Click. The door closed.
Inside, Liao Tingyan froze, a chill racing down her spine. Had that scream been—? She turned, but the door was already sealed.
On the stairs ahead stood the Ancestral Master, pale and expressionless. Seeing her startled look, his lips curved faintly.
“The one outside is dead.”
He began to ascend, his voice drifting down like mist. “Do you know why?”
Liao Tingyan could only swallow and follow.
“I kill when thoughts are ugly—greed, ambition, stupidity. They offend me. But that one just now…” He paused. “A puppet, cultivated empty. No soul. Compared to greed, I despise puppets more. I almost couldn’t be bothered to kill her. But she was noisy. That, I dislike.”
His tone was calm, conversational—as though they discussed weather, not death.
They climbed. The first time she had reached only the fifth floor. But following him now, she rose past ten, twelve… with no end in sight.
Her fear, her nausea, drained away into exhaustion. Every step wrung her dry. Even breathing felt like dragging chains. He moved with unhurried grace, never glancing back. She crawled after him like a turtle, clinging to the rail. His long black hair swayed. The same robe trailed the steps.
Had he ever changed clothes? Surely the hem was filthy by now. Black was good for hiding dirt, at least.
He turned then, catching her staring.
Her heart lurched. Truth-binding buff or not, could he also read minds? She felt as if she were back in her first job interview, sweat beading under an unseen gaze.
“Your courage today is less than yesterday’s,” he said. “You are afraid.”
She wiped her brow. No, not fear—sweat. Exhaustion.
“Are you afraid?”
Her mouth betrayed her: “Not afraid. Just… tired. Too many stairs.”
Damn that truth-binding buff. Did it trigger every time he used a questioning tone?
His eyes shifted, faintly curious. “Tired? From so few steps? Demon-realm bodies truly are weak.”
Contempt flickered across his face. Clear. Sharp. She almost preferred his indifference.
Another five flights, and she collapsed. She expected him to kill her for her weakness, but instead, he lingered, as though amused, watching to see how far this “hamster” could climb.
She dragged herself, inch by inch, until at last they reached the twenty-second floor.
Here, at the heart of the chamber, burned a red lotus cradling a flame—its light washing the space in crimson.
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