Master, Your Salted Fish Has Arrived - Chapter 27
Sima Jiao rarely wore a pleasant expression. Pain and irritation clung to him like a second skin, his volatile moods fueled by the curse in his bloodline—the spirit fire that burned ceaselessly within him—and by the malice and greed reflected back at him from others.
At times, he could not control his emotions. More often, he didn’t even try.
As their journey brought them closer to Hundred Phoenix Mountain, his expression grew darker, his presence more oppressive. By the time they reached the mountain’s base and crossed the first barrier, his eyes had nearly turned blood-red.
To Old Master Yan, Hundred Phoenix Mountain appeared as a grand spiritual peak: majestic, brimming with energy, sacred in its vitality. But in Sima Jiao’s eyes, the mountain was hell itself. He saw crimson flames twisting with hatred, ghostly cries piercing the clouds, each wail stabbing his mind with unbearable pain.
“We’ll stop here,” said the Yuan Ying cultivator who had escorted them, waiting for the mountain’s keepers to collect the infant girl.
Two appeared quickly—a man and a woman in flame-embroidered robes. Their restrained expressions betrayed disdain for Old Master Yan. They had come to test the girl’s bloodline. If her blood ran pure, Old Master Yan would be rewarded. If not, the child would be returned to him.
“Wait here. You know the rules—don’t wander, don’t pry,” the woman said, casting a sharp glance at Sima Jiao, clearly displeased with his defiant look.
The middle-aged cultivator beside Old Master Yan bowed and scolded Sima Jiao: “Ignorant boy, show respect before the sacred mountain!”
“Sacred mountain?” Sima Jiao’s lips curved in a cold smile. In the next instant, crimson flames engulfed the man.
The sudden violence left the others paralyzed with shock. Old Master Yan collapsed in terror, scrambling backward until he curled into a corner, trembling. The two keepers holding the baby moved to call the guards—but Sima Jiao allowed them no chance. Their bodies froze mid-step, trapped in silence.
He burned the male cultivator to ashes with a flick of his hand. A Yuan Ying’s death, as effortless as plucking a flower.
The female cultivator turned pale, her arrogance stripped away. Though her cultivation was solid, she had lived comfortably as a minor overseer—never before had she faced such fear. Her spells, her tools, even her thoughts of resistance—all were suppressed. Terror seeped into the depths of her soul.
Sima Jiao’s mental strength invaded her like chains. Obey, a voice whispered inside her mind.
He shifted into the form of the male cultivator and ordered, “Take me inside.”
Unable to resist, she obeyed, carrying the child and leading him past the hidden barriers of Hundred Phoenix Mountain. Breaking through them by force would have roused alarms. But entering like this—silent, unchallenged—opened every secret before him.
The blood-red in his eyes deepened, viscous as fresh blood.
Within the mountain stretched palaces carved into stone. Men and women filled the halls, each carrying faint traces of the Fengshan clan’s fiery bloodline. Together, their diluted power resonated faintly with the spirit fire raging inside him.
This was no sanctuary. It was a prison disguised as an immortal mountain.
From the outer layers to the innermost core, the hierarchy was merciless. Those with the weakest bloodlines lived on the margins. Moans echoed through crowded chambers, bodies entangled without shame. In hidden courtyards, pregnant women cried out in labor, the smell of blood mingling with newborn cries carried on the wind.
The overseers, clad in flame-embroidered robes, wielded power. Outer caretakers barely reached Qi Condensation or Foundation Building. Mid-level overseers were Nascent Souls. Deeper within lurked Fusion and Void Refinement cultivators. Yet the bloodline “stock”—men and women with Fengshan blood—remained mortal, their power stripped, their dignity crushed.
If these people were not humans, they could only be livestock. This was a breeding ground.
The female cultivator faltered. “I… I can only bring you this far.”
Sima Jiao’s hand closed around her throat. Flames consumed her, leaving only dust. He brushed it aside and strode deeper into the mountain.
…
At the foot of the mountain, Old Master Yan dared not flee. Pathetic and powerless, he crouched in place, staring in dread.
Then the world shook.
The “sacred” mountain ignited, flames surging skyward. Crimson fire devoured the peaks, thunder roared, and the ground split apart. What had been a lush forest dissolved into scorched wasteland, rocks and soil liquefied by searing heat. Screams—countless, anguished—rose from beneath the mountain as though the souls of the damned had finally been unleashed.
It was purgatory made flesh. Old Master Yan collapsed, unable to rise.
…
Elsewhere, Liao Tingyan, in her otter form, perched lazily on the carved beam of the Yan family’s hall. She cracked melon seeds and listened to the storyteller’s booming voice.
“That demonic cultivator, Centipede, once slaughtered three great cities of the southeast…”
The tale of immortal battles unfolded, thrilling the Yan women below. Pride swelled as they praised the might of Gengchen Immortal Mansion, boasting as though its glory belonged to them.
Liao Tingyan stretched on the beam, bemused. Listening half the day, she had learned more gossip than she ever cared to know.
When someone mentioned “Lord Dao Cizang,” she cracked another seed in silence. If only you knew the so-called ancestor was living right here—you’d die of fright.
After hours of idle chatter, she gathered her cushion and snacks, then fluttered back to her quarters.
Her residence was quiet, a luxurious courtyard Old Master Yan had arranged. She sprawled on the couch by the bed. Moments later, the door creaked open.
Sima Jiao stepped in.
He was drenched in blood, from his hair to his robes, his pale skin painted with streaks of red. The metallic stench filled the room instantly. His eyes glowed a terrifying crimson, though his face remained ghostly pale. He sank into a chair, head tilted back, and exhaled heavily.
Then, with a sudden cough, blood spilled from his lips. He didn’t bother wiping it away.
His gaze slid to Liao Tingyan. His voice was flat.
“I’m about to die.”
Liao Tingyan blinked. …What kind of joke is that?
Looking closer, she saw the veins bulging faintly beneath his skin, pulsing with violent energy.
“Since birth,” he said, voice low and cold, “many have wanted my life. But I refuse to give it. Whoever comes for me, I take theirs instead.”
Then his tone shifted. His blood-red eyes locked onto hers.
“But if you want my life now… I can give it to you. Do you want it?”