Zhou Ping's heart skipped a beat as thoughts raced through his mind.
What should he say? What excuse could he come up with?
Or did this difficult-to-deal-with immortal master have some other tricks up her sleeve?
Surely this immortal master couldn’t just be bullying him, right?
"Uncle Zhou…" Zhou Ping had barely uttered two words when—bang!—a sudden noise cut him off.
The next moment, he saw Uncle Zhou close his eyes and fall backward stiffly.
But halfway down, the man jerked upright again in an eerie, unnatural motion, like a corpse reanimating.
Witnessing this, Zhou Ping felt his heart pound violently. Could a living person really move like a reanimated corpse?
What in the blazes was this thing?
Suppressing the urge to scream, Zhou Ping watched as Uncle Zhou moved like a wandering corpse. He couldn’t tell whether Uncle Zhou had lost his mind or if the immortal master in his basket had done something.
"Walk toward the wall he came from," Chen Baiqing’s voice whispered softly.
Hearing this, Zhou Ping let out a quiet sigh of relief and immediately played along.
"Uncle Zhou, tired? You really shouldn’t be up so late. Let me help you rest for a bit."
With that, he feigned support for the middle-aged man, guiding him toward the shadowed wall.
Uncle Zhou’s head nodded in a bizarre, jerky motion, his movements stiff and unnatural, like a puppet on strings.
Seeing this, Zhou Ping couldn’t help but marvel at the profound methods of immortal arts.
Once Uncle Zhou slumped against the wall, Chen Baiqing’s clear voice sounded again:
"Now, head to the ancestral hall."
Zhou Ping nodded repeatedly. After witnessing the immortal master’s skill, he felt slightly more confident.
As he turned, the faint moonlight and shifting shadows revealed something—thin threads retracting, almost imperceptible.
Zhou Ping sucked in a sharp breath.
Now he understood the immortal master’s method.
So this was the so-called "immortal technique"? Not some grand spell, but mere… manipulation?
Well, manipulation or not, it was still far beyond his own capabilities.
Taking a deep breath, Zhou Ping steadied himself and continued toward the ancestral hall, his expression calm.
After the unexpected encounter with Uncle Zhou, the rest of the journey passed without incident—at least as far as he could tell.
Zhou Mountain Village was poor, most houses made of sun-baked mud. Only the ancestral hall stood out in its grandeur.
Vermilion-red doors, adorned with fierce-eyed "deities" glaring down as if in accusation.
Stopping a few meters from the entrance, Zhou Ping spoke quietly:
"Great Immortal, we’re here."
"Push the door open."
"Great Immortal… if I go in, unless something unexpected happens… I’ll probably die, right?"
"What you should be thinking is that if you don’t push the door, you’ll die regardless of whether something unexpected happens."
Zhou Ping inhaled sharply, scanning the surroundings to confirm no one was watching before mustering his courage and stepping toward the vermilion doors.
Under the glow of red lanterns, he swallowed hard, suppressing his terror as he reached out to push.
Part of him hoped the door wouldn’t budge—then he wouldn’t have to face his fear.
But another part feared it wouldn’t open—because the Great Immortal in his basket would surely force him to try something even more dangerous.
Just as his fingers were about to touch the door, Chen Baiqing’s voice cut in, unusually tense:
"Stop."
Zhou Ping froze. The Great Immortal in his basket was clearly cautious—if she suddenly halted him, there was no doubt the door was a death trap.
A chill ran down his spine. He’d nearly stepped into the jaws of death.
This ancestral hall was truly lethal—even pushing the door could kill him.
At the same time, he felt a flicker of relief. At least the Great Immortal hadn’t outright used him as cannon fodder.
"What now?" he whispered.
Chen Baiqing’s gaze fixed on the vermilion doors as she replied calmly:
"I’ll open it."
The voice no longer came from the basket but from beside him. Zhou Ping’s heart lurched as he turned to see the young immortal master now standing next to him, studying the doors with a serious expression.
"Great Immortal… I just have one request…" Zhou Ping’s voice trembled.
Chen Baiqing glanced at him. "What?"
"Please stop startling me like this. My heart can’t take it."
It was already nighttime, eerie and unsettling, and they were in a deathly place. The Great Immortal’s sudden appearances might be impressive, but they were also terrifying!
He’d been on edge for days, and now she kept throwing these shocks at him.
Chen Baiqing looked away. Her master had once taught her to show leniency when possible.
With the utmost patience, she said, "I’m not trying to scare you. You’re just easily frightened. Don’t worry—dying won’t be that simple for you."
Zhou Ping marveled at the art of language… He’d take that as reassurance.
Probably not a threat, right?
But before he could ask, Chen Baiqing had already extended her pale hand, pushing against the vermilion doors with solemn focus.
Zhou Ping quietly retreated two steps behind her—not hiding behind a young girl, but sheltering behind an immortal master.
Holding his breath, he watched as Chen Baiqing’s hand met the door. It wasn’t locked, and under her touch, it slowly creaked open.
No clash of mystical forces, no dazzling light shaking the village.
Chen Baiqing simply pushed the door open—no wind, no spectacle.
Was she… just messing with him?
But the thought vanished as quickly as it came.
She didn’t open the door fully, but the gap was enough to reveal the interior.
The layout was simple: several statues with obscure but menacing expressions lined the hall on either side.
At the far end hung a plaque.
Chen Baiqing’s eyes lifted to the four characters inscribed upon it:
"The Path of Divine Incense."
The calligraphy carried an air of profundity, and she could faintly sense spiritual energy emanating from the plaque.
The hall was thick with incense smoke, red tendrils drifting ceaselessly toward the center.
But the most striking sight was Ancestor Zhou, suspended midair by a faint red mist, his lips curled in a half-smile, his eyes utterly lifeless.
As Chen Baiqing pushed the door wider, Zhou Ping saw the statues flanking the entrance—one wielding a sword, the other a blade, both glaring fiercely at the intruders.
After observing Ancestor Zhou for a moment, Chen Baiqing’s expression grew grave.
Ancestor Zhou’s aura wasn’t particularly strong—below the fifth level of Qi Refinement, by strict measure.
His power was weak, yet the ritual array surrounding him was of a high grade, clearly designed to channel incense-derived spiritual energy to nourish him.
Thus, he posed no real threat to Chen Baiqing.
What truly puzzled her was this: Ancestor Zhou’s mind was a tangle of two violently conflicting wills, so intense they were nearly visible.
One seemed to be regret and fury.
The other—an endless, unsettling calm.
Human beings are intricate creatures, capable of harboring many emotions at once—this is only natural. But they should never be such opposing emotions.
If Chen Baiqing’s senses weren’t mistaken, the two emotions being projected seemed to come from two separate souls.
Within the body of Ancestor Zhou before him, there existed two entirely distinct souls.
And they… appeared to be connected in some bizarre, unfathomable way.
Chen Baiqing observed for a moment longer before stepping forward into the ancestral hall.