Chapter 848: One Hundred and Ninety-Five: The Old Daoist

One Hundred and Ninety-Five: The Old Daoist’s Terms?

Inside the room, before leaving, Ouyang Rong turned to Aqing once more and said:

“If this mirror shows any unusual movement, tell me immediately.”

“Mm, don’t worry, Brother… so far, I haven’t noticed anything strange.”

“Good.”

Ouyang Rong nodded, relieved, and turned to leave—then suddenly remembered something and turned back to add:

“By the way, if anyone comes looking for me, say I’m on duty, and tell them not to—”

“Probably… never see each other again after we leave the imperial tomb.” Fu Yunnuan was not lying at this moment.

At that moment, Li Hexian suddenly felt a surge in his spiritual sense—a powerful, overwhelming demonic qi rising violently from below.

“You’re in charge? How are you going to be in charge? What about Jinjie?” Chen Kexin spoke bluntly, like a hunter driving prey step by step into the trap she’d dug.

Someone was examining the victim’s wounds and reported to a man who appeared to be the leader; Liu Shuang stole a glance at Wu Jun’s photo—this was not Sun Yi.

One of them stood tall, clad in a white long robe and white cloak, hovering upright in midair, with sharp eyebrows and starlike eyes, wearing a white mask—unfortunately, it was clear the man was not old.

Only now did Liu Shuang have the leisure to look around the place; he glanced about casually and was satisfied. He stretched his body, leaned back on the sofa, and lay down—despite Liu Xin’s scolding, the alcohol he’d drunk left him completely sober.

Shen Lianyue’s injuries were no major problem for Li Hexian; whether using an elixir or condensing a single drop of his own blood to aid her rapid healing, it would be effortless.

“Hahaha,” but have you ever seen a two-hundred-pound fat man say those words with a face full of grievance and regret? Wouldn’t it be disrespectful to the audience if you didn’t laugh? So Liu Shuang and Wu Jun laughed.

Beneath the octagonal pavilion, Mu Jinghong, Ling Jiantong, and Ye Zhengbai sat around a stone table, all with furrowed brows.

Gu Qingming should have come through the snowstorm—his body was cold, causing Yunyao to shiver. Yet despite this, she refused to leave his embrace, for this was one of the few moments she could be so close to him.

“Really?!” The children’s eyes instantly sparkled, filled with boundless hope and joy.

Leng Zixuan, upon hearing this, first brightened, a smile spreading across his face; then, the light in his eyes quickly dimmed, his expression sinking into deep dejection.

He waited for a long time, hoping to hear Zi Fu call out to him—but she deliberately pretended not to see him, not even glancing his way with the corner of her eye.

Although she knew this disciple had always been exceptionally talented, with wild, unconventional thinking, she had never before heard him explain such a complex matter so clearly and methodically. For a moment, she was momentarily stunned.

Fan Buhuai wielded a great knife, focusing all his energy on a three-foot-long short sword. The sword hovered in midair; no matter how hard he struck, it effortlessly dodged, then struck his vital points the instant his strength waned and new power had not yet formed, leaving him exhausted and disheveled.

“Hahaha, don’t mind me—I’m just looking for some fun.” Orion’s laugh, coming from such a serious man, carried a sense of frustrated helplessness that made Du Yius feel deeply annoyed.

The soldier spoke politely, but his meaning was unmistakable: twenty-odd regular soldiers could not possibly hold off the pursuing rebel cavalry; better to safely lead the comrades back than die uselessly alongside these civilians.

Good. Changning exhaled in relief, her mood lifting greatly—she longed to fly straight home.

At that moment, the driver shouted: “Everyone out! Everyone out!” The driver had sensed something and urgently urged passengers to disembark; the ticket seller’s face was pale as she too pushed people off the bus. Xiao Ming shrugged, picked up his quilt and luggage, slung his camouflage backpack over his shoulder, and was the first to step down.

Although the former steward was not him, castles never lacked gossip—he easily learned the full story. Perhaps this was the privilege of nobility: how could someone like Lady Lin, with no support, escape the young master’s control?

The aura of a Level Three Illusionist exploded—he leapt high into the air, and his long sword erupted in a blinding white light, so intense it resembled the sun rising in the night, impossible to look away from.

The weakest among them was an Illusion King; logically, a collapsing staircase shouldn’t affect them at all—after all, Illusion Kings could fly; all they needed was to control themselves and avoid falling.

As emperor of a nation, especially a non-foolish emperor, how could Emperor Mo allow the two great families to grow stronger unchecked?

Hu Ye didn’t believe this guy’s lies—in the slums, running a pawnshop was simply providing a fence for stolen goods; for Garcia to be honest would be absurd.

His hand unconsciously rubbed the spot beside him—the fine, smooth quilt felt only cold, devoid of her warm presence. Cécile stared blankly at the empty space beside him, a wave of loss washing over his heart.

“You know a lot.” Wei Yang smiled. She had heard of Li Yunhao’s deeds; such a young, decisive monarch was hard to find across the entire continent.

According to Hu Ye’s knowledge of the plot, Dominic and Brian would next rob the drug lord Reyes of his cash—a massive sum of one hundred million dollars—and they would succeed.