Chapter 336: Easy Capture

As Feng Xue pondered the connection between the water-elemental pulse anomalies and the tricks commonly used by the Japanese brats, Liu Po suddenly spoke:

“Be careful—I’m going to draw a bit out…”

“Oh!” Feng Xue hadn’t even moved his foot when Bai Yi grabbed him and yanked him aside; he didn’t even register how she moved, making him realize how lucky he’d been to have captured her before.

Hmm, maybe she’d held back a bit too.

Feng Xue muttered to himself but kept his eyes fixed on Liu Po—her movements were anything but graceful, even bordering on manic, and with her already ancient, wrinkled face, it was hard not to feel repulsed.

She clutched a bamboo incense stick as thick as a finger, pinched the Japanese brat’s jaw open, and with a single motion, shoved the entire stick into his mouth like a sword-swallowing act.

Watching the roughly palm-length stick vanish entirely inside, Feng Xue nearly thought the man’s skull had been pierced through.

Fortunately, the lifespan fluctuation above his head remained stable, and Feng Xue saw no sign of imminent decline, so he watched quietly: Liu Po twisted the incense stick like braiding a rope, while her left hand moved as if plucking insects from the air.

Though bizarre, this was the “Seal” of the spirit medium lineage.

In the Xuan cultivation system, ritual ceremonies—whether formal zhai-jiao rites or folk spell-casting—always rely on five elements: the practitioner, the altar, the incantation, the steps, and the Seal. The practitioner performs the rite, the altar is the ritual space, the incantation is the spoken scripture or mantra, the steps are the footwork, and the Seal? Naturally, it’s the hand gestures.

The first three vary little between sects—differences lie only in the scriptures recited, the altar’s shape, or the attire worn—but the incantation and the Seal are unique to each lineage.

The exact same Seal might mean entirely different things across different schools.

For instance, the wild, jerking dances of shamans are their “steps,” while this claw-like motion of snatching at air is the spirit medium’s “Seal.”

As her fingertips kept plucking, Feng Xue’s Qi-Sight saw multicolored spiritual lights gathering toward her—not just ambient votive energy, but even the fragmented consciousness of the Japanese brat, weakened by the Hu Tian Bag, slowly seeped out under her grasp.

As if sensing the timing was right, Liu Po slowly pulled her fingers upward; the entire bamboo incense stick, buried deep in the throat, emerged with wisps of smoke, each inch drawn out releasing more vapor—soon, smoke poured not just from his mouth, but also his nostrils, eyes, even his ears.

“The incense tip’s nearly buried in his stomach and still hasn’t gone out? And no magical protection visible—could this really be pure technique?”

Feng Xue inwardly marveled, finally understanding what “an artisan’s skill lies in his hands” meant—this craft, even if given away for free, couldn’t be mastered without decades of grueling practice.

No wonder magic in this world could be taught for money, yet Xuan cultivators still managed to run profitable businesses.

As Feng Xue pondered, Liu Po’s hand suddenly trembled—but it wasn’t a shake; based on Xiao Lingdang’s analysis of her hand muscle changes, it was clearly “engaged in a struggle.”

Knowing the critical moment had arrived, Feng Xue held his breath, watching as Liu Po, like a tug-of-war contestant, slowly pulled the incense stick. Over time, the smoke pouring from the brat’s orifices dwindled, yet Liu Po’s motions remained steady.

Through muscle-state analysis, Liu Po had maintained constant tension for nearly half an hour—despite magical support, her sheer willpower and patience were palpable.

“Pop!”

Suddenly, a sound like a wine cork being pulled rang out—the bamboo incense stick, now only three-quarters its original length, fully emerged from the brat’s mouth; the missing portion hadn’t broken—it had burned away during the struggle. The tip still glowed faintly, but immediately after, a wisp of black mist surged out behind it.

Liu Po swung the incense like a dragon pearl dancer, the white smoke tracing a cloud-like trail in the air, luring the black mist to follow; with her other hand, she pulled out a bamboo tube, flicked her fingertip, and the white smoke formed a perfect circle—then the black mist slammed into it, merging into one mass. In that instant, the bamboo tube reversed direction, as if ignoring air resistance, slamming the combined mist back onto the brat’s mouth with a dull, painful thud.

The bamboo tube sealed over his mouth; Liu Po pushed her palm down to clamp his jaw shut, then casually stuck the incense into the table, snatched up a yellow paper, and shoved it straight into the gap between the tube and his lips.

“Done!”

With her youthful voice ringing out, Liu Po gripped the edge of the yellow paper, plucked a red cord from her hair, and tightly bound the paper to the bamboo tube. She glanced at the brat, whose mouth looked as if he’d been punched, then turned to Feng Xue:

“This thing’s foul—freeze it!”

“Ah, oh!” Feng Xue, stunned by the fluidity of her movements, blinked once before understanding—pointed a finger, and an ice blade condensed midair, striking precisely at the brat’s Shanzhong point; in an instant, the brat, only recently thawed, was frozen solid again.

Seeing the operation succeed without error, Bai Yi exhaled in relief, quietly dissolving the spell she’d been holding, and stepped forward:

“What the hell is that thing?”

“Not a ghost—a nature spirit,” Liu Po replied gravely, painting symbols on the bamboo tube with cinnabar ink:

“Ancients saw thunder split the clouds like a celestial dragon spitting lightning, and fell prostrate in terror; they saw hurricanes snap giant trees like a white tiger roaring through the forest, and bowed to heaven. That’s the origin of faith—the deification of nature.”

“That’s too convoluted—can you say it plainly?” Compared to the reserved Feng Xue, Bai Yi, who knew Liu Po better, clearly served as the best interpreter. Liu Po, realizing explaining this to a demon was overkill, cut straight to the point:

“Simply put, this man’s mind holds a deity born from a natural disaster. We’ll need to check back to confirm exactly what, but from the water-pulse distortion on him, it’s clearly water-related…”

Here, Liu Po fell silent. Practitioners of her trade often invoked spirits and consulted the dead, so they cultivated word-spirit arts—when such moments arose, speculation was forbidden; a hint was enough, lest a spoken guess become prophecy.

But Feng Xue and Bai Yi weren’t fools—they understood perfectly. A water-related disaster in a coastal city? What else could it be?

(End of Chapter)