Chapter 505

Under the faint night sky, incense smoke gathered and dispersed before the temple, while danger surged in an instant.

When the cold, indifferent voice rang out in everyone’s ears, the fat boy’s hand, about to descend, froze mid-air—he felt an indescribable terror, as if born from the instinct of life itself, seize his heart.

Hum…

In an instant, even the shadow of the weasel behind him let out a shrill, frantic shriek, his fur bristling, eyes filled with dread, instinctively trying to retreat into the fat boy’s body.

Everyone turned instinctively, following the sound, their gazes finally locking onto Zhang Fan.

He stood there silently, expressionless.

Under the night, Zhang Fan’s eyes were as deep as ancient wells—no sharp light gleamed, yet they seemed to reflect endless night, hiding a faintly glowing abyss.

He released no aura at all, yet the weight and grandeur forged through life and death, tempered by mountains and rivers, and the primordial authority stemming from his soul—having once wielded the forbidden Black Iron Shard—merely a trace of unintentional leakage was enough to strike primal terror into the shallow spirit of the weasel.

“You…”

The fat boy met Zhang Fan’s gaze for only an instant, then staggered as if struck by lightning—his fat quivered violently, his face drained of all color, and the black qi coiled at his fingertip instantly dissolved.

He stumbled backward several steps, collapsing onto the ground, his crotch rapidly darkening with urine—he had been so terrified he lost control.

“You brought this upon yourself. Thank you for nature’s gift.” Zhang Fan murmured.

As his words fell, an invisible ripple arose—hidden deep within the fat boy’s yuanshen, the weasel’s shadow shot upward, crumbling without resistance under the terrifying force, dissolving into radiant light, which Zhang Fan swallowed in one breath.

The divine and demonic forces turned, black and white distinct; the faint light, like spring rain, nourished Zhang Fan’s yuan palace, reviving a sliver of life in the parched riverbed.

Thud…

At the exact same moment, the once arrogant fat boy collapsed stiffly to the ground, kicking up dust.

To cultivate a Ma was to abandon the physical body, entangling with a spirit’s yuanshen; once that spirit was shattered, one’s own yuanshen inevitably suffered the same fate, beyond salvation.

“This… this…”

The other henchmen, clueless, were ordinary people who could not see yuanshen, let alone the weasel’s dissolution—but their usual protector, “Biao Ge,” had suddenly collapsed as if possessed, and they were thrown into panic.

“Biao… Biao Ge…”

“Go… hurry, take him to the hospital!”

At that moment, two bolder ones rushed forward, dragging the fat boy away, their glances toward Zhang Fan filled with fear and unease.

Zhang Fan watched the fleeing figures, paid them no mind, and turned to leave.

“Big brother… big brother…”

At that moment, the incense-selling boy’s voice came from behind, accompanied by hurried footsteps—he caught up.

“What is it?”

“Big brother, thank you for saving me just now,” the boy said gratefully.

“Nothing. I did nothing. That fat boy scared himself to death—a blusterer with no real courage.” Zhang Fan waved his hand, unwilling to stir trouble or linger here.

“But… that weasel just now…” the incense boy hesitated, stammering.

“Hm!?”

Zhang Fan’s gaze sharpened—he stopped abruptly and turned back to the boy.

“You saw it?”

“Yes!” the incense boy nodded, not concealing anything.

Hum…

At that moment, a ripple passed through the air, like a spring breeze brushing the face.

Suddenly, Zhang Fan saw a faint glow emanating from the boy’s lingtai—like the spring sun over mountains, like sudden spiritual radiance, hazy yet profound, empty yet wondrous.

“Have you cultivated the Dao?” Zhang Fan could not help asking.

“Never,” the incense boy shook his head.

At this, Zhang Fan’s gaze grew even more curious—untrained, yet his heart was as pure as a child’s, naturally possessing a yuanshen and a wondrous lingtai awareness.

Such a talent, in ancient times, would have been an unparalleled great spiritual root, a supreme vessel.

“Young brother, what’s your name?” Zhang Fan asked, genuinely intrigued.

“I’m Lu Xianyang!” the boy whispered.

…

Night had fallen.

Qinhuang City, Dao Alliance branch headquarters.

Top-floor conference room.

The room’s lighting was cold, the atmosphere heavy as if water could drip from the air.

On the large metal conference table at the center lay a figure utterly out of place—the fat boy.

His eyes were tightly shut, his breaths came out but none came in, his body limp as mud, as if all bones and soul had been drained away.

“His yuanshen is ruined. Even if he survives, he’ll be a vegetable—and without any cultivation, he won’t last long.”

At that moment, the middle-aged man at the head spoke.

He was around forty or fifty, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, his hair meticulously combed—he looked more like a refined scholar or a successful businessman.

He was Zhao Qiming, chairman of the Qinhuang City Dao Alliance branch.

“This kid cultivated a Ma. Zhao chairman, combat is fierce, life and death uncertain—why call me over for something like this?”

At that moment, a still-attractive woman beside him showed displeasure.

She appeared to be in her thirties, though likely older; her skin was pale, her figure graceful, dressed in a black-green embroidered gold qipao with a sheer shawl draped over her shoulders, her refined makeup carrying an air of distant superiority and scrutiny.

As a provincial inspector dispatched by the Dao Alliance headquarters, Liu Ruyan held great status—she couldn’t fathom why Zhao Qiming would summon her for such a trivial local matter.

“Liu inspector, if this were a trivial matter, I wouldn’t have disturbed you.”

At that moment, an old woman, silent until now, spoke.

She wore a colorful ethnic robe embroidered with strange runes, holding a black wood cane with a snakehead handle; one of her eyes was an unnatural green, inhumanly eerie.

“This boy was originally a newly graduated disciple under my hall,” Huang Sanlang said gravely.

As the head of this local Huangxian Ma hall, she had many such shallow disciples; she had merely offered substantial gifts, so she attached a newly evolved weasel spirit to him, making the boy believe he had gained cultivation.

In today’s world, those who cultivate Ma are countless—they need no true cultivation, believing divine aid grants them power, unaware they’ve become vessels for spirits’ own cultivation.

Hearing this, Liu Ruyan said nothing, but a sneer surfaced on her beautiful face.

True Dao cultivators looked down on such heretical paths.

“When he fell ill, the report came in, and I originally paid it no mind—but later…”

As she spoke, Huang Sanlang looked toward Zhao Qiming.