Chapter Seventy-Nine: A Single Foxtail Grass

Jiang Pingchuan watched as Mo Shu hurriedly departed, his steps rushed. He glanced at the dogtail grass Mo Shu had spat on the ground, wondering when Mo Shu had grown so brazen. To disregard Master Gong’s authority, walk off directly, and even spit out his dogtail grass with a sneer—it was unthinkable.

“What’s going on with Mo Shu, leaving in such a hurry?” Jiang Pingchuan asked the others with a genial smile.

“Exactly. Normally, he’s never without that dogtail grass in his mouth. What’s happened today? He’s even abandoned that shabby old stem,” Zhendong remarked, glancing at Jiang Pingchuan and then at the grass on the ground. Jiang Pingchuan, curiosity flickering in his gaze, examined Zhendong and the discarded dogtail grass, frowning but saying nothing further.

“That’s enough for today. Everyone, go home,” Master Gong said, waving his hand. The crowd offered him respectful bows before turning to leave. Jiang Pingchuan looked at Master Gong and noticed Ah Hu’s expression was rather unsightly.

“Pingchuan, let’s head back as well,” Master Gong said, fingering the prayer beads in his hand as he slowly walked out of the mortuary. Jiang Pingchuan watched Ah Hu’s departing figure, then glanced back at the corpse behind him, sensing an indistinct connection hidden within these events.

Pausing for a moment where the dogtail grass lay, he caught up with Master Gong and left the mortuary.

“Folks, it’s getting late. Best everyone head home soon,” Master Gong said to the townspeople still gathered outside the mortuary. They exchanged pleasantries and dispersed. In the throng, Jiang Pingchuan spotted the man he’d first encountered upon arriving.

That man glanced back at Jiang Pingchuan several times, as if wanting to say something, but seeing Master Gong by Jiang Pingchuan’s side, he finally lowered his head and melted away with the crowd.

Jiang Pingchuan looked at Master Gong. He realized that the people of Dongzhou City not only respected him but also harbored a deeper fear. Though Master Gong was not a member of the city’s merchants’ guild, his business dealings could rival the entire guild; he was powerful and wealthy, and could summon a number of cultivators to serve him at any time.

Jiang Pingchuan returned to the Gong residence with Master Gong but declined his invitation for a drink, choosing instead to retire to his own room. As he passed by Landao’s room, he heard the sound of conversation between Landao and a woman—clearly, Landao had found someone he liked in the Gong residence. Jiang Pingchuan felt happy for him, but his own mood turned somber at the thought.

When Jiang Pingchuan entered his room, the alluring figure of Fox Mei’er was nowhere to be seen. On the table lay a note:

“Whether fate runs deep or shallow, it was only my wishful thinking. I hope you find peace—Fox Mei’er.”

Pocketing the note, Jiang Pingchuan approached his neatly made bed and lay down, breathing in the lingering fragrance she’d left behind—a subtle, ancient scent.

Lying there, Jiang Pingchuan’s mind was filled with images of Zhou Ning’er, but her face would sometimes shift into that of Fox Mei’er.

Suddenly, Jiang Pingchuan opened his eyes, determined not to think of either woman. Remembering Zhendong’s words and Mo Shu’s strange behavior, he sensed something amiss.

Zhendong had said that Mo Shu was never without a stalk of dogtail grass. Yet today, Mo Shu had angrily bitten his grass into three pieces and spat it out.

Rising from bed, Jiang Pingchuan glanced at the sky, opened the door, and stepped outside. He walked toward the mortuary, pausing in a patch of wild grass to pluck a stalk of dogtail grass, continuing on his way.

As he neared the mortuary, the sounds of a fierce struggle reached his ears. Jiang Pingchuan rushed forward and burst through the gates, only to find Mo Shu being viciously attacked by a woman in blue muslin.

Mo Shu was already on the brink of death. Jiang Pingchuan quickly formed a seal with his hands and struck at the woman. With a muffled groan, she retreated swiftly, but before leaving, she landed one last blow on Mo Shu.

Mo Shu spat out a mouthful of blood, sent flying by her strike to crash hard against the wall. The blue-clad woman glanced once at Jiang Pingchuan, then vanished in a flash of blue light.

Though Jiang Pingchuan hadn’t seen her face, her figure and attire reminded him of Fox Mei’er. Realizing she was a fox demon, his expression darkened.

He looked at the spot where she had disappeared, then hurried to Mo Shu’s side. Mo Shu, pale and on the verge of death, managed a bitter smile.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Mo Shu said, coughing violently, his voice hoarse.

“I’m late. What happened here?” Jiang Pingchuan asked, surveying the ruined mortuary. From what he’d seen, Mo Shu had been helpless before the woman’s attacks, able only to defend himself. If Jiang Pingchuan hadn’t arrived to disrupt her assault, Mo Shu would have been destroyed.

“Heh. I thought you wouldn’t return. Actually, you’re early. But someone else came even sooner,” Mo Shu replied, clutching Jiang Pingchuan’s sleeve, every movement betraying his pain and unwillingness to accept his fate.

“Tell me quickly—what happened here?” Jiang Pingchuan gripped Mo Shu’s hand, pouring his own true energy into him. Mo Shu looked up in shock; for the first time, he realized someone’s inner energy could be so pure, even easing his agony.

“Be wary of Master Gong, he—”

A sudden surge of immense true energy blasted into Mo Shu’s body before he could finish. The backlash forced Jiang Pingchuan’s hand away.

Mo Shu was struck by a powerful palm, his body sliding across the ground and smashing into the wall. With a final scream, he died. Jiang Pingchuan, seeing his own hands blackened by the energy’s force, shouted in fury and instantly teleported outside the mortuary.

But outside, there was nothing but darkness. Jiang Pingchuan glared at the emptiness, furious. Mo Shu had been murdered right before his eyes, yet he hadn’t sensed the killer’s presence at all before the blow landed. This was more than an affront—it was a warning: the killer wasn’t just targeting Mo Shu, but also warning Jiang Pingchuan not to meddle.

With a heavy heart, Jiang Pingchuan returned to the mortuary. There, in the corner, lay Mo Shu’s battered corpse, his eyes wide open in death, his face twisted.

The corners of Mo Shu’s mouth twitched, as though trying to utter his final words, but his killer had given him no chance—silencing him forever.

Jiang Pingchuan closed Mo Shu’s eyes, placed the dogtail grass in his mouth, and patted his shoulder. Just as he was about to leave, Mo Shu’s tightly clenched fist suddenly relaxed. Jiang Pingchuan knelt, and in Mo Shu’s palm found a wisp of blue muslin. He picked it up and left the mortuary.

“Well, well, Jiang Pingchuan. What brings you to the mortuary in the middle of the night?” As soon as he stepped outside, he found Master Gong and a group of men waiting at the gate. It was Ah Hu who spoke, his demeanor oddly off—his tone was mocking, his gaze unfocused and dazed.

Jiang Pingchuan paused, slipping the blue muslin into his robe as he regarded the group of cultivators.

“I simply found the circumstances suspicious and came to investigate. May I ask what brings all of you here at this hour?” he asked Master Gong in a low voice.

Master Gong kept his head bowed, fingering his prayer beads, ignoring Jiang Pingchuan.

“We received word that the killer would appear at the mortuary tonight. We’d barely arrived when we saw you. Do you have anything to explain?” Master Gong lifted his head, his voice cold.

Jiang Pingchuan met his gaze and suddenly laughed.

“Do you suspect me, Master Gong? I’ve only been in Dongzhou City three days. Do you truly think I’m the murderer?”

He regarded Master Gong with a faint smile. The group before him probably comprised the city’s most powerful cultivators. That they’d blocked his path was no coincidence—someone was manipulating things from the shadows.

“Jiang Pingchuan, your origins are mysterious. We inquired at Sanjiang County: you arrived there half a year ago, but you’re not even from Changfeng Continent!” Ah Hu roared at him, face twisted with rage, as though he wished to tear Jiang Pingchuan apart.

“Let’s set aside your origins for now—can you explain the bloody handprint on your body?” Ah Hu pointed at the mark Mo Shu had left on Jiang Pingchuan, his voice icy.

Jiang Pingchuan glanced at the cultivators behind Master Gong. Instantly, their energy flared, encasing their bodies, and Jiang Pingchuan’s gaze locked onto Master Gong.