Chapter Seventy-One: The Empress's Palace

When I turned my head, cold sweat broke out across my brow. A human skin. The withered, wrinkled skin of an old woman hovered beside me, mimicking the exact posture of turning her head as I had done. She seemed intent on imitating the terror that must have been etched across my face, but because her own was so deeply lined, the expression only made her look more grotesque and horrifying.

But why didn’t she become my likeness? Or rather, was she now...?

Wait—no matter how wild my imagination grew, judging from her current state, she clearly hadn’t done anything to me yet! With that thought, Lin Jiaren felt a wave of relief wash over him, deciding it was best to slip away quietly; if she woke up and questioned him, things might become impossible to explain.

Thinking things over was always Lin Jiaren’s habit—sometimes a flaw, sometimes a virtue—a double-edged sword indeed.

Suddenly, a voice spoke behind her, startling Yuan Niang so much that her hand trembled, dropping the fire striker to the ground. She spun around, and upon seeing it was Sima Shangyi, joy blossomed in her heart as never before.

A gentle breeze stirred the river’s tranquil surface into ripples, the lush vegetation on each bank whispering in the wind. Sunlight poured unabashedly through the poetic morning mist, becoming yet another adornment in the picturesque landscape.

“But I’m not very good at games! All I know is how to give injections and administer medicine!” Zhao Na hesitated.

The Bag of a Hundred Treasures, as its name implied, held a space within the size of a hundred meters across. Such bags were rarely seen on the market anymore; after all, the difference between a bag of several meters and one of a hundred was vast—no amount of lesser treasure bags could compare to one of the hundred treasures.

After leaving the words, “Three days from now, I’ll depart for Xiangyang,” Liu Qi finally took his leave, his eyes flashing at Lin Jiaren’s sudden brightness, and it was clear he would not return.

Yuan Niang supported Lan Mei over to the chairs the old women had arranged beneath the trees. Though the branches offered some shelter, it was the dead of winter, and after sitting a while, the cold seeped through their bodies.

“Hmph, one of me is enough to deal with her!” The Venomous Devourer Dragon snorted, emerald fumes curling from its nostrils. Instantly, poisonous mist filled the air, enveloping even the other three great beasts. Yet, this venom posed little threat to them.

They were merely descendants of the Priests of Guixu, yet they bore such hatred for the Dragon Lord’s tribe. Perhaps the blood of Guixu had passed down a legacy of enmity, and only now did I realize this grudge could never be resolved; the only end was for one of the divine clans to be utterly annihilated.

When the second photograph was laid before us, I stared in shock. It was taken when they had unearthed the mural—right at the flying deity supporting the gate. What stunned us most was that one of the Chinese men in front of the mural was holding a bronze mirror.

Under the flickering lights, no one knew how much had been drunk; scattered groups drank, conversed, and danced. Affection and estrangement had already become apparent.

Venom shimmered intermittently over its body, making it seem a grotesque fusion of bioweapon and advanced technology.

So adorable in front of me now, always quick to seize an opportunity and then play innocent—was this really the same Bai Ye I had once known?

If that was the case, then only one possibility remained: he had seen Murong Tianlan from afar, but dared not let his gaze linger, only stealing a furtive glance. That fleeting impression lingered, though he couldn’t recall exactly who she was.

Yamada the Fairy flicked her golden hair, realizing he was just a neighbor and not here to chase up a deadline—her pride swelled.

This battle had reached a point where the foundation for victory was barely established; all that remained was for Yi Qi Yi Meng and Yi Qi Tianwang to play their parts.

The village boys—like Gou Dan and Yang Wazi—who once carried themselves with such airs, now scurried away sheepishly whenever they saw this brother and sister.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t open her eyes. It was like being pinned down by a ghost, that familiar sleep paralysis—a crystal-clear mind trapped in a body that simply would not move, as though restrained by some invisible force.