The Ancestors' Interrogation

Yang Fan's speed was nothing short of extraordinary. In omniscient mode, he had seized the initiative, moving with lightning-fast reflexes. With a mere flick of his wrist, he unleashed the mysterious black whip. In the blink of an eye, its shadowy coils wrapped around the vengeful ghost's neck. The ghost's body went rigid, and a look of pure terror washed over its face. The whip, dark and sinister, defied all logic by ensnaring an ethereal being like itself. Not only that, but a numbing sensation surged through its form, robbing the spirit of any will to resist.

Dark tendrils of light emanated from the whip, winding their way into the ghost's body with eerie precision. Within moments, those inky lines began draining its vital essence at an alarming speed. The ghost's shriek barely had time to escape its lips before Hu Fei responded. With a leap, he was airborne, a violent surge of thunderous energy crackling between his fingers. His hand slammed down onto the ghost's head.

The electric onslaught was so fierce that the ghost was utterly obliterated without even a scream to mark its end.

Yang Fan retrieved his whip, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. It was clear now—the thunder magic was indeed the bane of all things unholy. In truth, lightning held a unique place in the cosmos. Unlike the elements tied to the Five Phases, it symbolized the wrath of the heavens. Beyond wood, earth, or fire, its raw, destructive power made it nearly unstoppable, without any natural counters in the realm of magical arts. Quite the opposite, in fact—lightning magic had the power to suppress or outright destroy many other techniques, further cementing its superiority.

However, cultivating thunder techniques was notoriously difficult, and only those born with rare, specific constitutions could truly master it. While other cultivators could use lightning-based spells, their efforts were mere shadows compared to those who had been truly gifted by the elements. The gap between the two was as vast as heaven and earth.

With the vengeful ghost annihilated, Yang Fan moved forward, leading the way. The sounds of battle grew ever louder, and as they approached, the scene before them became clear.

At the entrance to the tomb, five or six formidable zombies were locked in combat with the cultivators outside. The leader of these undead was a black-skinned zombie—the same one controlled by the now-deceased Fat Ghost Daoist, its power at the Foundation Establishment stage.

Among the human cultivators was a graceful elder in a moonlit white robe, skillfully maneuvering a spiritual weapon in midair, casting divine arts with an ease that made it seem he was the zombie's equal. Astonishingly, this elder was simultaneously holding off another zombie, one whose strength rivaled that of the Core Condensation stage.

Two on one, yet the old man showed no signs of being overwhelmed. He stood atop his flying weapon, hands weaving spell after spell, a shimmering aura radiating from his body. With expert precision, he wielded a fire-element flying sword, occasionally launching devastating strikes against the Core Condensation zombie.

Meanwhile, a second elder clad in grey robes was battling three or four zombies of similar strength. His movements were ethereal, weaving through the undead with ease. A protective shield shimmered around him as he too manipulated a fire-element spiritual weapon, evading any serious harm.

Beyond these two figures, other cultivators lingered in the distance, too frightened to approach. The zombies and ghosts emerging from the tomb were all of Core Condensation strength—far beyond what low-level cultivators could hope to handle.

When Yang Fan and Hu Fei finally reached the entrance, their expressions shifted, both calling out in shock.

"Ancestor!"

Yang Fan's eyes immediately locked onto the grey-robed elder. He was none other than the patriarch of Yang Family Fortress—Yang Hong's father, a man Yang Fan had glimpsed a few times during his twelve years of cultivation. Recognizing the patriarch's presence, Yang Fan's mind raced. He immediately activated his "Withered Tree Technique," a method that concealed all signs of life, ensuring no one would suspect him of anything untoward.

Ever since he had begun cultivating the Immortal Hong Technique, Yang Fan had repeatedly found himself in such situations. Through these experiences, his mastery of the Withered Tree Technique had broken past every conceivable limit, reaching a level of perfection few could comprehend.

"Move aside!" barked the Chu Family patriarch, his voice filled with joy upon seeing Hu Fei emerge from the tomb. He immediately intensified his attacks, creating an opening for those still trapped inside to escape.

Without hesitation, Hu Fei and Yang Fan retreated at full speed. The former rode his flying weapon into the skies, distancing himself from the raging battle, while Yang Fan slipped away more cautiously, carefully avoiding the nearby zombies.

Amidst the chaos, the Chu Family patriarch stole a glance at Yang Fan, his expression unreadable. Hu Fei's survival was surprising enough, but the fact that a mere Qi Condensation stage alchemist like Yang Fan had also managed to escape alive from such a perilous situation was truly extraordinary. Could it be that this boy's luck defied the heavens themselves?

The Yang patriarch harbored similar thoughts.

After running several more miles from the tomb's entrance, Yang Fan finally exhaled in relief. A group of cultivators immediately surrounded them, bombarding them with questions. Most were from the Misty Rain Manor or Yang Family Fortress, with a few wandering cultivators mixed in. Yang Fan spotted his younger brother, Yang Lei, among the crowd, his face tinged with worry. But upon seeing Yang Fan alive, his expression shifted back to his usual distant calm.

"Retreat!"

Just then, the two Foundation Establishment elders at the tomb's entrance pulled back their swords and withdrew, leaving the zombies behind. The undead let out a few enraged howls but did not give chase. It was daylight, and though zombies and spirits feared the sun, these particular creatures were strong enough to withstand it. However, they still preferred the damp, dark confines of the tomb.

In mere moments, the two patriarchs—Chu and Yang—descended, their sword-lights flashing as they landed.

"Are you certain that the Fat Ghost Daoist perished in the tomb?" the Yang patriarch asked Hu Fei, his voice tight with urgency.

"Yes… yes, I'm certain," Hu Fei stammered, casting a nervous glance at the formidable elder.

To a Qi Condensation cultivator, a Foundation Establishment master was like a mountain—one that loomed over them, utterly insurmountable.

Both patriarchs' gazes fell on the storage pouches hanging from Hu Fei's waist.

"Those… those are the Fat Ghost Daoist's storage pouches, aren't they?" the Yang patriarch exclaimed, a flash of greed crossing his eyes before he quickly masked it.

"Haha! Excellent!" The Chu patriarch laughed heartily, his face full of delight. "Did you defeat the Fat Ghost Daoist yourself, boy?"

Feigning humility, Yang Fan bowed deeply, his voice calm and deferential. He proceeded to recount the story:

"In truth, the Fat Ghost Daoist forced me to concoct an antidote to the tomb's poison. However, I added a secret ingredient, a potent toxin that could be activated at the right moment. When the Fat Ghost Daoist demanded that we accompany him into the tomb, he left me outside while he ventured deeper with Brother Hu. But when the Daoist was severely injured by the tomb's demonic energy, Brother Hu and I saw our chance. I triggered the poison, and together we managed to slay him…"

The patriarchs listened intently, their expressions growing darker as Yang Fan described the perils within the tomb—the ancient magic, the rampaging undead, and the terrifying presence of the headless corpse.

Finally, after answering a series of probing questions, Yang Fan bowed once more, his story complete. Hu Fei, under the scrutinizing gaze of the elders, confirmed the alchemist's account.

Satisfied, the two patriarchs exchanged knowing glances, already plotting their next moves. Unbeknownst to them, the true beneficiary of this deadly encounter had already quietly slipped away—right under their noses.