The Ghost-Healer Whom Even Spirits Fear

Tens of thousands of ascended cultivators knelt in reverence before Fengyun Wuji—it was a scene of awe-inspiring devotion. Yet beyond the sea of kneeling figures, on the rooftop of a lone pavilion, a solitary man stood tall, drawing all eyes by simply being there.

Fengyun Wuji spotted him instantly: Baili Lang, Sect Master of the Boundless Sword Sect. During Wuji's ascension, he had challenged the finest martial artists across the land, defeating them with ruthless efficiency, never lingering long enough for anyone to glimpse his true appearance. Baili Lang had been spared—not out of mercy, but due to Wuji's injuries at the time. Instead of issuing a challenge, Wuji merely demonstrated a counter to the famed Boundless Sword Technique, inadvertently bolstering the sect's reputation.

Already a major force, the Boundless Sword Sect gained newfound prestige from that unintentional endorsement. Over a hundred years, it rose to become the dominant power in the martial world, even surpassing the once-revered Muzi, Beibing, and Nanxing Sword Sects. It was one of the few sects with enough influence to gather this many ascended cultivators.

Yet Baili Lang's presence here was… wrong.

Someone of his cultivation should not have been immune to the pressure radiating from a Sword Sovereign like Fengyun Wuji. No matter how powerful he had become, if his path was the sword, and his mastery not above Wuji's, then suppression was inevitable. And yet—it wasn't.

Something is off about Baili Lang.

That thought flashed through Wuji's mind like lightning. His body surged forward, vanishing into a blur of speed. Even before his figure arrived, his divine sense shot out like a spear, slamming straight into Baili Lang.

Baili Lang staggered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Eyes full of panic, he turned and fled toward the cliff behind the Beibing Sword Sect.

Wuji was taken aback. His divine sense wasn't something that could be brushed off with a mere trickle of blood. Even he himself wouldn't escape such an attack unscathed. Yet Baili Lang had done just that.

Seeing him reach the edge of the cliff, Wuji roared and gave chase. His right hand flicked out—the Fifth Sword-Gall, peerless among blades, flashed through the air like lightning.

Baili Lang's figure disappeared into the swirling mists below. But then, in a movement as eerie as it was sudden, he twisted mid-fall, smiled strangely, and drew a bizarre weapon—a spindle-shaped object—and parried the blow.

Clang!

A crisp, ringing clash echoed through the sky. Despite the Fifth Sword-Gall's legendary sharpness, it failed to sever Baili Lang's weapon. Unfazed, Wuji twisted his wrist and attacked again from a more cunning angle. At the same time, his left hand flicked, sending out hundreds of blazing sword-qi projectiles.

Clang!

Another piercing clash, but this time the strange weapon bore a deep gash. Baili Lang, for all his mystery, couldn't block everything. The torrent of sword-qi struck home, boring into his body.

He grunted, blood erupting from several holes in his flesh. But curiously, not a single drop spilled out. Twisting violently, he slammed into the mountainside—and vanished within it. A rumble echoed through the cliffs as the mountain swallowed him whole.

Wuji's eyes narrowed. He released his divine sense once more, locking onto Baili Lang's aura and struck—one sword thrust crashing straight into the mountainside.

Boom!

A beam of dazzling sword-light tore through solid stone like a hot knife through butter. It blasted a tunnel through the rock, striking Baili Lang deep within.

"Argh!"

A cry of agony finally escaped his lips. But just as Wuji prepared for the finishing blow, Baili Lang used the shockwave of the previous attack to burrow even deeper, fleeing several miles underground. Then—silence.

The connection through Wuji's divine sense snapped. Baili Lang had vanished.

Frustrated, Wuji expanded his divine sense across a hundred thousand kilometers, scouring both sky and earth. But no matter how hard he searched, Baili Lang was gone.

Standing high above the Beibing Sword Sect, Wuji finally spoke, his voice thundering across the mountain range:

"In the heavens, I am called the Sword Sovereign. In this realm, I was once known as the Sword God. All ascended cultivators, hear my decree: for the next three months, no one is to ascend. The reason—you will come to understand in time."

Without waiting for a response, Wuji disappeared in a flash of light.

Whether they believed him or not didn't matter. His show of force was enough to make some question Baili Lang's deception. That was all he needed—just a few seeds of doubt.

A flicker of divine sense revealed another presence—Gu Yue Tian—hiding behind a rock outcrop. Wuji merely gave him a cold glance, then turned and left, vanishing into the distance once more.

The Ghost-Healer

Known only as Gui Jianchou—the Ghost-Healer—this man was said to possess godlike healing skills. He could mend flesh, restore broken bones, and even bring back the dead. But his temper was infamous. He saved only those he pleased, and his fees were bizarre and unpredictable.

Shentu Mojun, Lord of the Demonic Path, arrived with Leng Ruoshuang in tow, riding in a humble carriage. But when he reached the Ghost-Healer's mountain dwelling, he found himself blocked at every turn.

Though Gui Jianchou's martial ability was negligible, his home was guarded by poisonous creatures and mystical formations. Some of these beasts were said to be remnants of the ancient wilds—deadly enough to end even an ascended cultivator's life with a single bite.

Shentu only barely made it through, thanks to the immense power Fengyun Wuji had temporarily granted him. Without it, he'd be dead.

When they finally met, the healer took one look at Leng Ruoshuang and smiled. Shentu felt hope rise—only to be crushed by the next words out of the healer's mouth.

"What will you trade for my help?" asked the thin, ratty old man, his grin sly and unsettling.

Shentu opened his mouth to respond—but paused. Gold? The healer had no need for money. He'd once taken a patient's entire fortune in exchange for a single treatment.

A woman? Gui Jianchou was far too old for such pleasures, and his condition, it was said, couldn't be cured even by his own hands.

Status? Even the strongest martial elites dared not provoke the Ghost-Healer. Shentu himself wouldn't risk it—too many owed this man their lives. And more still in recent years.

Seeing Shentu hesitate, the healer's face darkened. He flicked his sleeve and turned away. "You come begging for salvation, but bring no payment? Try your luck elsewhere."

Shentu was furious—but powerless. Despite his fearsome reputation, he had no wealth, no leverage, and nothing that might interest a man like this.

Just then, a calm voice drifted through the room:

"What if I offer you a hundred years of life?"

Everyone turned. Fengyun Wuji had entered.