The black mist grew thicker and thicker. It was daytime, yet felt like night. Quinn and the others could barely make out their direction; looking up, they could still see the sun, but it was no longer dazzling—just a pale, circular halo in the darkness, dimmer even than moonlight.
Looking around, they saw that the green mountains had become blurry black silhouettes.
Noises echoed behind them, and someone shouted: "A few escaped—three men, three women, and a big lion... Hey, don't leave! Pick up my head! Come back—"
Quinn’s heart stirred. He glanced at Wayne Shen.
Wayne Shen understood. Flying swords shot from the sword case on his back, quickly digging a long trench in the ground. He lay down in it. Having encountered the horror of the dead rising for the first time, he’d been panicked, but now he was calm.
Quinn waved his sleeve, sweeping up the soil beside him and burying Wayne Shen underneath.
The group pressed on, but hadn’t gone far when screams erupted behind them.
"Someone’s hiding in the dirt, ambushing us!"
"My head’s been chopped off—has anyone seen my head?"
"Shut up, idiot! If your head’s missing, how are you even talking?"
"So that's it. No wonder I couldn't find it after searching for so long."
"Anyone seen my leg? Please, I'd be eternally grateful."
...
Quinn signaled the Dragon-Qilin to halt. Wayne Shen quickly caught up, saying, "There shouldn’t be any pursuers left. Let’s move."
Suddenly, a faint song drifted through the mist—stranger and stiffer than the one from the river earlier, with no rise or fall, unnervingly rigid.
Quinn told them to stop for now, then quietly slipped ahead to investigate. He soon saw the singers.
They were a few 'corpses' chanting, casting spells—performing the Soul-Calling Rite in the shadowy forest. Their bodies were ragged and battered, working their sorcery in the dark, disturbingly uncanny.
"Dead men casting spells?"
Quinn was startled, suddenly recalling Nine Hells Gate’s arts—it felt like they’d broken the boundary between life and death.
If these kinds of arts were perfected, could they shatter the limits of life and death—reaching true immortality?
Nine Hells Gate’s arts were still nowhere near true immortality. All they could do was drag a dead person’s soul from the Netherworld and temporarily lodge it in their old body.
They had to keep performing the Soul-Calling Rite; if they stopped, their souls would likely be pulled back to the Netherworld, and they’d truly die.
"No wonder those corpses are also performing the Soul-Calling Rite."
Quinn thought, "They have to keep chanting the Soul-Calling Rite to keep moving. These dead ones are strong—it’s best to avoid them."
He didn’t disturb them, quietly withdrew, and said, "Let’s change direction."
They hadn’t gone far before they ran into another group of Nine Hells Gate disciples casting spells. Alongside these dead disciples, Quinn also spotted several Cult of the Corpse Immortal members, controlling corpses and hunting down fleeing soldiers. Flying Corpses soared through the air on Yellow Talisman Paper.
Quinn frowned and changed direction again: "Let’s head for Deer Mountain. Nine Hells Gate buried their corpses there—those bodies revived and marched into the county. That place must be empty now!"
Everyone was tense. Now, the black mist was crawling with Nine Hells Gate and Corpse Immortal Cult members. The Cult of the Corpse Immortal had been wiped out by Evan Yu, but their disciples’ bodies were likely buried nearby—Nine Hells Gate had revived them too.
Clearly, Nine Hells Gate had come fully prepared, catching Evan Yu completely off guard. If things kept going like this, even Lizhou might be in danger.
Quinn thought, "There must be someone ruthless behind Nine Hells Gate—someone who’ll sacrifice anything, even all their disciples, to win!"
They reached Deer Mountain. Sure enough, the place was deserted and the black mist had thinned considerably.
Wayne Shen, Claire Yue, and the others gradually relaxed. As long as they crossed the mountain and left the black mist behind, they'd be safe—at least for now.
Suddenly, a rhythmic, undulating chant echoed from the mountain, tightening everyone’s nerves again. They looked to Quinn.
Quinn frowned and whispered, "That chanting isn’t right—it’s not the Soul-Calling Rite, but another kind of spell."
Azure Rainbow and the others couldn’t tell the difference; they hadn’t studied Nine Hells Gate’s Soul-Calling Rite, but Quinn had, and he sensed something was off.
"You all stay here. I’ll go check it out!"
Quinn gave the order, then silently crept toward the chanting. As he got closer, his footsteps grew lighter. In a hollow ahead, he saw an altar where a dozen male and female Daoists were casting a ritual.
The altar was built from interlocked bones, equal in length and width—each side three zhang and change. Its surface was paved with skulls. At each of the four corners stood a white banner, inscribed with runes in blood mixed with cinnabar.
At the altar’s center loomed a statue of an eight-armed demon-god. One leg was bent in a squat, the other folded atop it. Each pair of arms pressed together in prayer; the statue had four faces, each with three eyes.
Each Daoist was controlling a Sigil-Cube, floating in the air. The Sigil-Cubes had many faces, each inscribed with a rune.