Chapter Thirty-Four: The Black "Soil"

As soon as they entered the small town, a peculiar scent assailed their nostrils—a blend of blood and medicine. Mo Shan could not help but cough, clearly repulsed by the odor.

He gazed at the bodies sprawled haphazardly across the ground—some facing east, others west—all sharing the same grim trait: the flesh on their faces was shriveled and dry. Though it was spring and the corpses wore two or three layers of clothing, the skeletal remains beneath were evident, their garments wrinkled and sagging. Without question, their flesh and blood had been drained away, leaving only bones, which the gentle breeze stirred, covering them with black dust. No one cared for these lifeless remains.

Just days before, these people had been lively before him. Today, their blood had been sucked dry, and they lay here motionless. Mo Shan had no way of knowing what had happened during their absence. Even the cleverest mind could not deduce the cause and effect.

Suppressing his revulsion, his heart heavy, Mo Shan chased after Ruo Xi’s retreating figure.

The deeper they ventured into the town, the thicker the dust became. He felt the ground sink beneath his feet, as if treading through deep snow. As they approached the heart of the town, the bodies grew fewer, yet the stench of blood intensified. Presumably, those who sensed greater danger outside had sought safety indoors, not realizing their homes would become their graves.

With every step deeper, caution grew. Soon, Ruo Xi halted ahead, and Mo Shan noticed her grip on her sword tighten. Her body trembled slightly, the sword gleaming fiercely, and in an instant, she vanished from sight.

She must have rushed inside! Was someone there? This was Ruo Xi’s family home!

Mo Shan gathered strength in his ankles, sprinting forward like a passing breeze, stirring the dust that hung in the air.

In the span of a single breath, he stood at the door. Entering, he found the courtyard free of dust, only the faintly moist greenery and well-kept garden ornaments.

His gaze moved straight to the courtyard’s center.

A sharp sound rang out—a clear clash of blades, ripples echoing through the air.

Behind Ruo Xi lay a middle-aged woman. Mo Shan looked closely: rough hands resting on her chest, with traces of blood still visible. Her features were well-defined, lined with gentle wrinkles—a familiar presence, Aunt Mei! The one who cooked for them, cleaned their house, and greeted him with warm smiles. She was the second person to bring him warmth.

Why was she lying on the ground now?

Mo Shan’s eyes turned to Ruo Xi, locked in combat.

Her opponent was dressed head-to-toe in black, face hidden beneath a hooded cloak. Even his face was pitch-black, his features blurred; no matter how intently Mo Shan stared, all he saw was a void of darkness.

The man wielded a sword, entirely black, handle and blade alike, swirling with a strange grey aura.

At first, Ruo Xi drove the black-clad man toward the back of the courtyard, but whether she had seized the initiative or he had begun to exert his full strength, a relentless momentum surged forth, forcing Ruo Xi to retreat step by step.

Mo Shan rushed to Aunt Mei’s side. Her face was pale, eyes shut tight, mouth slightly agape, twisted in agony—she must have suffered immense pain.

“What’s happened to her?” Mo Shan cried helplessly to Ruo Xi.

He had no idea how to help, how to ease Aunt Mei’s suffering. In desperation, he could only ask Ruo Xi.

“Help me fight this man first! We’ll talk after!” Ruo Xi shouted.

Her sword arm grew heavy, struggling against the black-clad man’s relentless assault. With each clash, her arm began to tremble, nearly spent.

“How am I supposed to help?” Mo Shan called.

He had nothing in his hands—how could he fight?

“You’ll be the death of me! Where’s your sword from earlier? Take it out and fight him!” Ruo Xi cried in frustration.

“I...!” Mo Shan was stunned.

“I don’t have a sword!” he said, spreading his hands in confusion.