Gao Yang's heart seized as the bloated corpse rose from the well.
Its skin was pale and swollen, waterlogged and reeking of rot.
Crimson phantoms from the Seven Fiends Night Prowl surged from Gao Yang's body, darting toward the corpse. The specters slammed into it, forcing out a spray of foul brown water—but the thing didn't stop. It shuddered, jaw creaking open.
"I—it hurts," the corpse croaked, voice trembling with agony. "It hurts so much… help me…"
The Seven Fiends Night Prowl phantoms passed through it uselessly, their crimson light dissolving into the night. The corpse kept climbing, slow and deliberate. As its neck broke the surface, Gao Yang saw a jagged wound slicing nearly all the way through it, blood still dripping down its bloated chest.
Then something wet and sticky touched his palm. Gao Yang lifted his hand—it was slick with blood. The well's edge was soaked in it.
His breath caught. A chill ran up his spine.
In the reflection of the well's water, he saw a shadow standing behind him.
The figure raised a blade.
Instinct screamed. Gao Yang threw himself to the side, rolling away just as the blade sliced through the air where his neck had been. Wind howled, and when he looked back—the figure was gone. The well was empty. Only the still, red water remained, rippling softly.
Not an illusion. Not this time.
The thing in the well was real.
Gao Yang's face darkened. A spirit in the well—and even Seven Fiends Night Prowl couldn't harm it. Was it like him? Something that had clawed its way up from death?
No. That face… he had seen it before.
He searched the memories of this body. Slowly, a filthy, unshaven face appeared in his mind—and matched perfectly with the one he'd seen.
A villager. A lonely bachelor who'd been alive when Gao Yang first left for the Azure Mountain Sect.
Murdered, thrown into the well, and left to rot until resentment turned him into a wraith.
If Gao Yang wanted to know what lay beneath the well, he would have to destroy the spirit first. But how, when Seven Fiends Night Prowl had no effect?
He was still thinking when the steward's voice came from behind him. "Immortal Attendant, it's late. You should rest."
Gao Yang turned. "All right."
As they walked away, the rope behind them suddenly went taut again. From below came a weak, pitiful cry: "It hurts… it hurts…"
Gao Yang frowned. "There's a spirit in that well."
"I know," the steward said indifferently. "I sensed it when we arrived."
"You're not going to deal with it?"
The steward stopped, his tone cold. "Why should I? No one asked us to. Don't meddle where you're not wanted."
Gao Yang stared at him. "Aren't we cultivators?"
The steward's lip curled into a thin smile. "Who said cultivators must slay demons? In this world, people don't thank you for helping them—they curse you for interfering."
Later, Gao Yang would understand exactly what he meant.
When they returned to the hall, the villagers had already sent food. In the short time they'd been gone, a new chief had been chosen—a middle-aged man with a thin, rat-like face and long mustache.
He bowed deeply. "Honored Immortal Attendants, you visited the well, yes?"
"Yes," Gao Yang said.
The man's eyes narrowed. "Then you must have seen the corpse."
The steward put down his chopsticks with an audible clack, irritation flickering across his features.
The man hurried to explain. "He was a bachelor in our village. Tried to assault a widow, so we… executed him and threw him into the well."
"He's become a wraith," Gao Yang said flatly.
The chief's eyes gleamed, and he feigned sorrow. "Our harvest failed this year. We cannot afford to hire exorcists. Since he's harmed no one yet, please, let him remain below."
"He'll harm someone eventually," Gao Yang said. "I'll do it for free."
The chief's expression changed instantly. "No, honored one! We couldn't possibly trouble you. We'll handle it ourselves."
Gao Yang's confusion deepened, but the steward waved a hand. "You may go."
The man bowed repeatedly and fled.
From outside, Gao Yang's heightened senses caught his whisper: "Seal the well with a stone. Don't let them see."
Seventh Senior Sister pushed her food around, unimpressed. "You don't understand, do you, Thirteen?"
Gao Yang looked up. "No. Don't they fear what's in the well?"
Her laugh was cold. "Ever think they want it there?"
He stared. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Who knows? Mortals love dabbling with powers they can't control. Five years ago, another village raised a wraith of their own—to lure exorcists and rob them. They even fed it infants once a month. When they ran out of babies, it turned on them. The entire village was wiped out in a night. Second Senior Brother led the purge himself—and nearly died for it."
Gao Yang's worldview cracked a little more.
"If you knew, why didn't you destroy it sooner?" he asked.
"Why should we?" she countered. "The more people a wraith consumes, the stronger it becomes. Most of the pills you eat are refined from demons and wraiths. Where do you think your Foundation Pills come from?"
Gao Yang's thoughts went blank. His voice trembled. "So the spirits eat people… and we eat them—to grow stronger?"
Seventh Senior Sister leaned back, resting her chin on one hand. "Exactly. We're righteous cultivators. We don't feed humans to spirits. But if mortals bring about their own ruin—well, that's just convenient, isn't it?"
Righteous cultivators.
Gao Yang said nothing.
The steward finished eating and stood. "Rest, Immortal Attendant. We leave at dawn."
Seventh Senior Sister yawned. "I hate field missions. No proper food. I'm starving." She stretched lazily, rising from her seat. "Good night, Thirteen."
Gao Yang sat there, staring at the flickering lantern light. His thoughts felt heavy and strange.
Seventh Senior Sister had once been a villager too—just like the people outside. The Immortal Mistress said cultivation meant abandoning worldly emotion.
So this was cultivation.
Later that night, Gao Yang returned to the village gate.
The sky was overcast; clouds swallowed the moon.
The phoenix trees loomed in silence, their shadows long and crooked.
A slab of stone now sealed the well. From beneath it came faint scratching—fingers scraping wood, nails clawing stone.
And a voice, muffled but clear.
"It hurts… it hurts so much…"