My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

Lu Yang lay prone at the cave entrance. He stood up, dusted himself off, and prepared to return the way he came.

As soon as I bent down, I suddenly felt a chill on my head.

Something was dripping onto his head.

It was sticky and dripped down my hair, onto my forehead, and had a fishy smell.

Lu Yang paused for a moment, then reached out and touched his finger. His finger was covered in a layer of clear, sticky liquid, slippery like egg white.

He raised his head and looked up.

A snake was coiled on a branch overhead.

The snake was huge, thicker than his arm, and its body was bluish-black, with scales that gleamed with a cold, eerie light in the dim light.

Its body was wrapped around several thick branches, and its head drooped down, less than two feet above Lü Yang's head.

His mouth was slightly open, revealing two rows of fine, sharp teeth. Clear saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth, one drop at a time, landing directly on Lü Yang's head.

The snake's eyes were vertical pupils, golden in color, and it stared intently at him.

There was a small tuft of black hair around its mouth, wet, as if it had just swallowed something.

Lu Yang's mind went blank for a moment.

He remembered the squirrel—the brown, furry one that peed on his shoes.

The squirrel ran into its hole, and he chased after it, but the squirrel disappeared. The snake was here.

That tuft of black fur was the same color as a squirrel's fur.

The snake wasn't full.

The squirrel is too small; it won't even fill a tooth gap.

It is still hungry, still waiting.

Then he arrived.

Lü Yang's legs began to tremble.

It's not that he's timid; anyone would tremble in his shoes.

A snake thicker than his thigh was coiled on his head, drooling on his face, its eyes staring straight at him.

He had never been this close to a snake in his entire life.

The snake's neck retracted slightly, and its mouth opened even wider.

That was a sign that an attack was about to begin.

Lu Yang, with a sudden burst of strength, jumped backward and turned to run.

He didn't crawl into the hole.

The snake was faster than him to crawl into the hole; the moment he climbed in, the snake was able to bite his leg from behind.

He ran into the woods, running very fast, his feet slipping on the fallen leaves, almost falling, but he managed to steady himself.

Branches whipped his face, vines tripped him, but he paid no heed to the pain or the path ahead; he only knew to keep running.

There was a "whoosh" sound behind me, and the snake slid down from the tree.

It didn't climb, it slid, like a stream of bluish-black water cascading down from the branches and landing silently on the ground. Then it began to chase.

Its body stretched and contracted rapidly, drawing an S-shaped trajectory on the ground, passing through fallen leaves, around tree trunks, and tightly biting Lu Yang's back.

Lu Yang didn't dare turn around, but he could hear the voice.

The sound of scales rubbing against fallen leaves, a soft rustling, grew closer and closer.

He gritted his teeth and desperately circulated the Qi within his body.

Qi surged from his dantian, flowing down his meridians to his legs, making his steps much lighter and faster.

But his vital energy was finite. The bowl of radish porridge he drank yesterday, the radish farts he smelled, and the little bit of savings he had accumulated were rapidly depleting. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

He cried out in his heart: Immortal Master, save me!

Far away in the courtyard of the ginseng-gathering village, Ye Qingfeng lay on a rocking chair, squinting his eyes and basking in the sun.

His teacup was empty. A'Luo had gone to the mountain to gather ginseng, as had Lü Yang and Miao Gui. Shen Zhaoyue was practicing her sword in the courtyard.

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the jujube leaves, casting patches of light on his Taoist robe.

He was about to close his eyes for a short rest when he suddenly opened them slightly.

Their gaze turned westward, towards the direction Lü Yang and his group had gone.

He glanced at it for a moment, then a faint smile appeared on his lips.

"A storm is brewing."

He muttered something under his breath, then closed his eyes again and continued sunbathing.

The rocking chair creaked and groaned, its gentle creaking mingling with the rustling of jujube leaves.

Lü Yang was still running.

My vital energy has been mostly depleted, my legs are starting to feel weak, and my breathing is becoming erratic.

The rustling sound behind him grew closer and closer; he could even feel the fishy smell brought on by the snake flicking its tongue.

He dared not stop, dared not look back, but mechanically moved his legs, one step, two steps, three steps—

Then he suddenly stopped.

It wasn't that he wanted to stop.

His body simply wouldn't cooperate.

My feet were planted on the ground, I couldn't move my legs, and I couldn't lift my arms.

He was completely immobilized, as if he had been encased in cement, from head to toe.

My eyes could still move, but when I turned them to the side, I didn't see anything.

He could still hear, and he heard the rustling sound behind him stop.

The snake stopped moving.

The woods fell silent, an unnatural silence.

The birdsong has stopped, the insect chirping has stopped, even the wind has stopped.

The leaves hung motionless on the branches, as if someone had pressed the pause button.

Lü Yang's heart was beating very fast.

He didn't know what had happened, but he knew it was definitely not a good thing.

Then he heard footsteps.

It wasn't the sound of human footsteps, but the sound of four feet stepping on fallen leaves, very light, very steady, unhurried.

They came from the other side of the woods, getting closer and closer.

He turned his eyes in that direction and caught a glimpse of a gray shadow out of the corner of his eye.

It's a leopard.

Its fur is grayish-brown with faint markings, and it walks with its body hunched low, almost touching the ground.

It walked very slowly, each step steady, its claws sinking into the fallen leaves without making a sound.

A person rode on the leopard's back. It was a very old man with completely white hair, wearing a gray-white robe, the hem of which hung down to the leopard's belly and swayed gently with the leopard's steps.

The old man rode a leopard, passing between Lü Yang and the giant snake.

He walked perfectly straight through the middle, with Lü Yang on his left and the giant snake on his right.

As the leopard walked by, Lü Yang smelled a faint scent of herbs wafting from the old man.

The old man didn't look at him or the snake; his eyes were fixed ahead, as if he were taking a walk in his own yard.

The leopard walked past, its tail tip brushing against Lü Yang's calf, tickling him.

Then, Lü Yang discovered that he could move again.

My fingers can bend, my arms can be raised, and my legs can take steps.

He stretched his stiff joints, looked down at his feet, and then looked up at the large snake.

The snake remained coiled in place, mouth agape, vertical pupils staring straight ahead, motionless, like a statue.

The saliva was still hanging from the corner of his mouth, but hadn't dripped down.

Lu Yang breathed a sigh of relief, his legs went weak, and he almost sat down on the ground.

He leaned against a nearby tree, panting heavily.

It took him a while to catch his breath.

He glanced at the large snake, then at the old man riding the leopard, and understood about seven or eight parts of the situation.

This old man is no ordinary person.