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

The streets of Huaiyin Village are very long, seemingly without end.

The shops on both sides were side by side, with newly painted red doors and new lanterns, red paper and yellow tassels, swaying gently in the night breeze.

But the doors of those shops were all closed, not tightly closed, but ajar, with a sliver of light shining through the cracks, as if something was waiting inside.

The pedestrians had vanished, and the once bustling street was now deserted, with only bare lanterns swaying in the wind.

After walking for a while, the light suddenly came on ahead. It wasn't the light of lanterns, but the light of oil lamps, a dim, yellowish glow that shone on the ground like a puddle of water.

An old man sat on a stone bench by the roadside, with a bucket of oil in front of him.

The oil was golden, clear, and shimmered in the light.

The old man was very old; his hair was completely white, his face was covered with wrinkles, his hands were withered and thin, and his nails were long and yellow.

His eyes were closed, as if he were dozing off.

On the ground in front of him was a gourd.

The gourd was small, only about the size of a fist, with a very small opening, not much bigger than a copper coin.

Next to the gourd was a copper coin with a square hole in it.

Seeing these things made Lü Yang feel a little uneasy.

He didn't know what the old man was up to, but he knew that in this ghost market, there wasn't a single good person among them.

Ye Qingfeng stopped, looked at the old man, and smiled slightly.

"Old man, selling oil?"

The old man opened his eyes.

His eyes were gray and cloudy, as if covered with a layer of gray.

He glanced at Ye Qingfeng, then closed his eyes again.

"Selling oil." His voice was old and hoarse, as if he hadn't had water in a long time.

Ye Qingfeng walked over, squatted down, and looked at the gourd and the copper coin.

How much?

The old man opened his eyes and looked at him.

"Pour it yourself. Whatever you pour in, that's all. But if it spills out, your life is mine."

His hand didn't move, but the oil in the drum was moving.

The noodles trembled slightly, as if they were breathing.

The two oil drums next to it also moved.

The three oil barrels trembled simultaneously, in unison, like three heartbeats.

Ye Qingfeng smiled faintly, as if he had seen through everything long ago.

"Grandpa, please demonstrate first. Let me see how to pour it."

The old man glanced at him, a glint of something flashing in his cloudy gray eyes.

He did not refuse.

He stood up, picked up the gourd with his withered hand, and placed it on the ground.

Then he picked up the copper coin, pinched it between two fingers, and placed it on the mouth of the gourd.

The square hole of the copper coin was perfectly aligned with the mouth of the gourd, neither too big nor too small, just enough to cover it.

His hands were trembling slightly, but very steady.

He lifted the oil drum, positioning the spout against the square hole in the copper coin.

Oil flowed from the spout of the bucket, thin and delicate, like a golden thread, passing through the square hole of the copper coin, through the mouth of the gourd, and falling into the gourd.

Not a single drop leaked out.

It didn't spill onto the copper coins, it didn't spill into the gourd's mouth, and it didn't spill onto the ground.

Not a single drop.

He poured out about half a gourd and then stopped.

He put the oil drum back, removed the copper coins, picked up the gourd, and handed it to Ye Qingfeng.

"Come here."

Ye Qingfeng took the gourd, glanced at it, and placed it on the ground.

He picked up the copper coin and placed it on the mouth of the gourd.

He lifted the oil drum, positioning the spout against the square hole in the copper coin.

His movements were slow and steady, even slower and more steady than an old man's.

Oil flowed from the spout of the bucket, thin and delicate, like a golden thread, passing through the square hole of the copper coin, through the mouth of the gourd, and falling into the gourd.

Not a single drop leaked out.

Even cleaner and neater than an old person's.

The oil line drew a perfect arc in the air, without wobbling or trembling, neither too fast nor too slow.

The old man looked somewhat surprised; how could the other party have accomplished something so difficult with such ease?

It seems she does have some skill. But, haha, who says you can't interfere when pouring oil?

He tapped his knee with his fingers, and all three barrels of oil shook simultaneously.

His expression remained unchanged, but his hands had already left his knees.

He started walking forward.

It's not walking, it's moving.

One step, very slowly.

Two steps, very slow.

He took three steps, then reached out his hand towards the gourd.

As long as he removes the gourd, the thin oil line will fall onto the bluestone slab, and the leaked oil will be the evidence.

He could then take that Taoist priest's life.

His hands were withered and thin, with long, yellow fingernails that looked like five curved knives in the light of the oil lamp.

He reached out, reached out, reached out—but he couldn't reach the gourd no matter what he did.

It wasn't that the gourd ran away; it was that there was always a three-inch gap between his hand and the gourd.

Lu Yang stood to the side, his eyes wide open.

He saw the old man stretch out his hand, walking forward step by step, his hand reaching forward, his body leaning forward, but the gourd was right in front of him, he was only a little distance away from it, but he just couldn't touch it.

It's like being separated by an invisible layer of glass; your hand reaches out and slips through.

Miao Gui saw it too.

His mouth was open, and he forgot to close it.

The chubby baby squatted on the bundle, tilting his head, watching the old man reach out and miss again and again. He found it amusing, and grinned, revealing two rows of tiny teeth, still stained with residue.

Lu Yang couldn't help but burst out laughing.

It wasn't the kind of laughter you secretly let out; it was the kind of laughter that just burst out of your throat when you couldn't hold it in any longer.

He quickly covered his mouth, but laughter still escaped through his fingers.

Miao Gui laughed along, but he didn't cover his mouth; he just lowered his head, his shoulders shaking.

The old man's hand froze in mid-air.

He heard laughter, but he didn't turn around.

His eyes were fixed on the gourd, on the line of oil that was still dripping down.

He stretched his hand forward again, still only three inches.

He took a step forward, and the gourd also took a step forward.

He went to the left, and the gourd went to the left.

He went to the right, and the gourd went to the right.

He stopped, and the gourd stopped too.

It was always in front of him, within reach, yet he could never touch it.

Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He had lived for so many years and had never encountered anything like this before.

It wasn't an illusion; illusions can't fool his eyes.

It wasn't a trick; tricks can't fool his intuition.

It was something he had never seen before and couldn't explain.

It was as if the short distance between the gourd and him had suddenly turned into a road that could never be finished.

He was walking along the road, and the gourd was at the end of the road, not too far and not too near, exactly three inches away.

He couldn't understand what kind of method this was.

The old man withdrew his hand.

He stood there, his hunched back seemingly bent even more.

He looked at Ye Qingfeng, but Ye Qingfeng did not look at him.

Ye Qingfeng continued pouring oil, unhurriedly, the oil line remaining as thin and steady as ever.

The gourd is almost full.

After a moment, Ye Qingfeng stopped.

He put the oil drum back, removed the copper coins, picked up the gourd, weighed it in his hand, and then placed it on the ground.