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

His gaze shifted from the gourd to the old man, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

"It's your turn."

His voice was neither loud nor soft, "Pour me another pot. I haven't had enough yet."

The old man's expression didn't change, but his hand trembled slightly.

He pulled out another gourd from his pocket, much smaller than the previous one, only the size of a thumb, with a mouth as thin as the eye of a needle.

He squatted down, placed the small gourd on the ground, pinched the gourd with his fingers, and held the oil drum spout to the opening that was thinner than the eye of a needle.

The oil is flowing out.

It's thinner than a strand of hair, so thin that it's almost invisible.

But it passed steadily through the mouth of the gourd and fell into the gourd.

Not a single drop leaked out.

His fingers were steady, much steadyer than before.

His eyes were bright, much brighter than before.

He poured a full pot, stopped, picked up the gourd, and held it up in front of Ye Qingfeng.

A slight smile finally appeared on his lips.

It wasn't smugness, but a provocative smile that seemed to say, "Let's see how you can win now."

Human methods are beyond our ability to crack, but such minute ones...

"Come here," he said.

Ye Qingfeng looked at the gourd, which was smaller than a thumb, and at the opening, which was thinner than the eye of a needle, and smiled.

He didn't squat down.

He raised his foot and kicked the small gourd.

"Rolling around—" The gourd rolled out, rolled next to the oil drum, bumped into it, and stopped.

The oil from the gourd spilled out, golden in color, forming a small puddle on the bluestone slab, glistening in the light of the oil lamp overhead.

The old man's smile froze on his face.

He looked down at the spilled oil, then looked up at Ye Qingfeng.

His mouth opened, but before he could speak, Ye Qingfeng's voice rang out first.

It wasn't that his voice was unpleasant; it was what he said that stunned the old man.

"You—" Ye Qingfeng's voice suddenly rose, not very loud, but the coldness emanated from his very bones.

"You actually spilled my oil!"

The old man opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

His mind went blank with a "buzz".

He sold oil on this street for decades, killed dozens of people, and every time he was the one who picked a fight with others, every time he was the one who set the rules, and every time he was the one who took lives.

I have never been bitten back.

But now, this Taoist priest, this man in a gray-blue Taoist robe who looks like a hermit, is actually turning the tables on us.

He was the one who kicked the gourd, yet he claimed it was me. The old man's lips trembled slightly.

"You—" he finally managed to squeeze out a single word.

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean'?" Ye Qingfeng's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a stone hitting the old man's chest.

"I asked you to pour the oil, and you were doing it perfectly fine. Why did you suddenly kick the gourd? Did you do it on purpose? Do you think I'm easy to bully?"

His brows were furrowed, his lips were pursed, and the expression on his face was not one of anger, but rather a cold sternness that said, "You've messed with the wrong person."

Lu Yang stood to the side, his mouth agape, unable to close it.

He and Miao Gui exchanged a glance, and both couldn't help but give Ye Qingfeng a thumbs up.

Cattle!

Even Shen Zhaoyue, who was standing to the side, opened her mouth in surprise.

It seemed to be the first time the immortal master had seen him in this state.

The old man stood there, his hunched body trembling slightly.

His hand gripped the handle of the oil drum so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He knew that this person was doing it on purpose, that he was there to cause trouble.

Just like he used to treat people who came to buy oil.

He made them pour the oil themselves, and killed them if they spilled even a drop.

Now it was his turn, and he finally understood what it felt like to be mocked.

His face changed color repeatedly, from deathly pale to ashen, from ashen to bright red, and from bright red to black.

"You—you're playing me?" His voice was no longer hoarse; it was sharp, as sharp as a needle.

Ye Qingfeng looked at him, and the smile on his lips disappeared.

"When you killed those people, weren't you toying with them too? Making them pour the oil themselves, knowing they'd die if they spilled even a drop. Did they spill any? No. You still killed them."

Whether it leaked or not, you'd still kill them. Pouring oil is just your excuse, your amusement.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a stone, striking the old man's chest.

The old man's body began to swell.

It doesn't get taller, it gets wider.

His clothes were torn, revealing his skin underneath.

His skin wasn't human skin; it was oily, golden, and sticky, like oil residue just scooped out of a pot.

His hands turned into claws, with long, sharp nails like five needles.

His mouth stretched to his ears, revealing dark gums inside; there were no teeth, only a black hole.

He spewed out a stream of oil from that black hole; it wasn't golden, it was black and smelled foul.

Oil sprayed onto the ground, causing the bluestone slabs to hiss and smoke, corroding them into pits.

Upon seeing this, Lü Yang drew his sword without hesitation.

The sword light was like autumn water, drawing a cold arc in the night.

He rushed towards the old man and thrust his sword into his chest.

The sword tip pierced the old man's body, but there was no blood, only oil.

Golden oil, sticky and gooey, dripped down the blade.

Lü Yang tried to draw his sword, but couldn't.

The sword seemed to be stuck, stuck together by the oil.

The old man's claws reached for him, and he dodged to the side, but his sword was still inside the old man's body, and he couldn't bear to let go.

He gritted his teeth, kicked the old man, and used the force to pull out the sword.

Oil splattered all over him, making him sticky and stinking.

His clothes were wet and clung to his body, making him extremely uncomfortable.

He didn't care about any of that and rushed forward again.

Shen Zhaoyue also moved.

Her knife was much faster than Lü Yang's sword; with flashes of light, she slashed the old man seven or eight times.

But every cut felt like cutting into oil; it couldn't cut deep or penetrate. The blade was slid away by the grease, leaving only a shallow mark.

The old man's body was so slippery with oil that it was impossible to grip; the knife slid to the side as soon as it touched him.

She tried cutting from several different angles and directions, but couldn't get the knife through.

Lü Yang also noticed this problem; when he thrust his sword, the tip would always slip away, failing to hit any vital points.

The old man stood there, letting them chop and stab him, neither moving nor dodging, a grin spreading across his face, and waves of stench wafting out from the dark hole.

"Is that all you've got?" The old man's voice came from the black hole, high-pitched and thin.

"You can't beat me. You can't even touch me." He reached out and grabbed at Lü Yang.

Lu Yang dodged, but the old man's fingernail scratched his sleeve, tearing it and revealing his arm underneath.

The old man's fingernails were coated with oil, golden and sticky.

The oil splattered on Lü Yang's arm, burning him and making him cry out.

Shen Zhaoyue's expression changed when she saw Lü Yang's arm.

She took a step back, looked at the oily old man, and then at the knife in her hand.