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

Ye Qingfeng did not take the head, letting it fall to the ground.

A hint of anger flashed across the child's face, but before he could lash out...

Ye Qingfeng watched for a while, then lifted his foot and stomped down.

"Smack."

It wasn't the sound of cracking or shattering; it was a dull sound, like something being flattened.

The skull collapsed, and the contents inside spilled out—white, red, and gray—splashing all over the floor.

The child's smile was still on his face, but his eyes had changed.

Those bright black eyes, which had been crescent-shaped, turned into two deep, bottomless black holes.

His mouth was still upturned, but it was no longer a smile; it was a stiff curve, as if it were fixed in place by something.

"You—" His voice changed; it was no longer a soft, sweet child's voice, but a roaring sound coming from underground, like something was howling.

Ye Qingfeng wiped the ashes in his hands on his clothes and looked up at the child.

His face was expressionless, devoid of anger, pleasure, or disgust.

There was only a faint, indifferent look, like someone looking at something that wasn't very clean.

"Have you had enough of playing house?" His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, as if he were talking to a child who didn't quite understand.

"Is this all you creatures in the ghost market can do? Pretend to be a child, kick people on the head, steal their souls, and trap them in illusions. After hundreds of years, is this all you've learned?"

He paused, shifting his gaze from the child to the closed doors, and then to the eyes hidden behind the cracks in the doors.

"If you don't take this seriously, then I will."

His voice was very soft, but there was something in that softness, like a needle, piercing the heart of every ghost who heard it.

It's a very ordinary tone, like stating a fact.

It's like saying: It's getting light, you should all go home.

The child stood still, staring intently at Ye Qingfeng.

His body was trembling slightly, not from fear, but from anger.

He had lived in the ghost market for countless years, and no one had ever dared to speak to him like that.

He wanted to rush up, to tear this person apart, to drag him into that illusion from which he would never awaken.

But his feet couldn't move; not because they were frozen in place, but because he was afraid to move.

His body was telling him that if he rushed forward now, it wouldn't be the Taoist priest who died, but himself.

There was a commotion in the sky.

It's not the wind, it's the cloud.

Dark clouds, seemingly appearing from nowhere, surged in from all directions, gathering above the thin crack in the sky. They grew thicker and darker, like a giant quilt covering the entire ghost market.

The light from the red lanterns suddenly dimmed, as if something had covered the lampshade with its hand, allowing only a faint glimmer of light to pass through.

The air felt heavy, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

There was light flashing in the clouds.

It was lightning.

Golden, rolling and leaping in the dark clouds, like angry dragons.

There was no sound, only flashes of lightning illuminating every street, every door, and every lantern in the ghost market.

The child's pupils shrank to pinpoints.

He saw the lightning and felt the power contained within it.

That wasn't ordinary thunder; it was heavenly thunder.

It's lightning specifically designed to strike these kinds of things.

His hands started trembling again, but this time it wasn't from anger, it was from fear.

The sage-like figure calmly said, "Now, who else wants to try?"

His voice wasn't loud, but in this world where the sky and earth were shrouded in dark clouds, everyone heard it.

The eyes behind the door closed one by one.

It wasn't that they wanted to close their eyes; it was their owner who couldn't stand the Taoist's gaze and took the initiative to look away.

The faces on the old locust tree trunk—it turns out there were faces on the trunk, but it was too dark to see them before—were now illuminated by the lightning.

One by one, old and young, men and women, terrified and desperate, they were densely packed together, like a pile of crumpled paper.

Their mouths were open, but no sound came out.

Their eyes were wide open, but there was no light.

The child felt it; his strength was slipping away, like sand leaking through his fingers, impossible to hold onto no matter how hard he tried.

The sky brightened again.

The lightning was closer than before, as if it were hanging right overhead.

Ye Qingfeng raised his head, looked at the rolling dark clouds, and smiled slightly.

That smile had no warmth; it was a cold, chilling smile.

He stood with his hands behind his back under the lightning, his Taoist robe fluttering in the wind.

......

In the middle of Huaiyin Village stands an inn.

Unlike the shops on the street that were closed, the door of this inn was open.

The two wooden doors were wide open, painted a dark red, and swayed slightly in the wind, making a very soft "creaking" sound.

Above the door hangs a plaque with the four characters "Huaiyin Inn" written on it. The characters are black and shimmer in the lantern light, like eyes.

The lanterns at the entrance were also larger than those elsewhere, shining brightly red, almost blindingly so.

Two stone beasts crouched on the stone steps beneath the lantern. They were not lions, but something indescribable, with large heads and small bodies, their mouths wide open as if they were laughing.

The inn was brightly lit.

There was no one behind the counter, but the teapot on the table was steaming by itself, the teacups were filled with tea by themselves, and the chair was pulled out by itself, as if someone was sitting there.

A landscape painting hangs at the top of the stairs; it's in ink wash style and appears to flow in the light.

Below the painting, in the corner of the wall, there is a large vat containing several white lotus flowers that are in full bloom at night, with dewdrops still clinging to their petals.

The innkeeper sat on the second floor by the window.

He wore a gray-white robe, his hair was half-white, neatly combed, and tied up with a wooden hairpin.

His face was thin, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, but his eyes were very bright, so bright that they didn't look like an old man's eyes.

He held a cup of tea in his hand. The tea was pale red and steaming. The steam floated in the lamplight, winding and twisting like an invisible snake.

His name is Huai Weng.

No one knows how long he lived, nor does anyone know his name.

In this Huaiyin Village, he is the master, and he is the rule.

The ghosts on the street, the vendors selling fried skewers, oil, melons, cloth, noodles, and flowers, were all his neighbors.

They make a living on his land, and he doesn't care what they do as long as they don't tear down his inn.

It's only natural for ghosts to eat people.

He had lived on this street for hundreds of years, and had seen countless deaths and comedies, and was used to the drama of living people coming in and never being able to leave.

He didn't find it cruel, nor did he find it funny; he just found it ordinary.

Just like people eating and ghosts eating people, it's all about filling your stomach, so what's the big deal?

But today, his brow was furrowed.