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

Ye Qingfeng patted his chest, finally letting out the lingering yin energy.

That was such a feast, I'm already stuffed.

He looked up at the sky; the moon was setting in the west, and the stars were brighter than before.

The hillside behind me was quiet, the wild grass bent and straightened in the wind, and insects chirped intermittently in the bushes, as if they were testing something.

The shadows of those crooked pine trees were stretched long by the moonlight, looking like several hunched old men squatting there.

There is no Huaiyin Village, no red lanterns, no bluestone roads, nothing at all.

He turned around, about to walk back, when he suddenly paused.

It didn't stop, it paused for a moment, as if the sole of its foot had stepped on a slightly unstable stone, testing it first before deciding whether to step firmly.

He raised an eyebrow slightly, shifting his gaze from the moon overhead to the dark forest ahead.

There was some noise.

It wasn't the sound of wind or insects, but the sound of clashing swords, coming from deep within the forest.

It was very soft, and it was far away, but he could hear it.

Two people are fighting, no, not fighting, but killing each other.

Every strike draws blood, every move is deadly.

Ye Qingfeng did not move.

He stood there, hands behind his back, looking in that direction.

His body did not emit light, make any hand seals, or chant any incantations, yet he was no longer in that position.

It's not that he left, it's that he erased himself from that space.

He was still standing there, but if someone walked past him, they would only see a crooked pine tree, a few shrubs, and wild grass swaying in the moonlight, but not him.

If immortals don't want mortals to see, then mortals can't possibly see.

The distinction between immortals and mortals is not something to be taken lightly.

Deep in the woods, in a clearing, two people are facing off.

One was dressed in black, and the other in gray.

The man in black was a burly fellow, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, carrying a thick-backed machete with several chipped edges, from which blood was still dripping.

The man in gray was thin and a head shorter than him. He held a long sword in his hand, the blade of which was slender and gleamed with a faint blue light under the moonlight.

Both of them had torn clothes and were injured. Blood seeped from their cuffs, collars, and hems, staining their clothes a patchy dark red.

There was another person lying on the ground.

No, it's not a person, it's a corpse.

He was already dead, his neck was tilted to one side, his eyes were still open, and his pupils were dilated.

He had a large wound on his chest, as if something had stabbed and stirred it; the blood had drained away, and the surrounding soil had turned blackish-red.

The burly man in black, panting heavily, propped his body up with his knife, the tip of which was embedded in the soil.

His left arm hung down at his side, with a large section of the sleeve torn off, revealing the skin and flesh underneath.

The skin was torn open, white and raw, and blood was gushing out, flowing down the arm and dripping onto the ground in a soft, rhythmic patter.

"Hand over the wishing stone." His voice was deep, as if squeezed from his chest, with a rusty tone.

"Hand it over, and I'll spare your life."

The thin man in gray didn't speak.

His right hand gripped the sword, while his left hand covered his waist.

There was a hole in the side of her clothes, revealing a dark red wound inside. It was unclear whether it was caused by being hit with the back of a knife or cut by the blade.

His face was as white as paper, and his lips were purple, but he stood up and did not fall.

He smiled, a smile that seemed particularly dazzling in the moonlight.

He loosened his hand from his waist, reached into his robe, and pulled out a stone.

The stone is small, about the size of a palm, and entirely white.

The surface of the stone is not smooth; it has fine lines that resemble blood vessels or tree roots.

The burly man in black's eyes lit up.

The thin man in gray lifted the stone so he could see it clearly.

"Is this the area you're talking about?"

His voice was soft, with an indescribable mockery.

The burly man in black took a step forward.

He pulled his knife out of the soil, the tip of which dragged a deep trench in the ground.

He stopped speaking, his eyes fixed on the stone, its reflection shimmering in his pupils.

His breathing became rapid.

The thin man in gray did not wait for him to get closer.

He put the stone back into his arms, gripped his sword tightly, and charged forward.

A flash of sword light.

The burly man in black parried with his sword.

Swords clashed, sparks flew, and the light flashed briefly in the night before going out.

The two passed each other, each taking a few steps, then turned around and faced each other again.

Without pause or a moment's rest, the knife and sword clashed again.

This time they didn't separate. The knife pressed down on the sword, and the sword pressed against the knife. The two faced each other, their faces almost touching.

The strong man in black pressed his sword down, bringing the blade closer and closer to the thin man in gray's shoulder.

The thin man in gray was trembling, but he gritted his teeth and didn't let go.

"You can't beat me." The burly man in black squeezed out his voice through clenched teeth, which carried a foul stench.

"You're injured and won't last much longer. Give me the stone, and I can let you die a quick death."

The thin man in gray did not answer.

His left hand loosened from the sword hilt, and he suddenly reached into his robes, pulled out the stone, and smashed it at the face of the burly man in black.

The burly man in black instinctively turned his head to dodge, and the force on his knife loosened for a moment.

In that instant, the gray-clad skinny man's sword slid from the knife and pierced the black-clad burly man's chest.

It didn't hit the heart directly; it was off-center.

The sword tip pierced the lower left chest, penetrating two inches.

The burly man in black grunted and swung his knife horizontally. The thin man in gray drew his sword and retreated, but he was a step too slow. The blade sliced ​​across his abdomen, tearing his clothes open, his flesh torn open, and blood gushed out.

He staggered back a few steps, clutching his stomach, blood gushing from between his fingers.

The burly man in black looked down at the wound on his chest, touched it, and found his hand covered in blood.

His expression changed, not from fear, but from resentment.

He took two steps forward, wanting to swing the knife again, but his legs wouldn't obey him.

He knelt down, the knife slipped from his hand, fell to the ground with a clang, bounced once, and stopped.

He opened his mouth, making a "hoarse" sound in his throat, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Then he fell, face down, crashing into the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. His body twitched a few times, then lay still.

The thin man in gray stood there, staring at the corpse, panting heavily.

His abdominal wound was still bleeding, and he could no longer cover it with his hands. Blood gushed out from between his fingers, flowing down his thighs and soaking his pants.

His face turned even paler, as white as paper, and his lips turned purple.

He knew he was about to die.

It's not a possibility, it's a certainty.

His internal organs were cut open by that knife, his intestines were probably ruptured, the bleeding couldn't be stopped, and there was no cure.

He took the white stone out of his pocket and placed it on the ground.

The stone lay quietly in the soil, the moonlight shining on it, making the fine lines seem alive, slowly wriggling.