Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The North District Residence.

When Xilun returned, it was just getting dark.

After a series of trips, he did not deal with the mountain of affairs immediately. He only asked the old butler to prepare water and food, and then locked himself in his study, spreading out the black book and several things he had brought back from Scamay one by one on the table.

Only one lamp was lit in the room.

The light fell on the cover of "The White Sprout's Prayer for Life: Fragment," making it look like a layer of aged wax.

As Xilun pressed his fingertip against the white bud mark, the echo chamber deep in his throat vibrated slightly again.

He didn't rush to open the book, but instead sat cross-legged in the center of the carpet and slowly closed his eyes.

Moon Recollection Meditation Method - Begins.

His consciousness sank.

The next moment, he was sitting on that familiar solitary rock.

The deep blue void stretched endlessly, and the pale full moon hung silently overhead, its light like mist and cold water, seeping into his brow and lungs.

Unlike before, this time, as the moonlight fell, he seemed to be able to "hear" it.

It's not about hearing with your ears.

Instead, it is that newly formed echo chamber that resonates gently deep within the throat.

Each ray of moonlight seemed to have fine lines.

Each time his mental energy was activated, it was as if an echo reverberated deep within his body, only to be drawn back by himself.

This feeling is wonderful.

Just as in the past, Xiren was groping for the power within her in the dark, now, there is an empty temple in the darkness.

His every movement echoed through the wall; his every thought resonated in the moonlight.

The meditation lasted for a full two hours.

When he opened his eyes, the moonlight outside the window was already deep, and the restlessness that had accumulated in his chest from the night of Inscamai's killing had been mostly washed away.

He reached out and picked up the black book.

The first page still reads the same phrase: "Blood nourishes its form, voice feeds its meaning, and roots carry its destiny."

Turning the pages further, the content didn't resemble a complete classic text; rather, it seemed to be fragments pieced together by some mysterious scholar.

There are three or four different handwritings, indicating that more than one person handled them.

Many margins are marked with notes, deletions, and warnings, and there are even crossed-out and rewritten spell lines.

As Xilun read through the pages, his brows gradually furrowed.

This is not simply about teaching people how to grow flowers.

It was actually a fragment of a "Life Formula".

It mentions a basic technique called "white bud suturing," which uses fresh blood in combination with specific vibration patterns to briefly stimulate dead flesh, withered roots, and certain low-level heterogeneous tissues, allowing them to regenerate. It also mentions more advanced techniques such as "prayer seed transplantation," "throat cavity cultivation," and even methods of nurturing the "mother plant" with the warmth of the earth's veins.

What bothered Xilun even more was a line of small print, almost erased, tucked between the pages—

"Many of the old churches in the northern district were built on the edge of historical sites. The ancestors used them as places of prayer to ward off evil, but later generations, out of ignorance, changed them to places of worship, which led to disaster."

Legacy of life.

Xilun's gaze lingered on those four words for a long time.

This wasn't the first time he'd heard the word "legacy."

Wonderland, relics, incomplete breathing techniques, ancient occult manuscripts...

Behind these seemingly random things, there are often things from a very long time ago.

However, the phrase "lives and legacy" clearly falls into another category.

It is older, more mystical, and closer to "vitality" itself.

The reason why the Scamena mother plant was able to grow into that grotesque shape was probably not just because there was enough sacrificial offering and floral soil, but because the ground beneath it itself contained something.

Xilun flipped to the back and, sure enough, found another fragmented account.

"The former site of the Black Dove Church is rumored to be the location of a branch of the 'Azure Sacred Well.' If guided by Bai Ya, and the well is filled with the blood of a newly deceased person, one can hear life emerging from beneath it..."

The words at the end had a corner torn off.

A cold glint flashed in Xilun's eyes.

Four days later, the Black Dove Church received the goods.

Now it seems that place was probably not an ordinary handover point at all.

Nine times out of ten, the members of the Whispering Choir are also trying to feed a crack leading to the "legacy of life" through these flower fields and living sacrifices.

Thinking of this, Xilun suddenly closed the book and reached out to pick up a withered lark that he had brought back during the day from the corner of the table.

The flower was dead; its roots and stems were black and felt dry and hard like thin bones.

He recalled the "white bud sewing flesh" technique from the book, and with a gentle stroke of his fingertip, squeezed out a drop of blood, which fell onto the flower root.

Immediately afterwards, mental energy quietly circulated along a tiny loop.

It's not about qi and blood.

It's not a breathing technique.

Instead, it's a finer, colder, and more easily out-of-control traction.

Xilun's gaze was frighteningly still, each stroke like writing in the air.

The drop of blood trembled slightly, and was actually drawn by some invisible force into a tiny mark, slowly seeping into the flower root.

Take a breath.

Two breaths.

During the third breath, the flower root that should have been completely dead actually moved slightly.

Immediately afterwards, a tiny, pale white spot squeezed out from the hard, dark root bark.

It looks like it's sprouting.

It also resembles a tooth, slowly pushing out from the rotting flesh.

Xilun's eyes narrowed, and the next moment, the Xuan Yin cold energy swept across his fingertips, freezing the newly sprouted white bud into frost with a whoosh.

He tossed the flowers back onto the table, remained silent for a long time, and then slowly exhaled.

It became.

But it was only half done.

This technique can indeed manipulate "life," but what is produced is clearly abnormal.

If we continue down the deeper path described in the book, who knows whether what will eventually sprout is a tender bud or another mouth that can sing?

Fortunately, Xilun doesn't want to take control of it right now.

He just needs confirmation.

This confirms that the book is useful, that the concept of "living legacy" is not just empty talk, and that the trip to the Black Dove Church was worthwhile because it required more preparation beforehand.

Outside the window, the night grew deeper.

The study was unusually quiet.

After a long while, Xilun reached out and picked up the dark green copper piece that had been brought back with him.

The copper plate is about the size of a palm. On the front is a well with three tender shoots emerging from it; on the back are blurry old map patterns, resembling some kind of parish marker.

When he used the reverberation chamber to sense it, he could hear extremely slight vibrations coming from inside the copper sheet.

It shares the same origin as "The Record of Prayer for Life by White Sprouts".

They look like old things that were worn out in the same place.

"Legacy of life..."

Xilun read it aloud, without much of a smile on his lips.

If what lies beneath is indeed some ancient relic capable of nourishing the flesh, other species, or even mystical scholarship, then let alone the secret choir, Tussor, the armed insurgents, and even those at higher levels would likely not remain indifferent upon learning of it.

Now he has books, pictures, and letters in his hands.

What's lacking is resources and more information.

In particular, the Tusol family possesses the archives of the old parish in the North District, the water map, and the records of the old monastery site—things that the Brotherhood doesn't have, and the City Hall may not have in full. It is the Tusol family, an old-established family that has been rooted in the North District for more than 20 years, that is most likely to have hidden them.

Xilun stood up and walked to the window.

The night breeze blew in through the gaps, causing the curtains to sway gently.

The distant back mountain was pitch black, and the sound of the waterfall was exceptionally clear in the echo chamber, spreading out in layers, like countless tiny water ripples splashing against the rocks.

His gaze was calm, but he had already gone through the tasks he needed to complete over the next four days in his mind.

The Scamerius people were in charge.

The remaining three towns will be investigated covertly first; there's no rush to make an attack.

We need to set up a net at the Black Dove Church, but we can't alert the snakes too early.

Before that—

He has to go to the Tusol family again.

This time, it's not about choosing a cultivation method, nor is it about discussing nominal appointments.

It means to take something.

Take what he's entitled to.

They also took what they were reluctant to give.

Xilun turned around, put the black book, copper plate, and letter back into his hidden pocket, and then rang the bell to summon the steward.

When the old butler entered, Xiren only gave one instruction.

"Prepare the car tomorrow morning."

"Go to Tusol Manor."

The next morning, before it was fully light, seven or eight carriages were already parked in front of the North District mansion.

Some came to give gifts, some to sound out what was going on, and some to take the opportunity to build a relationship.

The news about Scamay spread overnight, and by this morning, at least three versions had emerged.

Some say that Xilun pierced the evil god of the earth with a single shot in the flower field; others say that he can blast the dead out of the mud with lightning; still others swear on their chests that the flower field was not surrounded by the musketeers, but was silenced by a single sentence from him.

The more outrageous it is, the more people will believe it.

The gatekeeper of the mansion had been dealing with the situation since before dawn, and his face was almost stiff from smiling so much.

But not a single one of them was seen in Xilun.

He got dressed, went downstairs, ate a quick breakfast, and then boarded the steam carriage.

Rena sat opposite her, with a black leather file box beside her legs containing the account book copy brought back from Scamay, the damp letter, some map rubbings, and the "White Sprout Prayer Book - Fragment".

"The people of Tusol already knew last night."

Rena handed him a note that had just been delivered, saying, "Our people outside the manor said that Oin is still having a small meeting in the middle of the night, and it's quite a commotion."

Xilun glanced at it and casually folded the note.

"What did they guess?"

"I suspect you have close ties with the armed insurgents."

Rena's lips twitched, as if she wanted to laugh. "After all, the banquet was only recently over, and Reina and Losfa have already spoken to you privately. Now you're turning around and trying to pull the nails out of the Whisper Choir. In their eyes, it looks like you're clearing the way for the armed insurgents."

Siren leaned back in his chair and said calmly, "Let them guess."

The more you explain something, the more it seems like you're guilty.

And suspicion, once it grows into the very bones of a large family, is more effective than the truth.

The carriage headed towards Tusol Manor.

As we passed two bustling streets, many people on the street instinctively looked towards the carriage.

Some people recognized the fraternity emblem on the car body and the uniforms of the escorts, and their expressions immediately became subtle.

Awe, curiosity, exploration, envy, and even a hint of barely concealed fear.

A newspaper boy, holding a morning paper, stood on a street corner. When he saw the carriage pass by, he instinctively shouted out at the top of his lungs.

"The Scamay Case! The Flower Field Evil Destroyed! Governor of Weston—"

Before he could finish the second half of his sentence, an adult next to him covered his mouth.

Xilun kept his eyes closed, as if he hadn't heard.

But the echo chamber brought in every slight vibration from outside the car.

The muffled groans of the newsboy when his mouth was covered, the friction of pedestrians' shoes against the cobblestones when they stopped, the faint rustling of curtains being lifted slightly... all of these were crystal clear.

The new traits he acquired are gradually becoming natural in him.

It doesn't resemble a foreign weapon; it's more like an extra nerve that has grown out.

When the carriage arrived at the main gate of the manor, the guards at Tussol were noticeably more courteous than last time.

The head steward stepped forward personally, first bowing, then verifying his identity, and finally whispering, "The clan leader is already waiting for you in the main hall."

Xilun got out of the car, straightened his cuffs, and looked calm.

The last time he came, he was left hanging for forty minutes as a nominal guest.

This time, everyone in the hall was awake as soon as he arrived.

not much differences.

But that's enough to explain a lot.

……

In the main hall, the tea had just been changed for the second time.

Oin sat to the right, his face as gloomy as if it had been raining all night; Oro stood behind him, his eyes filled with complex emotions; Black Star sat a little further away, his knuckles lightly tapping the armrest of his chair, lost in thought.

Austin, seated at the head of the table, looked up at Siron, who had just entered the hall, and gave a seemingly gentle smile.

"Siren, it seems that Scamay's matter is more complicated than I thought."

Xilun ignored the pleasantries and went straight to his seat as a guest.

"It's troublesome, so I came."

Oin sneered, "You're quite the outsider."

"The contract is here."

Xiren placed a folded piece of paper on the table and gently pushed it forward. "Tusor and I are nominal sponsors, not beggars."

Oin's expression immediately turned even colder.

Austin, however, did not get angry. He simply raised his hand, signaling the butler to bring the paper.

That was indeed the copy of the contract we signed back then.

Several points are clearly stated—the Tusol family grants Xilun partial rights to purchase second-tier resources, access to old files in the North District, and limited support and assistance when necessary.

"So, you're here today to fulfill the contract?"

Austin asked.

"Yes."

Xilun leaned back in his chair, his gaze indifferent. "I need Yin Spirit Water, the more the better."

Also needed are maps of the old parish in the North District, old monastery archives, underground watercourses, and all relevant records of abandoned prayer halls.

In addition, I also want to meet any family members who study life arts, old religious rituals, or the school of divination.

After he finished speaking, the hall fell silent for a moment.

Oro frowned at first, then his gaze fell on the words "Yinling Source Water," and a hint of uncontrollable displeasure flashed in his eyes.

That was exactly what he lacked most in his practice of the "Mysterious Yin Breathing Technique".

Oin laughed out loud, but his laughter was chilling.

"You have quite an appetite."

"The Yin Spirit Water is already scarce; even members of the clan have to allocate it according to quotas. You, an outsider, demand 'the more the better'—Xilun, what do you take Tusol for?"

Xilun looked at him, his eyes calm and without a trace of anger.

"To be a partner."

"If the Scarmay line continues to rot, it won't just be the Brotherhood that suffers first."

Chaos erupted in the towns and villages of the northern district, involving flower mud, human sacrifices, the former site of the parish, and the transportation lines of the four towns.

If things really explode, which of Tusol's factories, freight stations, coal lines, or outer dikes in the northern district can remain unscathed?

"I'm not asking you for face right now; I'm stepping on a landmine for the North District."

O'In slammed his hand on the armrest, his voice low and menacing.

"For the Northern District, or for the armed insurgents?"

The air suddenly tightened.

Oro's eyes flickered slightly, and Black Star also raised his head.

Clearly, this is what they've been holding back all night and have been wanting to ask the most.

Xilun looked at Oin and suddenly smiled.

"You care about this a lot?"

Oin stared at him, his tone like a knife scraping against bone.

"I intend to ensure that Saul's resources are not used to pave the way for other people's dogs."

That was a very blunt statement.

Black Star frowned, but did not interrupt immediately.

Oro opened his mouth as if to persuade his father to stop, but ultimately kept it closed.

Xilun, however, did not get angry.

He simply reached into the inside pocket of his trench coat, took out the black-covered copy of "The White Sprout's Prayer for Life: Fragment," and the map of the four towns he had brought back from Scamay, and gently placed them on the table.

"Look at this first."