Wild cultivation begins with wielding the Taiyin talisman.

Ning Che subtly changed his breathing pattern, and in this state, he could feel his expression becoming somewhat stiff.

But he wasn't a professional agent after all, and he couldn't adjust to the situation immediately.

No one dared to move; even breathing was suppressed to a minimum.

The only sound was the wind, which whistled through the withered grass stems on the wasteland, making the sand grains roll around with a fine, dry sound, like countless tiny insects crawling on the surface of the sand.

Occasionally, a grain of sand would hit my face, feeling like a needle prick.

Lin Xiuer's face was as white as paper. She raised her hand, as if to grab something. But her hand hovered in mid-air, her fingertips pointing towards the girl, yet she never touched her.

The wind tousled her hair, a few stray strands clinging to the corner of her mouth, which she didn't bother to gather. Ning Che simply stared at her, and she froze, her breathing becoming extremely soft.

The boy in Zhong Hongyao's arms was growing weaker and weaker. The silver needles were still stuck in the acupoints, their tips trembling slightly, as if being manipulated by something unseen. The Yin energy hadn't dissipated; instead, it had become even stronger.

She turned her head to look at Ning Che.

Lin Ye clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking. "What white shadow?" His voice was forced out through clenched teeth, torn apart by the wind, "Kids talking nonsense. If that thing dares to show its face—"

"Wait a minute."

Ning Che spoke, his voice not loud, but the wind did not drown it out.

Under everyone's gaze, he took two steps forward and then squatted down in front of Lin Caiwei. His gaze met the girl's, looking into her excessively dark eyes.

He enunciated each word clearly: "Then why don't you take your uncle to see him, okay?"

Lin Caiwei nodded. It was a very obedient nod, which reminded him of Little Tiger.

She turned and strode into the depths of the wasteland. Her steps were small and unhurried. The wind blew from behind her, pushing her soft hair forward to reveal a section of her pale nape.

Ning Che stood up and followed.

His keen hearing had already started working the moment he stood up.

The sounds of wind, sand rolling across the ground, snapping dry grass, and the heartbeats and breaths of a few people unfolded layer by layer. But the wasteland remained deathly silent, and it was unknown when life would return.

Seeing Ning Che go over, Lin Ye didn't think much of it and followed. Zhong Hongyao hesitated for a moment, looked around, and finally stomped her foot, gritted her teeth, and followed.

Soon, Ning Che saw the white figure again.

It wandered around the crowd, sometimes near, sometimes far. On the unobstructed wasteland, its trajectory was even clearer—drifting in from the east, circling in a large arc, then turning back from the west. It had no fixed location, but it never truly left.

Zhong Hongyao quickened her pace, walking alongside Ning Che. Her voice was low, her lips barely moving; the wind scattered her words, and only he could hear: "The concentration of Yin energy is wrong; it's not naturally occurring."

Ning Che didn't speak, he just nodded.

A white shadow streaked across the wasteland. It was so fast, as fast as a flash of sunlight. It passed low in the sky, leaving no trace, only making the outline of the distant woodland appear even grayer.

Ning Che placed his right hand on the hilt of the knife.

He watched the white figure move around on the periphery of the crowd. It moved incredibly fast, yet its trajectory was clearly discernible. In the desolate wasteland, without walls or rooftops, its path was even more unfettered. It circled once, then twice, before suddenly stopping near Lin Caiwei.

It stopped, hovering above the wasteland, less than two feet off the ground. Its pale outline was clearly defined by the gray sunlight, its edges blurred, like a wisp of smoke that wouldn't dissipate.

The sword energy had been mobilized, and the blade flashed silently.

The waning moon has no sheath, yet it shines with a clear light.

All things of the Yin nature are subject to the control of Taiyin. Ning Che did not use any sword techniques, but only poured his magic power into the blade, causing it to light up.

His blade pierced through the white shadow as if slicing through mist. The white shadow, seemingly unaffected by the force, trembled violently, causing the surrounding temperature to plummet and a thin layer of frost to form on the surface of the sand, which then instantly melted away.

The white shadow's outline suddenly contracted, as if gripped tightly by an invisible hand. All the malevolent energy collapsed inward, coalescing from a blurry wisp of smoke into something more solid. It was still humanoid, but its edges were no longer elusive.

It adjusted its direction in mid-air, facing Ning Che, its head revealing two holes resembling eye sockets. Those two dark eye sockets were empty, yet Ning Che could clearly feel a chilling gaze upon it.

It is watching.

Then it pounced.

It wasn't directed at Lin Caiwei, but at Ning Che.

The speed was more than twice as fast as when it was moving. His keen ears caught a sharp whistling sound—like fabric being torn, or something falling from a great height. The white shadow, leaving a grayish-white trail, hurtled straight towards his face.

Ning Che did not back down.

Retreating is useless; he can't outrun this thing.

He drew his knife.

The angle is very low. It's lifted diagonally upwards.

The moment the blade sliced ​​into the white shadow, the sensation was wrong. It wasn't the blunt resistance of cutting into flesh, nor the crispness of severing bone. It was like cutting into icy slush, cold and dense, carrying a vague emptiness with nowhere to apply force.

The blade's forward speed was slowing down, as if it were being wrapped by something.

Ning Che opened his mouth and spat out a stream of frost-white sword energy.

Frost covered the ground, and the white figure seemed to be frozen by the sword energy before shattering inch by inch, making a sound like tearing silk.

Ning Che drew his sword.

As the blade withdrew, it brought with it a wisp of grayish-white mist, which lingered in the air for a moment before dissipating.

The white shadows were scattered, like reflections on the water's surface shattered by pebbles.

But the reflection will quickly solidify again, just like the image itself.

Its edges became blurred again, leaving a narrow, elongated slit where the chest—if it was—was. The slit's edges hadn't healed; instead, extremely fine, grayish-white threads were seeping outwards, like blood seeping from a wound.

He didn't pounce again, but hovered in mid-air, three zhang away from Ning Che. The face without features was facing him, and the black holes in the two eye sockets seemed even larger than before.

Then its form blurred again, like a drop of ink falling into water, disappearing into the air. It seemed to blend into the background of the wasteland, leaving no trace.

Ning Che did not sheath his sword; the tip pointed diagonally at the ground, the blade still gleaming coldly. He did not pursue, but scanned his surroundings, then closed his eyes and activated his Wind-Following Ears with all his might.

It remained deathly silent.

It was certainly injured, but Ning Che didn't know the extent of the injury, so he couldn't guess whether it had run away or was lurking around waiting to counterattack.

Moreover, the cold and sinister nature of this white figure was very obvious, and even though Ning Che did not know any corresponding detection spells, he could clearly feel it.

He looked down at his hands; a thin layer of frost had formed on the base of his thumb and forefinger, and it was slowly melting away.