Chapter Twenty-Two: The Ghost Infant

Chen Jiu felt as though he were trapped in a dream.

Only moments before, he had been journeying through the mist-shrouded mountains, but upon awakening, the fog had vanished without a trace, and before him stood a village devoted to cultivating spiritual herbs.

Soon, Chen Jiu passed through a grove of blossoming peach trees, following the murmuring stream until he reached the edge of a field.

“Excuse me, elder, what is the name of this place?” he called out to an old farmer resting on the embankment.

The elder wore a wide-brimmed bamboo hat that shadowed his face, obscuring any expression.

“Young man, you must be from outside, aren't you?” The old farmer plucked a stalk of foxtail grass and tucked it between his lips.

Chen Jiu nodded politely. “I am a humble Daoist from the foot of Tai Nan Mountain... Could you please show me the way out of the village?”

This place unsettled him, and though the fields of spiritual herbs tempted him greatly, reason prevailed over desire—he wished to leave as soon as possible.

The old farmer replied, “We have cultivated herbs here for generations. Though the thick mists keep us isolated, we still know a thing or two about the outside world.”

He gestured to the shimmering fields. “Every few years, outsiders stumble into our village, all drawn by the lure of spiritual herbs. We have plenty of herbs, but few hands to harvest them. So, whenever the crops are ripe and outsiders arrive, we ask them to help us with the harvest. In return, they receive a share of the herbs.”

A chuckle emerged from beneath the bamboo hat as the old man proposed, “How about it? Help me harvest these herbs, and not only will I show you the way out, but I'll share the herbs with you as well.”

Chen Jiu did not answer immediately, narrowing his eyes.

The old farmer's aura was ordinary, nothing but a common man. The surroundings were tranquil, a gentle breeze carrying the intoxicating fragrance of herbs across the fields.

“Miss Zi Huan, what do you think?” Chen Jiu asked silently.

But after a while, Zi Huan seemed to have vanished, leaving no response.

A heavy concern clouded Chen Jiu's eyes.

“Young man, are you not interested in such a good deal? Ha, don't be like an old boar refusing fine bran. Many outsiders beg to harvest these herbs, but that depends on my mood.” The old farmer, seeing Chen Jiu's indifference, grew displeased. “Besides, my field is one of the largest in the village. The herbs you'll receive will be plenty!”

Chen Jiu thought for a moment and replied, “Then, elder, could you first show me the exit? Once I've found it, I promise to return and help you.”

The old farmer snorted coldly, waving his hand. “Go on, then! No such rules exist here. Ask anyone you like—none will tell you the way out beforehand... Without our guidance, you'll be lost in the mists, never to escape.”

Chen Jiu's face darkened.

He glanced around, but saw no other cultivators nearby.

“Very well, I shall help you,” Chen Jiu said helplessly, for he had no other option.

Zi Huan had vanished mysteriously, and he could not wander freely here, nor could he force the old man by strength.

To cultivate such abundant fields of spiritual herbs in this place, surely there was someone powerful behind it—Chen Jiu would not believe otherwise.

If mortals could do such things, what need would there be for immortals?

The old farmer smiled with satisfaction, handing Chen Jiu a bamboo basket. “Come, let us finish harvesting about forty percent of the herbs today.”

Chen Jiu took the basket, nodded, and stepped into the field to begin the harvest.

This vast field grew "Ninefold Grass," a key ingredient for refining "Qi Restoration Pills"—the most common and vital herb in the Great Jin cultivation world.

Chen Jiu moved quickly. Within half the time it takes a stick of incense to burn, he had already left the old farmer far behind, out of sight.

He wiped the fine sweat from his brow after filling five or six baskets.

“Young man, you really are diligent!” The old farmer ran over, but his face remained hidden beneath the bamboo hat.

Chen Jiu forced a smile. “Haha, you flatter me, elder... But why haven't I seen any other outsiders?”

The old farmer placed an empty basket before him. “Oh, a batch came earlier, but after helping with the harvest, they left. We're almost done ourselves—come, let's finish strong!”

Chen Jiu nodded, saying nothing more, but he kept his guard up against the old farmer.

If the old man did anything threatening, he would not hesitate to act.

Though he was a Daoist, he was no saint. As long as his interests and life were not threatened, he could be reasonable.

Soon, after half a day, as the sun dipped toward the west, Chen Jiu had harvested nearly forty percent of the herbs.

At first, he felt fine, even relaxed, but as he continued, he noticed his spiritual power draining away without his realizing it!

By the time he finished the harvest, he was so exhausted he could barely lift his arms.

Something was wrong.

“Heh, young man, you truly are capable.” The old farmer praised him.

He brought over seven baskets, all brimming with herbs. “These are yours. What do you think?”

Chen Jiu's eyes flashed.

The baskets were not filled only with “Ninefold Grass,” but also rare herbs scarcely found in the outside world.

His heart raced.

With so many herbs, he could easily secure a top rank at the so-called Ascension Tournament!

Yet, remembering that other cultivators had been here and likely left with heaps of herbs, he hesitated.

“Young man, stay a little longer. Tomorrow we’ll finish harvesting the rest, and you’ll receive more rewards. How about it?” The old farmer smiled.

Though fatigued, Chen Jiu felt torn, gazing at the abundant herbs.

As he hesitated, a sudden jolt ran through him.

What was happening to him?

He gasped for breath.

He was never one to be so indecisive!

Just then, a sharp, clear voice rang in his mind.

“Blockhead!”

“Wake up!”

The voice pierced his soul to its deepest recesses.

Chen Jiu froze as if struck by lightning.

It was Zi Huan!

“Young man? Are you alright?” The old farmer began to approach him.

“Blockhead! Wake up! If you don’t, you’ll die!”

Zi Huan’s desperate cry thundered through his mind.

Chen Jiu felt a blinding pain in his head, his vision went dark, and he collapsed.

In that instant, it was as if he’d stepped off a cliff in a dream, plunging into a void.

After a few breaths, the pain eased. Chen Jiu frowned, slowly opening his eyes.

His expression changed dramatically at the sight before him.

Gone were the endless fields of herbs, gone was the sunny afternoon.

He was in a ruined temple, the sky outside faintly lit, cold blue light filtering through broken tiles overhead.

He realized he was tightly bound to a decaying pillar.

Turning his head, he saw something far more terrifying.

Rows of pillars stood beside him, each binding a cultivator with their eyes shut and faces pale.

They were the very ones who had entered the Ascension Tournament with him!

Chen Jiu was stunned, especially upon seeing several wealthy scions among them.

But what truly chilled him was the ghostly infant floating in midair!

The infant’s skin glowed an eerie blue, features twisted, eyes blood-red, its aura thick with sinister energy.

The infant drifted toward a bound cultivator, opened its tiny mouth, and with a gentle breath—

A streak of golden light shot from the cultivator’s body into the infant’s mouth.

That was the cultivator’s vital essence—the most precious force within.

Chen Jiu’s skin prickled; he felt as if plunged into an icy abyss.

How could this be?!

Were the old farmer and the village mere illusions?

As he prepared to struggle against his bonds, Zi Huan’s urgent voice sounded in his mind: “Blockhead! Don’t make any sudden moves! Wait for the ghost infant to approach.”

Chen Jiu’s expression shifted—Zi Huan was still with him!

“You have a way to deal with it?” he asked.