He washed the face of the person in his arms with what kind of feelings, his fingers brushing over her lifeless, pale, waxen face, stitching her head and body together?

And perhaps, he hadn’t even had the chance to confess the feelings he’d always kept hidden from her.

Time is so unreasonable and cruel—hesitate for a moment, and it swaps things out behind your back, leaving you heartbroken and unable to turn back.

The two men beside him fell silent at the same time, each lost in their own thoughts.

“The flowing water carried away my corpse, but I never left,” Zach Warren said. “I kept watching him—he became a different person. Originally, the tribe’s votes and meetings were presided over in turn by three people: one was Zane Shaw, one was the man who led the execution against me, and the last was a highly respected elder. They would nominate major matters, and everyone would raise their hands to express their opinions. Later, Zane Shaw married the elder’s granddaughter, and the two of them joined forces to squeeze out the man who executed me. Then they set a trap, framed him, and two years later, the people raised their hands to execute him as well.”

Logan Sullivan took out a cigarette, held it under his nose, and inhaled gently.

“A year after that, the highly respected elder also died. Everyone thought he died of old age and illness, but I saw with my own eyes—it was Zane Shaw who poisoned him.” Zach Warren’s brow twitched rapidly, as if even now unable to accept such a reality—poison is a coward’s weapon; how could a man who once stood tall and proud become someone who only knows how to poison others in secret?

It was as if, by doing this, he was sparing no effort to insult those he had secretly killed, and also insulting himself.

“Then it was his wife, and his toddler son… his own flesh and blood.” Zach Warren grasped the equally ethereal white dress on her body with almost transparent fingers. “For every person he killed, the day before they were drowned, he would secretly cut off their heads, press a stone into them, bury the heads in the mountains, and let the bodies sink to the bottom of the water, never to float away. By then, there was no one left in the tribe who could oppose him. His prestige reached its peak. Over several years, he schemed to make everyone think they were freely raising their hands, but in fact, they were agreeing to whatever he wanted. He became the new leader.”

A leader with absolute power, yet intent only on destroying his own people.

After that came factional strife—Zane Shaw suppressed and promoted, even deliberately stoking conflicts in secret…

The once simple and brave young man, self-taught, became a schemer. The young man who had cried all night holding his lover’s corpse became cold-blooded and dangerous… Just as those good people who once sang and danced, simply wanting to live a good life, would also raise their hands, pick up the executioner’s blade, and behead an innocent girl, condemning her soul to eternal darkness and slavery.

“On the fifteenth year after my death, the Hanga tribe fell into civil strife again. The slaves, oppressed for generations, split into two factions and turned their weapons on their own people. This battle was more tragic and intense than any before—it lasted a whole day and night. The dead filled the valley, blood-soaked children sat beside corpses wailing, vultures, drawn by the scent of death, circled high above but did not descend… because Zane Shaw led the survivors to the altar, then ignited the kerosene he had buried there long ago. Standing in the midst of the flames, he lifted the stone slab that had been placed upside down beneath the Terra-Spike.”

Zach Warren said softly, “On that slab, once flattened and representing eternal slavery, were carved the names of every person. The fire never went out, as if it would burn the whole valley to ash. Only the Terra-Spike stood there, like a cold pillar of shame, always standing, always…”

The wailing of ten thousand ghosts had its reason.

Chapter 40 Terra-Spike …

Logan Sullivan broke her tragic reminiscence without a trace of sympathy, rubbing his hands together: “Enough about those old miseries. Let’s talk about what to do now.”

Soulwarden fell silent for a moment. Zach Warren moved her lips, about to speak, but Logan Sullivan pointed at her and said, “I wasn’t asking you. Be quiet.”

Zach Warren: “…”

“The Terra-Spike suppresses souls and spirits. Not to mention how unwillingly these people died—even souls who pass away peacefully, if drawn into the Terra-Spike, will eventually become vengeful ghosts and resentful spirits.” Soulwarden thought for a moment, then spoke cautiously, “If you ask me, there’s no other way. Either destroy this sacred artifact, or forcibly suppress the souls inside.”

His words were so tactful that Zach Warren didn’t quite understand, staring at him with wide, confused eyes: “My lord, you mean…”

Logan Sullivan said, “He means if we can’t blow up the Terra-Spike, we’ll have to cut down all the souls inside, scatter them completely, and save ourselves the trouble.”

Zach Warren covered her mouth with her hand.

Soulwarden shook his head. “To destroy souls without cause would be unjust.”

That left only one option: blow up the Terra-Spike.

The three fell silent together.

Logan Sullivan sat on the ground, fiddling with his lighter. Suddenly, staring at the tiny flame, he spoke to Soulwarden: “I just remembered—on the way here, we met a lantern-carrying underworld messenger. He passed right by on the road outside Qingxi Village. Didn’t he know what was going on here? Did he just walk past the Terra-Spike without a second glance?”

Soulwarden said, “He ferried over a hundred souls—probably didn’t have time.”

Logan Sullivan glanced at him, a hint of doubt in his expression, but quickly suppressed it and continued, “Since the The Four Saints have been scattered in the mortal world for so many years, why is it only now that you’re trying to recover them? Last time with the Reincarnation Sundial was a coincidence, but this time you must have come specifically for the Terra-Spike, right?”

Soulwarden immediately realized he’d said too much and fell silent—this man was simply too shrewd. Whether he acted foolish or unreliable, it all seemed to be a cover for his sharp intelligence. Whenever he revealed it unexpectedly, he could poke holes in anyone’s story.

Logan Sullivan wasn’t about to let him off easily. His gaze slowly dropped to the bloodstains on Soulwarden’s wide sleeves and pointed out, “There’s still blood on your sleeves, you know.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like Netherbeast, yet they appeared almost simultaneously with the Four Relics, specifically the Reincarnation Sundial. Even the underworld keeps it secret. What exactly are they? They couldn’t have just appeared out of thin air—where did they come from? Aren’t sacred artifacts supposed to be fought over by all sides? Why did you let them wander the mortal world for so many years?”

Soulwarden had spent his life judging others, but had never been interrogated like this. He was silent for a long time, unable to find a suitable answer, and finally said, with utmost propriety, “Forgive me, I cannot say.”

Lying to someone like Logan Sullivan was basically asking for humiliation. It was better to be straightforward: “I know, but I won’t tell you,” and save the effort of making up stories.

Logan Sullivan lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and for a moment, no one knew what he was thinking. After a while, as expected, he didn’t press further.

Logan Sullivan stood up, pulled out his empty cigarette box, and dumped the piece of earthen wall with the octagonal symbol into his palm, asking Zach Warren, “What does this mean? In your Hanga tribe’s incantations, does this refer to the Terra-Spike?”

Zach Warren thought for a moment. “When I was little, my father taught me that this means ‘mountain.’ If you draw a circle around it, it means ‘water.’”

“Your dad wasn’t messing with you?” Logan Sullivan asked. “Doesn’t your illiterate tribe have another symbol for ‘mountain’?”

Fortunately, Zach Warren had a good temper. Even after hearing this, she remained calm and didn’t think of hitting her boss. She patiently explained, “The octagon specifically means the sacred mountain—the one with the Terra-Spike. When I was alive, this was a forbidden place for my tribe. No one but the chief was allowed up here.”

Logan Sullivan frowned. “But I didn’t see any water circling the mountain.”

Zach Warren hesitated. “It’s been so many years—maybe the landscape and feng shui have changed.”

Logan Sullivan immediately rejected this. “Impossible. A circle around an octagon to represent water encircling a mountain makes sense, but it can’t mean water alone. There’s no precedent for such vague symbolism in the Hanga tribe’s incantations.”

Zach Warren stared blankly at Logan Sullivan. She’d always thought her leader was a good man, if a bit unreliable, but she hadn’t expected him to learn so much about the Hanga tribe in just a few days.

Logan Sullivan looked up in the direction of the Terra-Spike. “Mountain soul, water spirit… The Hanga tribe has used the Terra-Spike to perform the Forbidden Rites of Robra for who knows how many generations. They must know something deeper. If putting a corpse in the water for a water burial could escape the Terra-Spike, then using a circle to enclose the octagon as ‘water’ is a very subtle thing.”