The next second, those noises surged in one direction like an earth dragon.

That was... the guest room.

Chapter 8 Pilgrimage

In the guest room, Logan Barrett suddenly opened his eyes.

He was a bit surprised—he had actually fallen asleep just now.

Almost everyone in Que City had heard of his strange habit when it came to sleeping at night—while most people preferred quiet, he was the opposite. If it was quiet, he couldn’t sleep all night; he liked noise.

He once joked with the old butler at his residence: “Might as well keep a little opera troupe and have them bang drums and sing beside me—then I’d definitely sleep till dawn.”

The old butler’s face turned ashen when he heard this, saying “outsiders aren’t safe,” and then tied a tangle of flower-guarding bells to the trees outside his window, and kept all kinds of birds—so that whenever they landed on a branch, the bells would ring.

But here, there was neither an opera troupe nor any birds. There was even a “prison guard companion” standing silently in the room, and yet he had still fallen asleep.

“Owen Fletcher.”

Logan Barrett turned over and sat up, hearing the faint jingling of bells. For a moment, he almost forgot where he was, thinking he’d returned to Que City.

But Que City didn’t have the sound of chains.

Logan Barrett looked down and found a very fine silver thread tied around his wrist, with a small silver bell hanging from it, origin unknown.

The other end of the thread was looped around Owen Fletcher’s finger.

Wasn’t this just like the flower-guarding bells at his residence?

Were they treating him like a flower, or like a bird?

Logan Barrett hooked the thread and looked up, about to ask the person who had tied the bell on him, but saw the other leaning against the wall with his head down, holding his sword, completely still.

This was...

***

This was a soul projection.

After night fell, as soon as the person on the bed fell asleep, Owen Fletcher sent his consciousness out.

The night on Peach Blossom Isle was deep, shrouded in the unique mist over the water.

The patrolling disciples of the Hua family walked around with lanterns.

“How many senior brothers are left by the Flower-Cutting Hall?”

“Two. Any more and the head of the family won’t be happy.”

“Hmm, what about at Doctor Yiwusheng’s place?”

“There are more over there—twelve.”

“The doctor won’t come out of seclusion until noon tomorrow. Did you tell the new junior brother? During this time, no matter what happens, the doctor won’t come out. If he does, all his efforts will be wasted. Tell them not to disturb him under any circumstances.”

“I’ve told them.”

They spoke in low voices, brushing past Owen Fletcher’s consciousness, but no one noticed.

Owen Fletcher passed through the crowd, heading deep into a bamboo grove.

He was not unfamiliar with Peach Blossom Isle; he still remembered what was where.

Deep in the bamboo grove was the library pavilion, the one used by the head of the family, Blake Whitman. There were no guards in the courtyard, but a few cleaning disciples were busy with lanterns and buckets.

Owen Fletcher glanced around and didn’t linger, turning to head in another direction.

As he passed through an empty corridor, a vague voice suddenly asked, “Are you looking for something?”

The night was deep and the corridor silent. To Owen Fletcher, this voice should have been abrupt, but he didn’t even move his gaze, continuing forward as if he was long used to it.

“What good things could Peach Blossom Isle have,” the voice muttered, still extremely vague.

Owen Fletcher still didn’t answer, passing over the corridor bridge and flower path, heading straight into a secluded courtyard.

On the gate of that courtyard were the words “Flower-Cutting Hall”—the residence of the Hua family head, Blake Whitman.

There wasn’t a single disciple in the courtyard; it was perfectly quiet. But the lights were on inside. Blake Whitman was still awake, holding a slender-spouted copper kettle, watering the row of flower pots in the corner.

He was much more sensitive than the junior disciples.

When Owen Fletcher’s consciousness entered, he suddenly straightened up and walked to the window to look out. After a long while, he hesitantly withdrew his gaze, then shook his head and mocked himself, “Jumping at shadows.”

But Owen Fletcher had already swept through his entire courtyard and was about to leave.

“Looks like it’s not here,” the voice sounded again.

The usually sensitive Blake Whitman noticed nothing this time, as if only Owen Fletcher could hear it.

Without pausing, he headed to a third place.

The voice asked in puzzlement, “What exactly are you looking for?”

It didn’t seem to care whether Owen Fletcher would answer, just muttering to itself: “Oh—I know.”

“I know what you’re looking for.”

“But what if you find it?”

Owen Fletcher, who had been silent all along, finally stopped in his tracks.

He lowered his gaze to his waist, where a small silver-threaded brocade pouch hung. He opened the pouch with his fingers, revealing a corner of a white jade deity statue.

It was the very one from his coffin.

The pouch was clearly small, yet it could hold the palm-sized statue.

Owen Fletcher looked at it for a while, then sealed the pouch tightly. After that, the vague voice never appeared again.

He stood in silence for a moment, then moved on.

This time, he went to the forbidden peach blossom grove, where the yin energy was thick and the mists heavy. Specially assigned disciples stood guard around the perimeter, on high alert.

But for his soul projection, they posed no obstacle at all.

***

Owen Fletcher searched all around, but found nothing.

As he was leaving the grove, he suddenly felt his ring finger move, as if it had been tugged a few times from afar, accompanied by the faint jingling of a bell.