Ethan Sullivan swiftly destroyed all traces of the sacrificial ritual in Henry Moore’s room, erasing every remnant, and dashed out the door, thinking to himself how unlucky it was that the people who showed up happened to be from the The Clark Family, and of all people, it just had to be William Clark. This was one of those he’d both dealt with and fought before—time to get out, fast. Anxiously searching for a mount, he passed by a courtyard where there was a large millstone and a spotted donkey chewing away noisily. Seeing him rush over in a flurry, the donkey seemed a bit surprised, even giving him a sidelong glance like a real person. Ethan Sullivan met its gaze for a split second and was instantly struck by the hint of disdain in its eyes.

He stepped forward, grabbed the rope, and started dragging it out. The spotted donkey brayed loudly in protest. Ethan Sullivan coaxed and tugged, using every trick he could think of to get it onto the road. As dawn broke, under the pale light, they clip-clopped onto the main road.

Chapter 6: Arrogance, Part Three

It took only a few days for Ethan Sullivan to realize he might have made a terrible choice.

It was just a donkey, yet it would only eat fresh, dewy tender grass—if the tips were even a little yellow, it refused. Passing by a farmhouse, Ethan Sullivan stole some wheat straw to feed it; after a few chews, it spat it out with a loud “ptooey,” even louder than a person spitting. If it didn’t like the food, it simply refused to move, threw tantrums, kicked its heels, and Ethan Sullivan was nearly kicked several times. Its braying was also unbearably harsh.

As a mount or a pet, it was utterly useless!

Ethan Sullivan couldn’t help but miss his sword. That sword was probably hanging on some clan leader’s wall as a trophy by now.

After dragging and pulling the donkey for several stretches, they passed by a vast field near a village. The scorching sun beat down, but by the field’s edge stood a large locust tree, casting thick shade, and beside it an old well. The villagers had left a bucket and a ladle by the well for travelers to quench their thirst. The spotted donkey stopped here and refused to go any further. Ethan Sullivan jumped down, patted its noble rump, and said, “You really have a pampered life—harder to please than me.”

The donkey snorted at him.

At his wits’ end, he saw a group of people approaching from the distant fields.

They all carried hand-woven bamboo baskets, wore cloth shirts and straw sandals, and looked every bit the rustic villagers. Among them was a round-faced young girl, whose looks could barely be called pretty. Perhaps tired from walking under the blazing sun, she too wanted to rest in the shade and drink some water. But seeing a braying, hoof-stomping donkey tied under the tree, and a wild-haired, painted-faced madman sitting beside it, she didn’t dare approach.

Ethan Sullivan had always prided himself on being considerate to women. Seeing this, he shifted over to make space and busied himself with the donkey. The group, seeing he meant no harm, finally relaxed and came over. All of them were sweating profusely, faces flushed; some fanned themselves, others fetched water. The young girl sat by the well, seeming to realize he’d made room for her, and gave Ethan Sullivan a slight smile.

One of the men held a compass, glanced into the distance, then looked down in confusion and said, “Why is it that we’re almost at the foot of Dafan Mountain, but the needle still isn’t moving?”

The compass’s carvings and needle were strange—not an ordinary compass, but a “wind-evil compass” used to detect evil spirits and monsters, not to point north, south, east, or west. Ethan Sullivan realized he’d run into a poor, rural cultivator family. Besides the wealthy, prestigious clans, there were also many such small families who practiced cultivation in seclusion. Ethan Sullivan thought, maybe they were heading to join some distant relatives in a big clan, or perhaps they were going night-hunting.

The middle-aged man leading the group called everyone over for water and said, “Maybe your compass is broken. We’ll get you a new one later. It’s less than ten li to Dafan Mountain—we can’t rest too long. We’ve been traveling hard all this way; if we slack off now and let others get ahead, it won’t be worth it.”

So it was night-hunting. Many cultivation clans liked to call traveling the world and exorcising demons “hunting,” and since these things often appeared at night, it was also called “night-hunting.” There were countless cultivation families, but only a few ever made a name for themselves. Unless they had generations of accumulated wealth, ordinary families had to prove themselves with real achievements if they wanted to rise in status and earn respect in the cultivation world. Only by capturing fierce monsters or vengeful spirits could a family’s words carry weight.

This was Ethan Sullivan’s specialty, but after days on the road, the only things he’d caught from raiding a few graves were minor ghosts. He was in dire need of a powerful ghost general to help him make a name for himself, so he decided to try his luck at Dafan Mountain. If he found a good one, he’d capture it for his own use.

After resting, the group prepared to set off again. Before leaving, the round-faced girl took a half-ripe, half-red little apple from her pack and handed it to him. “This is for you.”

Ethan Sullivan grinned and reached out to take it, but the spotted donkey bared its teeth and lunged for a bite. Ethan Sullivan quickly snatched it away. Seeing how much the donkey craved the apple, he had a sudden idea: he picked up a long branch and a piece of fishing line, tied the apple to it, and dangled it in front of the donkey’s nose. Smelling the apple’s sweet scent, the donkey desperately wanted to eat it, and chased after the ever-so-slightly-out-of-reach fruit, charging forward with its head held high—faster than any famous steed Ethan Sullivan had ever seen, leaving everything in the dust!

Without stopping, the donkey carried Ethan Sullivan to Dafan Mountain before nightfall. Only at the foot of the mountain did he realize that this “fan” was not the “rice” he’d imagined. From afar, the mountain’s shape resembled a plump, broad-hearted Buddha, hence the name. At the base of the mountain was a small town called Buddha’s Foot Town.