There were far more cultivators gathered here than he had imagined. The crowd was a motley mix, with the dazzling array of sect uniforms making the streets a blur of color as people moved back and forth. For some reason, everyone looked tense; even when they saw him in his ghostly state, they had no time to mock or pay him any mind.

In the center of the long street, a group of cultivators had gathered, speaking seriously. It seemed there were significant differences of opinion; Ethan Sullivan could hear their conversation from afar. At first, things were calm, but then, for some reason, the discussion grew heated:

“…I believe there simply aren’t any soul-eating beasts or soul-eating fiends here at all. Clearly, none of the Wind Evil Compasses have shown any reaction.”

“If there aren’t, then how do you explain the soul-loss affliction of these seven townsfolk? Surely they can’t all have caught the same strange illness? I’ve never heard of such a disease!”

“Just because the Wind Evil Compass didn’t point it out, does that mean there’s definitely nothing? It can only indicate a general direction, it’s not precise enough, and can’t be fully trusted. Maybe there’s something nearby interfering with its needle.”

“Have you forgotten who made the Wind Evil Compass? I’ve never heard of anything that can disrupt its needle.”

“What do you mean by that? Why do you sound so odd? Of course I know the Wind Evil Compass was made by Ethan Sullivan, but just because he made it doesn’t mean it’s perfect. Are we not allowed to question it?”

“I never said you couldn’t question it, nor did I say what he made was perfect. Why are you slandering me?”

And so, they began arguing in another direction. Ethan Sullivan rode past on his flower-patterned donkey, chuckling to himself. After all these years, he was still a hot topic among cultivators, his reputation undiminished amid their verbal sparring. As the saying went, “Wherever Wei appears, there’s an argument.” If there were a popularity poll among the hundred clans, who else but him would top the list?

To be fair, what that cultivator said wasn’t wrong. The current standard Wind Evil Compass was indeed his first version, and it really wasn’t precise enough. He had been working on improvements, but before he could finish, his old lair was destroyed, so everyone had to make do with the less precise first version.

That aside, most creatures that eat flesh and gnaw bones are low-level, like walking corpses; only the more refined and elegant high-grade monsters or fierce ghosts can consume and digest souls—and to have devoured seven in one go, no wonder so many clans had gathered here. Since the prey for this night hunt was so unusual, it was no surprise if the Wind Evil Compass made some mistakes.

Ethan Sullivan pulled on the reins, jumped off the donkey, and offered the apple he’d been dangling in front of it: “Just one bite, just one… Hey, are you trying to eat my whole hand with that bite?”

He took a couple of bites from the other side of the apple, stuffed it back into the donkey’s mouth, and reflected for a moment on how he’d ended up sharing an apple with a donkey. Suddenly, someone bumped into his back. He turned to see a young girl. Though she’d run into him, she paid him no mind at all, her eyes vacant, a smile on her face, staring fixedly in a certain direction.

Ethan Sullivan followed her gaze. She was looking toward a dark, oppressive mountain peak—Mount Dafan.

Suddenly, the girl began to dance wildly in front of him without warning.

Her movements were wild and clawing, and Ethan Sullivan was watching with great interest when a woman came running over, lifting her skirt, and threw her arms around the girl, crying out, “Annie, let’s go home, let’s go home!”

Annie struggled free, the smile on her face never fading, carrying a kind of chilling, loving tenderness, and continued to dance and leap away. The woman had no choice but to chase her through the streets, weeping as she ran. A peddler nearby said, “What a tragedy. Annie from Blacksmith Zheng’s family has run out again.”

“Her mother is truly pitiful. Annie, Annie’s husband, and even her own husband—not a single one of them turned out well…”

Ethan Sullivan wandered about, piecing together the strange events that had happened here from the scattered words of various people.

On Mount Dafan, there was an ancient graveyard. Most of the ancestral graves of the people of Buddha’s Foot Town were there, and sometimes nameless corpses would be buried there too, with a pit dug and a wooden marker set up. Several months ago, one night there was thunder and lightning, and a fierce storm. The heavy rain washed the mountain, and by morning, a landslide had occurred on Mount Dafan, right where the graveyard was. Many old graves were destroyed, and several coffins were unearthed, struck by lightning that blew off their lids, leaving both corpses and coffins charred black.

The townsfolk of Buddha’s Foot were deeply unsettled. After a round of prayers, they rebuilt the ancient grave mounds, thinking that would settle things. But from then on, people in Buddha’s Foot Town began to frequently lose their souls.

The first was a lazy man. Dirt poor and idle, he liked to go up the mountain to catch birds for fun, and happened to be trapped on Mount Dafan the night of the landslide, scared half to death, but luckily survived. Strangely, a few days after he returned, he suddenly took a wife, holding a grand wedding, and declared he would henceforth do good deeds and live an honest life.

On his wedding night, he got dead drunk and collapsed on the bed, never to get up again. His bride called to him, but he didn’t respond; when she pushed him, she found the groom’s eyes were blank, his whole body cold as ice. Apart from still breathing, he was no different from a corpse. He lay there without eating or drinking for several days, and was finally buried in peace. The poor bride had only just married and was already a widow.