After several days of wandering along the road, and after listening with great interest in Buddha’s Foot Town, Ethan Sullivan had heard quite a bit about the ups and downs of the cultivation world over the years. As the ultimate victor of the century-long great war among the immortal sects, the Lanling Jin Clan now led and ruled over all others, with even the clan leader being respectfully addressed as the “Immortal Supervisor.” The Jin Clan had always been proud and fond of luxury and splendor; in recent years, their elevated status and growing strength had made their disciples all the more arrogant and unruly. Lesser clans, even when subjected to all kinds of humiliation, could only swallow their anger, and small rural families like this one simply couldn’t afford to provoke them at all. So, although the young man’s words were harsh, the few people caught in the net only flushed with anger and dared not talk back. The middle-aged man pleaded in a low voice, “Young master, please show some mercy and let us down.”

The youth was already irritated that his prey hadn’t shown up yet, and now he vented his anger on these country bumpkins, folding his arms and saying, “You can just hang here, so you won’t wander around and get in my way! Once I catch the Soul-Eating Beast, I’ll let you down if I remember.”

If they were really left hanging in the tree all night and happened to encounter that thing wandering in the Great Brahma Mountain, unable to move, they’d be nothing but food for the soul-sucking creature. The round-faced girl who had given Ethan Sullivan an apple was so frightened that she burst into tears. Ethan Sullivan had been sitting cross-legged on the back of the spotted donkey, but as soon as the donkey heard her crying, its long ears twitched and it suddenly bolted forward.

As it dashed out, it let out a long bray—if only its voice weren’t so awful, its unstoppable heroic momentum would be worthy of praise as a steed of a thousand miles. Caught off guard, Ethan Sullivan was thrown from its back and nearly smashed his head open. The spotted donkey charged straight at the youth, as if convinced it could knock him flying with its head. The youth had just nocked an arrow and was about to shoot, but Ethan Sullivan, not wanting to look for a new mount so soon, desperately pulled at the reins. The youth glanced at him, then suddenly showed a look of surprise, which quickly turned to disdain. Curling his lip, he said, “So it’s you.”

The tone was two parts surprise, eight parts disgust, making Ethan Sullivan blink in confusion. The youth continued, “What, did you go crazy after being sent back home? Daring to come out looking like this?”

Had he just heard something incredible?!

Could it be—Ethan Sullivan slapped his thigh. Could it be that Henry Moore’s father wasn’t the head of some minor sect, but the famous Richard King?!

Richard King was the previous head of the Lanling Jin Clan, long since deceased. Speaking of him, it was truly a complicated story. He had a powerful wife from a prestigious family, and his reputation for being henpecked was widespread. But despite his fear, he still couldn’t resist chasing women. No matter how formidable Lady Jin was, she couldn’t keep an eye on him twenty-four hours a day, so from noble ladies to country prostitutes, he never let any opportunity slip by. Although he loved to fool around and had many illegitimate children, he was quick to tire of women and would completely abandon them without a shred of responsibility. Among his many illegitimate children, only one stood out and was acknowledged—none other than the current head of the Lanling Jin Clan, Samuel King. Even Richard King’s death was disgraceful: overconfident in his old age, he tried to challenge himself by fooling around with a group of women, but unfortunately died in the act. This was so embarrassing that the Lanling Jin Clan unanimously claimed the old patriarch died from overwork, and everyone else pretended not to know. In short, these were the real reasons for his “fame.”

Back during the mass siege of the Burial Mounds, aside from Charles Foster, Richard King contributed the most. Now, Ethan Sullivan was occupying the body of his illegitimate son, and truly had no idea how to settle this score.

Seeing him dazed, the youth grew more annoyed and said, “Get lost already! Just seeing you makes me sick. Damn cut-sleeve.”

In terms of seniority, Henry Moore might actually be this youth’s uncle or elder, yet he was being insulted by a junior like this. Ethan Sullivan felt that, even if not for himself, he had to return the insult for the sake of Henry Moore’s body, and retorted, “Truly born of a mother, but never raised by one.”

At these words, two flames of rage flashed in the youth’s eyes. He drew the long sword from his back and said coldly, “What did you say?”

The sword’s golden light flared—it was a rare, top-grade treasured sword, the kind many families might never even see in a lifetime. Ethan Sullivan focused his gaze and found the sword somewhat familiar, but he’d seen plenty of top-grade golden swords before, so he didn’t think much of it. Instead, he fiddled with a small cloth pouch in his hand.

This was a “spirit-locking pouch” he’d hastily cobbled together from some scraps he’d picked up a few days ago. As the youth slashed at him, Ethan Sullivan pulled out a little paper figure from the pouch, dodged aside, and slapped it onto the youth’s back with a “smack.”

The youth was already fast, but Ethan Sullivan had plenty of experience tripping people and slapping talismans on their backs, so he was even faster. The youth suddenly felt a numbness in his back and a heavy weight pressing him down, forcing him to the ground. His sword clattered aside, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get up, as if Mount Tai was crushing him. A gluttonous, dead ghost was now pinning him down, making it hard to breathe. Though the little ghost was weak, it was more than enough to handle a brat like this. Ethan Sullivan picked up his sword, weighed it in his hand, and with a swing, cut through the binding net above.