The whole family landed in a sorry state, said not a word, and hurriedly fled. The round-faced young girl seemed to want to thank him, but her elder yanked her away. They were afraid that saying even a few more words would make this golden young master hate them even more. The boy on the ground shouted angrily, “Damn cut-sleeve! So that’s how it is—since your spiritual power is weak and you can’t cultivate, you go down this crooked path. You’d better watch out! Do you know who’s here today?! Today I…”

Ethan Sullivan clutched his chest with mock sincerity and said, “Ah! I’m so scared!”

His previous cultivation method, though much criticized and ultimately harmful to the practitioner’s very foundation, had the advantage of quick results and was not limited by spiritual power or talent. Thus, it was extremely tempting, and there was never a shortage of people secretly taking shortcuts to practice it. This boy assumed that after Henry Moore was expelled from the Lanling Jin clan, he had gone astray. The suspicion was reasonable and saved Ethan Sullivan a lot of unnecessary trouble.

The boy braced himself on the ground, tried several times but couldn’t get up, his face flushed red, and he gritted his teeth, “If you don’t leave, I’ll tell my uncle. Just you wait—you’re dead!”

Ethan Sullivan asked curiously, “Why your uncle and not your father? Who’s your uncle?”

Suddenly, a voice sounded from behind, three parts cold, seven parts chilling:

“His uncle is me. Do you have any last words?”

The moment he heard this voice, it felt as if all the blood in Ethan Sullivan’s body rushed to his head, then instantly drained away. Fortunately, his face was already deathly pale, so a little paler didn’t look out of the ordinary.

A young man in purple robes strolled over, arrow-sleeved light robe, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a silver bell hanging at his waist, yet not a sound could be heard as he walked.

This young man had fine brows and almond-shaped eyes, his features a sharp, striking handsomeness. His gaze was intense, carrying a faintly aggressive air, looking at people as if with two bolts of cold lightning. He stopped ten paces from Ethan Sullivan, standing still, his expression like an arrow on a drawn bow, ready to strike, even his posture exuding a kind of arrogant self-confidence.

He frowned and said, “Lucas King, why are you taking so long? Do I have to come and fetch you myself? Looking such a mess—get up, now!”

After the initial numbness in his mind passed, Ethan Sullivan quickly came back to himself, hooked his finger inside his sleeve, and withdrew the paper figure. Lucas King felt the pressure on his back disappear, immediately scrambled to grab his sword and jumped up, darting to Charles Foster’s side, pointing at Ethan Sullivan and cursing, “I’m going to break your legs!”

Standing together, this uncle and nephew did look somewhat alike, as if they could be brothers. Charles Foster moved his fingers, and the paper figure instantly slipped from Ethan Sullivan’s fingers and flew into his hand. He glanced at it, a fierce look rising in his eyes. With a squeeze of his fingers, the paper figure burst into flames, burning to ashes amid the shrieks of the resentful spirit.

Charles Foster said coldly, “Break his legs? Didn’t I tell you, when you encounter this kind of demonic heretic, just kill them and feed them to your dog!”

Ethan Sullivan didn’t even bother with the donkey, leaping back in retreat. He had thought that after so many years, no matter how much Charles Foster hated him, it would have faded away. Who would have thought it was nowhere near that simple? Not only had it not faded, it had grown stronger with time, like aged wine, and now he even vented his anger on everyone who imitated his cultivation!

With someone backing him up, Lucas King attacked even more fiercely this time. Ethan Sullivan slipped two fingers into his spirit-lock pouch, ready to act. Suddenly, a flash of blue sword light shot out like lightning, clashing with Lucas King’s sword and instantly shattering the golden light of this top-grade immortal sword.

It wasn’t about the quality of the swords, but the vast difference in skill between the wielders. Ethan Sullivan had timed his move perfectly, but this sword light threw him off, making him stumble and fall—landing right in front of a pair of snow-white boots. He froze for a moment, then slowly looked up.

The first thing he saw was a long, crystal-clear sword blade, as pure as frozen ice.

Among all the clans, this sword was famous far and wide. Ethan Sullivan had experienced its power countless times, both fighting alongside and against it. The hilt was forged from pure silver refined by secret methods, the blade extremely thin, clear and transparent, exuding a chill like ice and snow, yet able to cut through iron as if it were mud. The whole sword looked light and ethereal, almost otherworldly, but in truth it was very heavy—ordinary people couldn’t even lift it.

—“Bichen.”

The sword flipped, and above Ethan Sullivan’s head came the clear sound of it being sheathed. At the same time, Charles Foster’s voice called from afar, “So that’s who it is. Turns out it’s Second Young Master Clark.”

The white boots stepped around Ethan Sullivan, unhurried, taking three steps forward. Ethan Sullivan got up and raised his head. As they passed each other, their eyes met for a brief moment, seemingly by accident.

The newcomer was bathed in moonlight as bright as flowing silk, carrying a seven-stringed guqin on his back. The instrument was narrower than usual, pitch black, with a gentle wood grain.

This man wore a forehead ribbon with cloud patterns, his skin fair, his looks both striking and elegant, as if carved and polished. His eyes were a very pale color, like glass, making his gaze seem especially cold. His expression carried the chill of frost and snow, a near-stern solemnity. Even seeing Ethan Sullivan’s ridiculous face now, he showed no reaction.

From head to toe, he was spotless and meticulous, not a single thing out of place. Even so, four words popped into Ethan Sullivan’s mind:

“Dressed in mourning!”