If he took a liking to this face,

then he would destroy it.

Whatever these people wanted from him, they would get none of it.

Chapter 8

When Grace Turner left Xihe, the last rays of the setting sun were sinking into the sea. Many people craned their necks to look up at the sky, the crowd bustling and jostling in layers. Perhaps they had been waiting for a long time, and now that something was finally happening, whispers and discussions spread everywhere.

Grace Turner disliked drawing attention to herself. She glanced briefly at the grand scene below, then lightly touched down in the air like a dragonfly skimming the water. A ring of expanding ripples spread invisibly beneath everyone’s eyes, and in the next instant, she was already inside the west wing.

She had a slender figure, dressed in pure white, and as she glided through the air, the tassels and lotus pendants at her waist fluttered in the wind. Because her face was cold and unsmiling, she appeared even more dignified and composed in the eyes of the crowd. So even though she only showed herself for a moment, she still sparked much discussion among the people.

“—Who just came out? Which powerful immortal is that?” A woman holding a child came out to watch the commotion, curiosity and wonder in her voice. “So young, and so good-looking too.”

Standing beside her was a young cultivator, who smiled and replied, “Auntie, that was the Holy Maiden of the Sacred Land.” He was new to cultivation and didn’t know much about such occasions, only that the person who had just appeared was followed by such a long procession, so her status must be extremely distinguished, though he couldn’t tell her exact name.

Someone behind them chimed in, “It should be the Princess of Yedu.”

“The Saintess of Sound is more lively, and when the Buddhist Maiden goes out, she’s preceded by child monks and accompanied by Sanskrit chants. Only the Princess of Yedu is less known, but I’ve heard she’s steady and dignified, never smiling, which matches what we just saw.”

“It’s a good thing we have places like the Sacred Land and people like them, or we wouldn’t have the good days we do now.” The woman hefted her child a little higher and shook her head. “There are monsters everywhere, and all sorts of strange things—just thinking about it gives me the chills.”

“……”

Such conversations drifted from outside the west wing all the way inside.

When Grace Turner slipped into the third floor of the west wing, Megan Price was leaning against a red lacquered pillar with golden patterns, holding a small silver wine flask. Her eyes were half-closed, her beautiful, languid face turned toward the wide-open doors of the Sacred Land, lost in thought.

Hearing movement, Megan Price turned her head slowly. When she saw Grace Turner, she blinked, quickly composed herself, and smiled. “You arrived early, and left early too.”

“The tribunal ended, so I came back.” Grace Turner’s gaze slid unobtrusively over the small wine flask in Megan Price’s hand. “I still have some matters to handle, so I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble the west wing for another night.”

“No need to talk about trouble or not.”

“Our west wing—stay as long as you like.” Megan Price handed the wine flask to the child behind her, her slender fingers pointing to the corridor and eaves built like a palace, with deep courtyards and grand gates. “The third floor is reserved for the Sacred Land. Ordinary people can’t come up here. It’s usually very quiet—only lively once or twice a year.”

“Xihe is under lockdown, closed for years on end. We just hope for a chance to go inside and have a look.” Megan Price was surrounded by a rich scent of wine, and two blushes like rouge appeared on her delicate cheeks. “Why did you come out so quickly?”

Grace Turner didn’t dislike this charming owner of the west wing. She paused, then said, “There’s nothing interesting to do. Once you’ve seen enough of the Sacred Land, it’s all the same.”

It’s always endless mountains, countless rivers, and never-ending big and small matters to handle.

“True.” Megan Price looked downstairs. “They say my west wing is a place of pleasure and delight, but only after staying here long enough do you know what it’s really like.”

Grace Turner glanced sideways. After interrogating so many demons and ghosts over the years, she had developed an intuition beyond ordinary people.

This Megan Price was shrouded in heavy emotions—definitely not a simple character.

But Grace Turner didn’t care about that. As long as someone meant her no harm and hadn’t committed any crimes in her hands, she wouldn’t bother to get involved.

After exchanging a few polite words, Grace Turner turned and returned to her own courtyard.

Laura Reed came forward, her expression serious. “Lady, Lord Chaohua sent word—there’s been unusual activity at Baizhong Mountain late at night.”

Grace Turner sat down in a wide chair, her long, slender fingers resting on a teacup. She didn’t even look up as she asked, “Which two is it this time?”

Laura Reed didn’t dare meet her gaze. After a moment of silence, she lowered her eyes and said, “It’s Owen Grant and Logan Bell.”

No wonder Grace Turner was unmoved. Laura Reed had been by her side for a long time, and had heard such news at least eighty or a hundred times. The words “unusual activity at Baizhong Mountain” were enough to make anyone’s heart race.

“Who started it?” Grace Turner asked. “How many peaks were blown up?”

“Lord Chaohua said it was Logan Bell who couldn’t stand Owen Grant hanging around in front of it all day. Plus, last night was a full moon, so Logan Bell was especially irritable. As soon as Owen Grant showed up, they started fighting.” Laura Reed reported truthfully. “They blew up two peaks.”

After hearing this, Grace Turner moved her fingers from the teacup to her forehead, pressing twice, her tone especially icy. “Tell Logan Bell that if it dares cause trouble again, the Palace Guard will skin it alive.”