“According to that strange voice’s instructions, I shouldn’t be able to enter the temple. Wait, no, I’ve already come out of the tunnel, which means what I really need to explore is this dilapidated ancient temple.”

He hesitated at the temple entrance for a long time. Michael Bolton cautiously took a step forward, walking toward the ancient temple standing in the darkness, stepping over the broken threshold.

What met his eyes was a vast front courtyard, waist-high wild grass growing within. A half-rotten, man-sized incense burner lay toppled in the weeds, battered by years of wind and rain.

Beneath his feet was a path paved with bluestone slabs, with tufts of wild grass sprouting from the cracks between the stones.

His gaze followed the undulating withered grass to the end of the bluestone path, where a dilapidated main hall stood on a high foundation, with six steps leading up. Dim yellow light shone through the lattice doors of the main hall.

“There’s a light?”

All around was silent and desolate, the place in ruins. The bright moonlight poured down, but in such an environment, that faint glow brought Michael Bolton not a trace of warmth.

If anything, it felt even more terrifying.

Rustle...

He advanced, stepping through clumps of withered wild grass, staying alert as he walked toward the main hall. In the empty surroundings, his footsteps sounded especially clear.

Rustle, rustle... Suddenly, Michael Bolton’s ears twitched—he heard another set of footsteps behind him. Something was following him.

He whipped his head around.

The night was like water, wild grass thick and tall, but there was nothing behind him.

“Was I hearing things?”

Michael Bolton stood there, heart pounding, for a moment, then forced himself to move forward again.

Rustle, rustle, rustle...

The footsteps came again. This time, he heard them clearly—there really was something following him.

...Could it really be this creepy? I just entered the temple and already ran into something unclean? He didn’t dare look back, quickening his pace.

The footsteps behind him sped up as well.

Michael Bolton couldn’t hold it in any longer. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he broke into a run, dashing toward the main hall.

The footsteps behind him clung to him like a shadow, chasing him closely.

In the chase, Michael Bolton quickly burst out of the wild grass, neared the main hall, and leapt up the six steps in two bounds. Finally, with a loud “bang,” he pushed open the two lattice doors of the main hall.

The footsteps behind him abruptly vanished.

“Huff, huff...”

Panting heavily, he finally dared to look back. Moonlight poured like water into the courtyard—wild grass, bluestone path, all eerily silent—but there was nothing there.

“Luckily, it didn’t follow me in.”

After catching his breath, Michael Bolton gently closed the main hall doors, as if shutting his fear outside.

Next, he surveyed the scene inside the main hall. On a high stone pedestal sat a goddess draped in a fur cloak and dressed in splendid robes. Her face was round, her brows and eyes slender, exuding a sense of benevolence.

This goddess held a horsetail whisk in one hand, while the other was poised as if gripping something, though now it was empty.

On either side stood a sword-bearing boy attendant and a maid holding a book.

In front of the pedestal was an offering table thick with dust. On the table stood a candlestick, holding a candle twenty centimeters long and as thick as a baby’s forearm, burning quietly.

The candlelight dispelled the darkness, and seemed to also dispel the fear in Michael Bolton’s heart. He felt much calmer.

On the left wall hung two faded, cracked wooden plaques, covered in regular script.

Michael Bolton strolled over to the wall and, by the dim candlelight, studied them. The style of the script was classical Chinese.

His language skills were decent, and by half-guessing, half-reading, he gained a clear understanding of his surroundings.

This mountain was called Sandao Mountain, and the temple enshrined the mountain goddess known as Sandao Mountain Niangniang.

This mountain goddess was a native of Song Prefecture in the early Ming dynasty. She cultivated on Sandao Mountain, was skilled in talismanic arts and alchemy, could pray for rain and exorcise spirits, and protected the region with favorable weather, so the people revered her as a deity.

After her ascension, the local authorities built this temple on Sandao Mountain, naming it “Sandao Mountain Niangniang Temple,” and entrusted its incense offerings to her disciples, who served as temple keepers.

“A Ming dynasty temple... That’s five or six hundred years old by now,” Michael Bolton muttered.

At that moment, he couldn’t help but glance under the offering table, and his heart suddenly tightened.

A dark shape lay in the shadows beneath the table.

Earlier, he’d been too panicked, and the dim candlelight had kept him from noticing it at first.

Bracing himself, Michael Bolton approached and looked closely. It turned out to be a corpse reduced to a skeleton.

In his terror, Michael Bolton actually felt a bit relieved. Compared to this eerie mountain temple, the skeleton was less frightening.

He stepped closer, and by the faint candlelight, saw the skeleton was dressed in a dust-covered work uniform.

A laborer?

“Was this from the construction crew back then? So I really have entered the world of the urban legend.”

Just as Michael Bolton made this guess, another, more alarming possibility occurred to him: perhaps the construction crew back then, like him, had accidentally entered this place.

That would explain the urban legend.

If it was the former, then this so-called spirit realm was a scene generated from the legend.

But if it was the latter, it meant the ancient temple had always existed, and both the construction crew and himself were victims.

Based on the historical background of the mountain goddess temple, Michael Bolton leaned more toward the latter.