"The Yan King's rebellion has broken out, war is everywhere. As the strongest member of the Song Residence Night Wanderer lineage, Master had no choice but to descend the mountain to perform rites for the dead. Otherwise, with the war unresolved and new supernatural disasters arising, the common people would have no peace..."

Michael Bolton felt some soreness in his shoulder. He rubbed it and made a preliminary judgment: this was an essay, essentially a diary.

The diary's content was all about the "author's" experiences cultivating and living in the temple. Judging by the handwriting, this diary and the paper found on the corpse in the main hall came from the same source.

From phrases like "Yan King's rebellion," the timeline was during the Jingnan Campaign in history.

But he wasn't sure if this temple really existed in history, because the essay mentioned terms like "cultivation," "Night Wanderer," "breathing techniques," and "talismans"—all mysterious and impressive-sounding.

Michael Bolton moved his sore shoulder, scanned the room warily, listened for any sounds outside, and, after confirming there was nothing unusual, continued reading the essay.

Soon, he turned to the continuation of the main hall's story. The first few pages had been torn out, and the following content read:

"At sunset, night finally fell. I heard a knock at the door. Excited, I opened it, but standing outside was not Master, but Senior Brother, who had gone missing last night."

"Senior Brother, who had been missing for a whole day and night, had returned, but I felt no joy at all, because... he was already dead. What came back was a corpse. His chest was drenched in blood, and I don't know who dug out his heart."

"Senior Brother stared straight at me and said: Don't trust Master..."

These lines were written in a shaky, crooked hand. One could imagine the author's mental state was in shambles when writing this part.

When Michael Bolton turned to the next page, he found there was nothing more. The diary's owner never wrote again.

"Hiss... What does 'don't trust Master' mean?"

Michael Bolton was chilled to the core by this twist.

Was it the temple keeper who killed Senior Brother? Was he also the culprit behind the disciples' successive disappearances? Michael Bolton rubbed his shoulder, put the booklet back into the corpse's pocket, then picked up the bronze mirror, ready to leave.

But as the corner of his eye unintentionally glanced at the bronze mirror, his body suddenly froze.

Moonlight like water shone on the mirror's surface, reflecting his own image. But on his back, there was a person clinging to him.

That person's face was deathly pale, lips a deep purple, with a pair of white pupils. His head was tilted, resting on Michael Bolton's shoulder, and those white, lifeless eyes stared at him.

...

Chapter 7: Return

His sanity value instantly dropped to zero.

A chill rose from his tailbone straight to the top of his head. Michael Bolton jumped up on the spot like a startled cat, blurting out a curse:

"Fuck!"

This was an instinctive reaction when a person is strongly shocked or frightened.

He finally understood why his shoulder was so sore, and why the corpse by the window carried a bronze mirror.

It was to check whether a vengeful spirit was clinging to one's shoulder.

When did it get on my shoulder? Was it when I entered the courtyard, or when I came into this room?

Who gave me the courage to go out exploring—was it Liang Jingru?!

His mind was in chaos, thoughts racing in an instant, terror surging like a tidal wave.

Even though he knew there was something strange and terrifying in this temple and had mentally prepared himself, actually facing a ghost still filled him with an indescribable fear.

Wait, I have a talisman... Michael Bolton shakily pulled out a yellow paper talisman from the left pocket of his jacket, and, desperate, slapped it onto his shoulder.

Smack!

The corpse-suppressing talisman stuck to his shoulder. He raised the bronze mirror and cautiously looked. The man with the deathly pale face, black lips, and lifeless white eyes was still clinging to his shoulder.

It didn't work. This thing isn't a corpse-type spirit... Even his last bit of hope was gone. Michael Bolton felt his shoulder growing more and more sore, his hands and feet turning cold.

This wasn't an illusion—it was real loss of yang energy.

At that moment, Michael Bolton thought of the corpse under the main hall's table, and the predecessor who died tragically under the window. Next, he would likely die here just like them.

A bone-chilling cold welled up in his heart.

"Tap tap!"

Suddenly, at this deadly moment, faint footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.

The footsteps were light, but in the dead of night, they were very clear.

...Michael Bolton's heart tightened. He quickly crouched down beside the corpse under the window.

These footsteps sounded familiar, much like the ones he heard when entering the temple.

"Tap tap tap..."

The footsteps drew closer and closer, heading this way. Michael Bolton didn't dare breathe, his whole body tense, faintly hearing his own frantic heartbeat.

When the footsteps passed outside the window, Michael Bolton couldn't help but glance at the floor. Moonlight shone in, casting a lattice window shadow on the ground.

The window wasn't high, only up to the waist. At a normal person's height, passing outside the window would definitely cast a shadow in the moonlight, but he saw nothing.

This meant that whatever passed outside the window had no body.

Fortunately, the footsteps passed by the window without stopping or entering the room, gradually fading away.

Phew... Michael Bolton silently let out a breath, focusing on the receding footsteps, hearing them step into the courtyard and rustle through the wild grass.