The wind on the rooftop at night howled past, the rain had stopped, but the chill of early spring still pierced to the bone. How did those nine possessed Huluwas even survive, you wonder?

From Grace Lincoln’s position, Jason Grant was facing the dried corpse just fifteen meters away, hands in his pockets, looking like a street punk. With that long black box strapped to his waist, Jason Grant looked almost like a man-made crucifix.

Grace Lincoln had seen Taoist priests on TV before—they always wore old, earth-yellow robes, couldn’t go three sentences without mentioning “the Supreme Lord Laozi,” and waved peachwood swords around while mumbling. Compared to the punk in front of her, they were worlds apart.

“Girl, close your eyes. Our bureau has a rule: no eyewitnesses allowed when we’re working, or we get our pay docked. If you don’t want to drink the Meng Po soup I make from ditch water, don’t peek.”

Grace Lincoln raised her hand to cover her eyes, but the darkness was far scarier than ghosts, so she couldn’t help but leave a gap between her fingers. Oh well, it’s not her salary that’ll get docked anyway…

Through the gap, she saw Jason Grant stuff a handful of durian candies into his mouth, then reach both hands toward his crotch. Facing the shriveled, stinking corpse of the ghost landlady, he actually unzipped his pants.

Grace Lincoln couldn’t help but cry out in her heart, Beast! He won’t even spare a corpse…

But what Jason Grant pulled out from his pants was far harder than anything that grows on the body—it was a motorcycle handlebar, complete with throttle and handbrake.

“A two-star evil spirit, and you’re using the ‘Sword Shrine Ghost’? Isn’t that a bit extravagant?” commented Little Jason, perched on his shoulder.

“Even if she’s a busty beauty, if she can’t understand human speech, she’s just annoying.” With a snap, one end of the long black box on Jason Grant’s back split open like a beast’s maw, lined with black, fang-like teeth. A huge beastly eye suddenly opened on the surface of the box.

Jason Grant inserted the motorcycle handlebar into the opening of the black box. With a crisp click, Jason Grant drew out a 1.2-meter-long peachwood sword blade from the box.

“Do you think that toy can hurt me?” the ghost landlady sneered.

Jason Grant glanced at a steel pipe nearby used for hanging clothes. With a flick of his sword, he sliced it cleanly in half, the pieces clattering to the ground. Not even a dent was left on the peachwood blade, and strange runes could be vaguely seen etched along its edge.

“A Maoshan founding Taoist’s peachwood sword—so old it could be our ancestor. No one knows what technique was used to make it, but it’s harder than steel, sharper than a knife, and especially effective against monsters and ghosts. Only 998!” Jason Grant held the peachwood sword with the motorcycle handle, striking a pose like a TV shopping host.

“Anyone who stops my revenge is my enemy!” The ghost landlady tore apart the plastic bag on her body, her dried vocal cords letting out a wolf-like howl. With a casual swing of her black arms, the 20-centimeter-thick cement insulation panels on either side were smashed to powder, as if struck by a sledgehammer.

Reversing his grip on the sword behind him, Jason Grant’s body hugged the platform as he launched forward, feet pushing off with explosive force. Water splashed behind him like bursting flowers. His acceleration was fiercer than an Olympic sprinter’s, and in a flash, he closed the fifteen-meter gap to the ghost landlady.

The ghost landlady’s black arms whipped the floor to pieces, but Jason Grant didn’t even slow down. He raised his sword and met the blow head-on. The arm that could easily shatter cement was sliced clean in two, flying into the air, black blood—already congealed to powder—spraying everywhere. In the next instant, Jason Grant crashed into the ghost landlady’s arms.

The sword edge sliced through her body, sending up metallic sparks. A gash ran from her abdomen to her back, spilling out shriveled organs onto the ground in a filthy heap, like a butcher’s stall at the market.

“Impossible! My skin is harder than iron! My hands are faster than the wind! This is my ninety-ninth night of returning—my spiritual power is at its peak! How could I be cut open by a broken sword?!” The ghost landlady howled, clutching her stomach, in agony as if dying all over again.

“You’re too arrogant and too insignificant. The cycle of reincarnation must not be disturbed, the order of the three realms must not be violated. Whether you’re ghost or human, there are always powers above us both. This is your last chance—let me release you, or you’ll disappear from the cycle forever.” Jason Grant flicked his sword to the side, black stains splattering the platform like spilled ink.

“Can you release my hatred? Can you erase the pain of being killed by the one I loved? I curse you! I curse all men! I’ll kill him, and all of you!” the ghost landlady wailed, struggling to her feet. She wanted to cry, but her dried-up eye sockets couldn’t shed a single tear.

“If that’s the case, then farewell…” Stepping forward again, Jason Grant charged back. The ghost landlady’s counterattack was as feeble to Jason Grant as an angry woman’s slap—she didn’t understand fighting, just as she never understood men.

Jason Grant’s peachwood sword sliced horizontally across the ghost landlady’s throat—the wound from when she died, and the wound in her heart. From that gash, her white soul was wrenched out, howling, twisting into a ball of white light in the air, and finally exploding into nothingness.