Chapter 277: Spirit Slave

Mo Hua’s interest was piqued.

He carefully watched a few more times and confirmed that the pale-faced man’s Fireball Technique was indeed something unusual—different from the ordinary one in subtle but significant ways.

Mo Hua wanted to study it further.

By now, the scar-faced man and the pale-faced man had already stopped fighting.

This was Black Mountain Stronghold—they were supposed to guard the gate. If anything went wrong because of their petty feud, they’d both lose their lives.

So even if they clashed, it was nothing serious—merely testing blows, no true killing intent.

Mo Hua was disappointed.

He had been hoping the two would fight to the death so he could swoop in afterward and pick up some spoils.

But after a few loud threats and a couple of moves, they just sat back down and drank that foul wine again—as if nothing had happened at all.

Only, in their exchanged glances, murderous intent still flickered beneath the surface.

Mo Hua thought for a bit. He couldn’t shake his curiosity about the pale-faced man’s Fireball Technique.

He already had several good defensive techniques, but his offensive spells were still lacking.

The ordinary Fireball Technique was accurate and quick, but its power was unimpressive.

If he could learn the trick behind this man’s version, he wouldn’t need to learn a whole new art to strengthen his combat ability.

So, after daybreak, Mo Hua quietly began tailing the pale-faced man.

When the man’s night watch ended, he went straight back to his room.

He was no special figure among the evil cultivators—his quarters were like the others’: fairly spacious but cluttered, not overly bloodstained. Only one thing stood out—a large chest in the corner.

Having stayed up all night, the man looked exhausted. After resting a bit, he sat cross-legged to meditate.

Mo Hua found it strange.

He wasn’t using spirit stones.

Without spirit stones, what could he possibly be cultivating? Air?

After a while, the pale-faced man opened his eyes, a trace of irritation flashing through them.

He stood up, walked to the corner, and opened the large chest.

From his perch on the beam, Mo Hua craned his neck—and froze.

Inside the chest… was a living cultivator!

The captive was gaunt and yellow-faced, trembling in fear, not daring to make a sound.

The pale-faced man ordered, “Come out.”

The cultivator’s dull eyes flickered briefly, and he climbed out obediently.

“Kneel.”

The captive didn’t resist. He knelt as told.

The pale-faced man’s eyes lit up with a perverse excitement. Placing his palm on the man’s forehead—

The cultivator’s spiritual power began to flow backward, gathering into the pale-faced man’s qi sea through his hand.

The captive’s expression didn’t change. He seemed numb—accustomed to it—silent and motionless, like a piece of wood, or a dead thing, enduring the draining of his spiritual power.

After the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, the pale-faced man finished absorbing. His pale face regained some color.

He patted the captive’s face with condescending benevolence.

“I taught you a cultivation method. You should practice it well.”

“Remember—it was I who spared your life. Making you my Spirit Slave is an act of grace. Otherwise, another would have drained you dry long ago.”

“You should be grateful you’re still alive.”

Then he pointed at the chest. “Back inside. Don’t make a sound.”

The so-called Spirit Slave shuffled back to the chest, curling up silently inside.

Mo Hua felt his heart grow cold.

Now he understood—the “Spirit Slave” was a living cultivator enslaved and used as a source of spiritual power.

Not a person, but a walking spirit stone.

To treat a living being like this…

Mo Hua’s brows drew tight.

As Elder Yu had said, the cultivators here were nothing short of beasts.

The pale-faced man sat down again, refining the spiritual power he had stolen.

Spirit stones contained pure spiritual energy, while a cultivator’s was mixed and impure.

Absorbing another’s spiritual power might seem easier and faster, but it caused disharmony within one’s own, breeding corruption, madness, and eventually—deviation.

That was why the arts of “draining spirit” were deemed forbidden and heretical—prohibited by the Dao Court.

Zhang Lan had told Mo Hua that much.

As the pale-faced man refined, his expression twisted wildly—feral one moment, ecstatic the next, then deranged, then trembling between agony and delight.

After a while, he finished. His face turned pale again, but his aura had clearly strengthened.

Pleased, he took out a book from his storage pouch and began reading intently.

Mo Hua stole a glance—and his heart skipped a beat.

Though the cover was half-hidden, two characters were visible: “Fireball.”

Fireball Technique!

So it was true—the man cultivated a special version of the Fireball Technique!

If it were an ordinary one, he wouldn’t treat it like a treasure, carrying it everywhere and studying it so carefully.

Unfortunately, he kept it on his person, so Mo Hua couldn’t steal it now.

He’d have to wait for another opportunity.

Before leaving, Mo Hua cast one last look at the chest.

Inside lay the Spirit Slave—a young cultivator, though his emaciated face looked far older than his years.

His eyes were dull, his expression lifeless… yet once, he might have been a bright, kind young man.

Did his parents know he was imprisoned here in Black Mountain Stronghold?

At the thought, Mo Hua sighed softly.

He couldn’t save him—not with his current cultivation.

But one day, when his strength was sufficient…

He would slaughter every one of these demonic fiends.

Mo Hua clenched his fists at the thought.

In the days that followed, he focused again on completing his map of the stronghold.

One day, feeling hungry, he sneaked into the kitchen.

It was large but filthy—bloodstains everywhere, tables piled with chunks of unidentifiable meat.

Mo Hua didn’t dare touch it.

He only stole some wild fruits and pastries to fill his belly.

He hadn’t expected to stay this long in Black Mountain Stronghold, so his rations had long since run out.

Now he had no choice but to make do with what the evil cultivators ate.

The fruits were sour and astringent—likely the result of the miasma and tainted soil of the mountains.

The pastries were even worse.

One bite and he almost spat it out.

Nothing like the food his mother made.

He began to miss home—and his parents. He’d been gone for days; they must be worried sick.

He sighed inwardly. “I should’ve told them before coming here…”

But what’s done was done.

He’d just have to finish mapping the place, gather all useful information, and return as soon as possible—to ease their worries.

He nodded firmly and forced himself to swallow another mouthful of the awful pastry.

It was disgusting—but at least it filled the stomach.

He couldn’t afford to be picky now.

Just then, he heard voices.

One belonged to the old cook; the other sounded familiar.

Peeking out from under the table, Mo Hua saw that the second voice belonged to that fat cultivator—the same one who had killed the skinny cultivator and entered the stronghold using his head as a pass.

Apparently, all that earned him was a job delivering food.

The old man told him, “Take this meal to the Young Master. Don’t let him starve.”

The fat cultivator nodded obediently.

Mo Hua froze mid-bite.

“Young Master? What Young Master?”

His brows furrowed.

“Could it be… that Young Master from the Kong family?”

(End of Chapter)