Lu Ziming wasn’t doing great. Dodging the Shadow Killer’s wild teleports took all his focus, but his head was scrambled, and Fang Xiu’s thrashing had slowed him down.
He’d barely squeaked past a few near misses, each dodge messier than the last.
The shame burned worse with every slip—he couldn’t shake the thought: If I had my powers, if I could just use Mindflare, this Shadow Killer wouldn’t stand a chance!
Let it step on his shadow—Mindflare would brush it off.
The thing just used shadows to pump Specter energy into you, spawning a new one while draining you dry.
With Mindflare, he’d laugh it off.
Too bad “if” didn’t mean jack here.
Then it got uglier. The Shadow Killer, apparently tired of whiffing on Fang Xiu, turned its freaky clown shoes toward Lu Ziming instead. His face went white, death’s grip practically strangling him.
Forget pride. Forget embarrassment. He dropped into a slide that made Tong Yang’s look amateur—three meters of pure, fifth-tier-fueled desperation, skidding right to Fang Xiu’s feet.
THUD-THUD-THUD!
“Mr. Fang, let me live!” he pleaded, fists tight, head bowed so low his veins popped. His jaw clenched hard enough to break teeth, hate and shame pouring off him.
Fang Xiu drank it in, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Heh heh heh… now that’s what I’m talking about. Get out of here.”
Lu Ziming didn’t wait for a second invite.
Ignoring the ache in his knees, he took off, half-limping, half-sprinting for the corridor.
Fang Xiu, meanwhile, strolled after him like it was a lazy afternoon, slipping past both Shadow Killers with smooth moves.
Two months in the Land Between, chowing down on a million snake-like Specters? That wasn’t for show.
He shook the Shadow Killers soon enough, catching up with the group in a small garden at the corridor’s end.
Overgrown grass, twisted trees, pavilions, and little streams—it could’ve been nice, but the heavy darkness made it creepy.
Every rustle sounded like a Specter ready to jump, and the crew inched through like they were crossing a minefield, eyes flicking, steps careful.
Fang Xiu showing up was a relief. Sure, the Land Between folks knew he was after their Spiritual Energy, but that was a later worry. Better than getting taken out by a Specter now.
If he wanted to cash in, he’d have to wait till they were free of the Zhou's Mansion’s lockdown—and then, maybe, they could flip the script. That’s what they hoped, at least.
With Fang Xiu in front, they crept through the garden, every step cautious. Then, out of nowhere, a shout broke the quiet from the back.
“Who—who tapped my shoulder?!” One of the guys spun around, face pale, eyes wide, checking the people nearby.
“I didn’t touch you,” someone said.
“Not me either.”
“Who’d mess with you right now?”
Everyone waved it off, but the guy’s face kept losing color. If no one tapped him, then… what did? A Specter?
He yanked his shirt aside, heart racing, and looked at his shoulder. There, sharp against the dark night, was a blood-red handprint, humming with a thick Specter vibe. His head spun.
“It’s a Specter! A Specter tapped me!”
“When the hell did that happen?!”
The group turned fast, scanning the shadows, ready for a fight. But after a few tight sweeps, nothing—no weird shapes, no movement.
Someone spoke up, voice shaky. “How’s it feel?”
The guy with the handprint swallowed hard, looking sick. “Nothing. I don’t feel anything.”
Eyebrows went up. No feeling? Was this some joke? Except Specters didn’t play around for fun.
Then came the gasp. “Holy—your handprint’s growing!”
“What?!”
He twisted to see, panic shooting through him. The palm-sized mark had spread, covering half his back. It wasn’t even a handprint anymore—just a sloppy, creeping bloodstain.
“Quick! Grab a knife and cut this skin off me now!”
He was a fourth-tier psychic, after all, and had survived the Land Between for years. Even facing something this freaky, he was rattled but hadn’t lost his head. He went for the safest bet he could think of.
Whatever this blood handprint was, it sure wasn’t good news—better to slice it off and deal with it later.
A guy he knew well pulled out a dagger and walked over, face serious. One hand steadied his shoulder; the other gripped the knife.
“Brace yourself.”
“Yeah.”
But right as he was about to cut, something wild happened—the bloodstain on the guy’s back vanished into thin air.
“It’s… gone!?”
Everyone stared, blown away. What was this? Was the Specter scared of the knife?
But then the knife guy felt a warm rush down his back, like blood trickling over his skin.
His face twisted, and he yanked his shirt aside to check. Sure enough, the exact same bloodstain had popped up on his back now.
Seeing this, the group backed off fast.
“You… you guys!” The knife guy caught on quick, jaw tightening. He gritted his teeth and charged at the crowd.
No one was dumb here—especially not these high-tier psychics. That bloodstain switch made it crystal clear what this shoulder-tapping Specter’s killing pattern was.
Touch someone, and the blood handprint tags you. If you’re marked and want to live, you’ve got to touch someone else to pass it on.
As it moves, the handprint turns into a bloodstain, spreading bigger and bigger.
No one knew what happened when it got too big, but going by experience, if it covered your whole body, you were probably toast.
It was like hot potato with a live grenade—pass it around, and whoever’s stuck with it when it blows is done.
The knife guy felt the warm bloodstain on his back, eyes wild with panic, chasing the group like a madman. Everyone scattered, except Fang Xiu, who just stood there, cool as ever.
The knife guy ran up to Fang Xiu, hand raised to make contact, but when he met Fang Xiu’s dead-calm stare, he froze.
Fear kicked in, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Finally, he clenched his jaw and bolted past Fang Xiu to chase the others instead.
No way around it—Fang Xiu scared him too much.
Lucky for him, he was in decent shape and actually caught someone.
It was Wen Jinglong!
Wen Jinglong was having a rough day—his leg was messed up from fighting Fang Xiu earlier, slowing him down big time.
SMACK!
A hard slap landed on Wen Jinglong, and the bloodstain jumped over.
The knife guy lit up with crazy relief, didn’t even pause, and took off running.
Wen Jinglong was stunned and pissed, but no time to yell—he started chasing anyone he could.
Too bad his leg was shot; he couldn’t catch a soul.
By now, the bloodstain had spread across his whole upper body, even seeping through his shirt and creeping up his neck.
Facing death, he turned into a cornered animal, his fierce glare locking onto the only guy still standing there—Fang Xiu.