Chapter Thirty-Eight: Even a Ferocious Tiger Will Not Harm Its Cubs

With the matter settled, Fang Mu followed the constable to his lodgings.

The accommodations were simple, situated within the county yamen itself.

Fang Mu sat at the table, carefully pondering all that had just transpired. The bloodstained leather ball lay tossed upon the table; with so many people present earlier, there were certain things he hadn’t been able to say aloud.

There was a persistent sense of something amiss, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The more he thought, the more confused he felt.

Pouring himself a cup of water, Fang Mu took a small sip. By chance, his gaze fell on the stool beside him, which was blanketed in a layer of dust. He couldn’t help but shake his head.

It was only a temporary lodging, after all—one couldn’t expect much cleanliness.

Retracting his gaze, Fang Mu was about to lie down for a rest when he suddenly paused, his eyes drawn again to the dust on the stool. It was as if a veil had lifted slightly in his mind.

“Clean… clean…”

Staring at the dust, Fang Mu recalled the wooden hut where Old Chen lived.

The hut was spotless, nothing amiss—after all, Aunt Wang often cleaned it.

But then, a question arose: Old Chen’s clothes were also immaculate, as if freshly laundered. Had Aunt Wang changed them for him too?

Men and women kept their distance, especially in the Geyue Kingdom, which held such matters in high regard.

Old Chen was a man; Aunt Wang, a woman. For her to change his clothes—there was something suspicious about that.

The county office paid Aunt Wang to care for Old Chen, but could her care truly be so meticulous?

Of course, perhaps Aunt Wang had enlisted someone else to do the changing, but Fang Mu felt he needed to verify the matter himself—and not in a straightforward fashion.

No sooner thought than acted. After tidying up, Fang Mu quietly slipped out of the yamen.

…

Outside the secluded wooden hut, Fang Mu found a spot to observe quietly.

Everything proceeded as usual; Aunt Wang had already hung up the laundry to dry.

The hut’s door stood open, revealing Aunt Wang bustling about inside, though it was impossible to see exactly what she was doing.

Fang Mu did not alert them, but continued to wait patiently.

Time passed, and dusk gradually fell.

From afar, wisps of cooking smoke curled into the sky—it was mealtime.

The hut, however, was silent, the only oddity being the absence of smoke or cooking.

Earlier that morning, Aunt Wang had said she prepared the meals, and Old Chen had obediently eaten them. Now, the scene contradicted her words.

Fang Mu sensed a whiff of conspiracy and continued to wait with patience.

Inside the hut, a shadow flickered and gradually took form.

When Fang Mu finally made out the figure, his expression was one of grim certainty.

The shadow belonged to none other than Old Chen.

Infusing his legs with internal energy, Fang Mu soundlessly approached the hut, listening intently to the sounds within.

“Why did you say the words ‘hypocrite’?”

It was Aunt Wang’s voice, tinged with accusation.

“My lord’s intention is to blur the lines between truth and falsehood, to leave him utterly confounded,”

Old Chen, who had feigned idiocy all day, now spoke plainly.

“Seeing your son’s ball—didn’t it pain you?”

“Heh… To gain power beyond that of ordinary folk is his blessing. After raising him for so long, he ought to think it was worth it. One died, but I still have another—though the power is somewhat diminished.”

“You truly are cold-blooded. You ate your own son’s head and accept it without the slightest remorse.”

“You’re no different. Wasn’t your daughter the same? Were her eyes tasty? A pity this time—those few who were about to die actually fled to Jinglong County.”

Listening from outside, Fang Mu felt a single word surface in his mind—Deceivers!

Old Chen spoke of killing his own son to gain power, and that son had become a fiend—precisely what the Iron Calculating Immortal had described.

Yet their method of becoming deceivers was especially revolting.

Fang Mu couldn’t help but recall the monk from the ruined temple—he too gained power by consuming humans, ultimately devouring even himself.

The “lord” they spoke of must be the mastermind behind all of this.

Fang Mu listened on, hoping to glean more.

“Big brother…”

A small, clear voice reached him as someone tugged at the hem of his robe.

Glancing down, Fang Mu saw a little girl clutching his sleeve.

But the girl’s eyes seemed strange—tightly shut, never opening.

As Fang Mu’s gaze met hers, the girl opened her eyes.

Vacant, bloody hollows stared back, with large swathes of rot within.

“Want to play a game, big brother?” The little girl held out a length of rope, slowly offering it to Fang Mu.

“Let’s play.”

Fang Mu snatched the rope, wound it around the girl’s neck, and gave a fierce pull.

Scorching internal energy surged through the rope; the girl let out a piercing, miserable scream, and in an instant, turned to ashes.

Turning back, Fang Mu tossed aside the rope and said coolly, “Are you coming out now?”

Having been discovered by the fiends, and after causing such a commotion, Old Chen and Aunt Wang had already noticed Fang Mu.

Old Chen sneered, “I spared your life this morning, yet you return. So, you’re a Mystic after all.”

Fang Mu drew out the bloodstained leather ball. “What’s this—do you want your son’s head back?”

Old Chen’s face contorted with rage.

“Kill my daughter!” Aunt Wang shrieked, “I’ll see you dead!”

A dense, chilling aura surged from Aunt Wang, enveloping her in an instant.

Swathed in that ghostly energy, Aunt Wang’s body began to swell, as two additional arms sprouted from her back.

These hands were deathly pale, marred with vestiges of rot.

Half-human, half-monstrosity—she truly was a deceiver.

Aunt Wang roared furiously, lunging at Fang Mu.

The Ghostly Dagger flickered, striking like a shadow at five of Aunt Wang’s vital points.

A sickening sound rang out as the dagger pierced Aunt Wang’s head, leaving behind a twisted grin.

Sensing danger, Fang Mu withdrew the dagger and retreated.

A gust of wind signaled Aunt Wang’s clawed hands grasping at empty air behind him.

Fang Mu frowned slightly—could she not be killed?

In the center of her brow was a gaping, bloody hole, still scorched by internal energy, yet it had done her no harm.

“Die!”

Aunt Wang charged at him, her four hands—two on her back—reaching out menacingly.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Fang Mu lifted his head, his voice calm and slow.

Aunt Wang’s heart clenched with foreboding, and just as she prepared to withdraw, a flash of cold steel swept before her eyes.

The blade was sheathed.

Crimson lines blossomed across Aunt Wang’s body, and in a heartbeat, they burst open—her form shattering into fist-sized chunks.

A ghastly pale girl tumbled to the ground, utterly motionless.

Fang Mu reached out his hand…

[You have touched a fiend’s corpse, gaining a wisp of true energy.]

Applause echoed as Old Chen strolled forward.

“Not bad,” he said, clapping. “No wonder you dared come alone—you have some skill.”

Fang Mu smiled. “You—choose your own death.”

For the sake of power beyond that of ordinary men, these two had not spared even their closest kin. A tiger, they said, would not eat its cubs—these two were devoid of all humanity.

A guttural, inhuman cry tore from Old Chen’s mouth as a head sprouted from his back.

“Too bad for you—you’ve met me!”

With a furious roar, Old Chen spun around… and fled.