One of them was the female cultivator in white with a whisk in her arms, and she greeted Xie Lian cheerfully. “How do you do, Your Royal Highness?”

“Is it only because these souls of the dead are iron proof of the blood on your hands while you were a human and would become obstacles to your climbing higher in the future?” the Wind Master asked.

“Your General Pei wouldn’t have ever done something like this,” the Wind Master said. “This time, I’m afraid you’ve crossed the line.”

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes were dead, his gaze unfocused as he stared at that row of urns atop the altar before him, and those two shredded fans on the ground. It was a long time before he mumbled, “...I want to die.” He Xuan said coldly, “Dream on.”

“Didn’t you all run into a windstorm in the desert?” Thinking back, Xie Lian could almost taste the mouthfuls of sand. He replied, “Yes?” “I started that,” the Wind Master said.

The Wind Master demanded, “Do you admit that for the past two hundred years, you are the one who lured all those travelers into the Ancient Kingdom of Banyue?”

“Now where did they go? We were careless for one moment and they all disappeared. Do I have to dig them out and kill them one by one?”