The man tilted his head back, hands clenched tight.
From the gray mist at the shop’s door, two grotesque ghostly figures emerged — skull faces, dressed in black, wielding rusty blades.
Their clothing was a little blurred, but Li Zhuiyuan had seen traditional Yu family attire before, and what hung on these two ghosts looked very much the same.
Even if an ordinary person’s soul were stripped out, it would still be hard to make a cháng with such murderous qi.
There’s an upper limit — not impossible, but the odds are too low; it’s not worth trying.
So the cháng the man used was probably made from Yu family people.
Tortured to the utmost while alive so their minds turned mad and violent, killed quickly, then their souls extracted and refined in a ritual, finally bound into someone's spirit-thrall formation.
From Li Zhuiyuan’s own encounters with “Yu family people,” he had the impression that the real Yu family hadn’t been wiped out.
They were kept like livestock, treated as a renewable raw material — everything valuable, from flesh to soul.
The ghostly figures attacked ferociously; there were surely others hidden in the surrounding gray mist.
Chen Xiyuan’s wrist flicked.
The jade flute spun and she held it across in front of her, crimson lips close.
No sound.
Yet the gray mist around suddenly thickened.