As Chen Ping stepped out of the old man’s cave, the dark red light of the mineral shone down through the cracks in the stone steps, casting dappled shadows on his feet.

A chilling aura, carrying a faint whimper, slowly surged up from the depths of the abyss, brushing against his clothes, but unable to dispel the churning doubts in his heart.

He promised the old man of the underworld that he would no longer concern himself with the rift, but that pitch-black rift that had devoured countless ghost cultivators was like a hideous brand, etched firmly into his mind.

The sacrifices of the Ghost Clan over the past ten thousand years, the fall of nearly a thousand cultivators, the “unrecognizable” mysterious aura, and the weariness and bitterness that the Old Man of the Underworld could not hide in his eyes—everything about it was eerie.

Chen Ping did not believe in the so-called “rules of past dynasties,” nor did he believe that the rift appeared out of thin air and could only be suppressed by human sacrifice.

Any balance that requires the sacrifice of life to maintain must be hiding untold conspiracies and forces, and Chen Ping is least afraid to uncover these truths hidden in the darkness.

Back at her lodgings, Jiang Xuelan was sitting cross-legged in the center of the cave, meditating. Ice-blue spiritual energy flowed around her, creating a strange resonance with the yin energy in the cave, making her aura even more refined.