By the end, Lu Youxun’s demeanor had grown exceptionally solemn.

  We were sitting outside a barbecue stall, steam still rising from the skewers on the plastic table between us—an unlikely setting for anything grave. Yet the intensity in his eyes overpowered the casual surroundings, stirring an instinctive urge to treat his invitation with the seriousness it demanded.

  I thought for a moment before replying. “Before I answer, I have one question.”

  “Go ahead,” he nodded.

  “I understand now that Mount Luo is destined to become the ruler of this society. But you also said that both Zhu Shi’s faction and your transcendentalist faction aim to become that ruling power—only the method differs. So why should I choose you over her?” I asked in return.

  “Are you choosing Zhu Shi because you like her?” he asked curiously.

  “She’s my friend. Naturally, I’d prioritize her.” I paused. “And there’s another reason I find your side hard to accept.”

  He looked at me earnestly. “Which is?”

  “Your transcendentalism relies on violence to enslave ordinary people. I won’t say it’s unreasonable, but it feels… low-class to me.”

  “Low-class…” He blinked, momentarily thrown.

  At that moment, I realized this was an opening—a perfect chance to ask the question that mattered most to me.

  “And the methods you’ve used in the past feel just as low-class.”

  Confusion crossed his face. “Have we done something to you?”

  “Not to me—to that girl with the soul-loss syndrome.” I kept my acting steady. “Agent Kong once mentioned that you fabricated charges against her, smeared her name, and even tried to force the public security bureau to make those charges official before anything was proven, right?

  “Even if she might hold the key to curing soul-loss syndrome, your approach was far too ruthless. If you truly believe you represent an unstoppable historical tide, why not conduct yourselves with open dignity? Why stoop to such crooked tactics?”

  He seemed genuinely stumped, his expression complicated. “That…”

  But that wasn’t really what I wanted to ask. I had no interest in moral grandstanding. What came next was my true target.

  “You don’t even need the public security bureau’s help. You already have the means to locate that girl yourselves, don’t you?” I continued. “Take you, for example—you have divination spells. I may not understand the mechanics, but finding a missing person should be child’s play for someone like you. We tracked down that monster earlier thanks to your abilities, after all.

  “Even if you personally couldn’t manage it alone, surely your faction—or other factions—has plenty of skilled diviners. Was it really just you searching for her? No one else could get involved?”

  At that, he let out a long, heavy sigh. “Quite the opposite, actually…”

  “Opposite?” I echoed, puzzled.

  “Far too many people in Mount Luo want to find that girl with soul-loss syndrome—too many to count. They come from my faction, from other factions, and include plenty of the ‘other diviners’ you mentioned.” His answer was completely unexpected.

  My suspicion deepened. “Then… if that’s true, why is she still missing?”

  “Because of competition,” he said. “Too many people want her, but there’s only one of her. Whoever finds her first wins—everyone else goes home empty-handed. Some, realizing they’re too slow to claim her, decide that if they can’t have her, no one can—especially not their rivals. So they interfere.”

  “In other words, the reason diviners can’t locate her…” I began to see the shape of it.

  And he confirmed the jaw-dropping truth. “The hospital where she was treated still has her blood, hair, and other biological samples.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Some tried to use those as mediums to divine her whereabouts. Others used the very same materials as anchors to cast powerful anti-divination wards over her—wherever she might be.

  “The only reason I was able to read the land memory and get her photo last time was because my original target had no direct connection to her. It was a lucky side hit. Now that I’m consciously searching for her, even repeating the same method won’t work anymore.”

  I was stunned.

  Of course—I’d been thinking too simply. I knew Mount Luo had many factions, yet I’d unconsciously treated it as a monolith, assuming they’d all work together to find Alice.

  But that was never the case. No wonder I’d been able to hide Alice at home for so long. No wonder an organization with such vast reach still hadn’t located her—they’d started fighting among themselves behind the scenes before anyone even got close.

  The “turbulent undercurrents” I’d spent so much time worrying about had been exactly that—internal chaos!

  “So the reason you resorted to that preemptive, under-the-table approach was also because…”

  “I won’t make excuses for that,” Lu Youxun sighed. “We weren’t honorable in that instance. When so many competitors are in the race, some people get desperate. Desperation makes people irrational—they start looking for shortcuts, willing to do anything to win.”

  “I see…” For the first time in a long while, the cloud of doubt that had hung over me finally began to lift.

  “I hope you won’t misunderstand us too much. That kind of crooked tactic isn’t our norm.” He added, “And toward you, we will always seek the most peaceful possible relationship.”

  Hearing him steer the conversation back to me, I grew wary. “For example?”

  “You want to keep your true power level hidden from others. I’ll help you keep it hidden.” He said it plainly. “My earlier probing was only to fulfill my duty as Mount Luo’s patrol officer. Now I speak as a representative of transcendentalism, offering goodwill.”

  “What if I ask you to hide it from your own colleagues and superiors as well?” I tested.

  He nodded without hesitation. “I can do that. Just as you say.”

  Really? Was he serious? Or was this some kind of trick? For a moment I couldn’t read his intentions.

  “Once we confirmed you’re a superhuman capable of even elementalization, it became only natural to respect your wishes—at the very least, I won’t do anything to provoke you.” He spoke with complete seriousness. “Also, you said earlier that transcendentalism seeks to enslave ordinary people. That’s another misunderstanding—another stereotype, just like Zhu Shi’s.”

  “What?” I was caught off guard again.

  “What I’m about to say carries no proof on its own. Fortunately, I already gave you the Black Rope Heart-Locking Ring. Feel free to use it on me.” He gestured invitingly.

  “You’re serious?” I asked.

  He made a polite “please” motion.

  This was a perfect chance to test the new tool—and I was curious. Still, using it on someone I knew felt strange. After watching him for a dozen seconds and seeing no sign of bluffing, I took out the wire-woven ring he’d just given me and slipped it onto my right middle finger.

  Instantly, my right hand felt weightless, as though it had vanished. It was still there, but translucent, like a ghost’s limb. I tried picking up a skewer—my fingers passed right through it.

  I looked back at Lu Youxun. His expression remained calm, hands resting on the table, back straight, eyes fixed on me. Hesitating now would only make me look weak. So I reached forward without further pause and plunged my hand into his chest.

  My right hand passed through fabric, skin, and bone until it closed around something warm, wet, tough yet alive—his beating heart.

  The moment I gripped it, understanding flowed into me, as though the ring itself were whispering: from now on, he could neither lie nor remain silent. He had to answer.

  “You said the idea that transcendentalism will enslave ordinary people is Zhu Shi’s misunderstanding. What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It’s not just her misunderstanding—it’s also a misunderstanding held by some transcendentalists themselves. In truth, the world transcendentalism ultimately envisions has no need to enslave mortals at all.”

  Even with his heart in my grasp, Lu Youxun’s face showed no change. He spoke evenly. “Once transcendentalism is realized, just as demon hunters will become cultivators, Mount Luo will no longer be Mount Luo—it will take on a more fitting name. Perhaps ‘Heavenly Court,’ or something else… We will stand above the heavens. Do you understand what that implies?”

  “Not entirely,” I said, meeting his gaze.

  “In ancient myths, even the servants of the gods were not roles mortals could fill.” He continued calmly. “In Journey to the West, those who guard the homes of immortals and buddhas are at least spirit beasts. Even the lowest soldiers in the Heavenly Court are not ordinary humans. Of course, the transcendentalist vision isn’t as grand as the one in that story—but there is simply no need for mortals to serve as our hands and feet, running errands on our behalf.”

  “You’re overselling it. Ordinary humans may lack our physical strength, but their intellect is another matter. They can still wield technological creations and generate immense power.” I challenged him while still holding his heart—yet his steady heartbeat betrayed no trace of deception.

  “That’s precisely the argument of Zhu Shi’s faction. But the gulf between cultivators and mortals is too vast. Even differences in skin color or facial features have sparked contempt and hatred among humans—how much more so when the disparity is this extreme?” His voice deepened. “Transcendentalism feels no concern for the joys and sorrows of mortals. That very indifference is the fairest form of rule over them.

  “Compare that to Zhu Shi’s group, who want harmonious coexistence with mortals. I’ll stake my own heart on this prophecy: when the time comes, the ones who truly enslave mortals and turn them all into servants will not be us—it will be them.

  “Their ideology is the truly dangerous one.”

  His heart continued beating steadily, without the slightest falter.

  Even after I returned home, the sensation lingered in the palm of my hand.