Chapter 105: Pay the Toll or The Path is Closed!

Chapter 105 - Pay the Toll or The Path is Closed! At first glance, they appeared to be mere decorations—two balloon-like shapes billowing lazily in the wind among the tattered ribbons. But upon closer inspection, a grim truth revealed itself. They were not balloons. They were not decorations. They were human skins—emptied of flesh and bone, hollowed out like grotesque sacks, tied to tattered festival ribbons, they swayed alongside the faded streamers, swaying from the flagpoles beside the gatehouse. The remnants of holy sect uniform robes still clung to them, fluttering like funeral shrouds. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "They're wearing our holy sect's Outer Sect NorthStone peak's uniform robes," one cultivator whispered. "Must be from the earlier squad, snared by the estate's defensive curse Fulu," another muttered. "Poor souls," Shirley Quinn sighed, the words drawled out like a cat stretching in sunlight, as she examined her delicate painted nails—each one a perfect, venomous crescent. "Nothing left but... flapping skin." A delicate wrinkle of her nose, as if offended by the mess rather than the loss. "Well... since they were fellow sect comrades of our most holy order..." She flicked a glance toward the remains, her lips curving in a smile that never reached her eyes. "I suppose we ought to give them a proper send-off. For decency's sake." With a casual flick of her feather fan, she cast a spell, sending an emerald flame arcing toward the macabre remnants— But as the flames neared, the skins moved. Next sudden, a swarm of dark red insects—venomous and swift—erupted from the human skins, razor-sharp and hurtling toward the cultivators with deadly intent. Yet before these Gworms could strike— The massive black spider at Shirley Quinn's waist reared, its eight eyes glinting. Its abdomen pulsed, and threads of webbing lashed out, ensnaring each Gworm mid-air with terrifying precision. The strands retracted, dragging the writhing insects into the spider's maw one by one, where it chewed slowly, mandibles grinding audibly. Shirley yawned, the sound a slow stretch of lips and languor. Her tongue flicked over her crimson-lipstick mouth—a panther grooming blood from its jaws after a meager kill. "Disappointing," she murmured, her voice thick with disdain. "I expected a real trap. Something... clever. Not these pathetic low-grade Gworms." She nudged one twitching insect corpse with the toe of her high heel, her lip curling. "Honestly, it's insulting." A male cultivator from her Suicide Squad grinned, quick with flattery. "Only Senior Sister's peerless skill could neutralize such a deadly trap. Had it been us alone, we'd be scrambling." "Enough." Donovan Valdez's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. His scarred face was impassive. "We're wasting time here. Since we've already entered. Stick to the plan. Dominator Squad—move out." "Dear fellow sect comrades, everything is possible. See you again at the Hanz Estate Treasury House." With a curt nod, the Mister First Dominator led his squad through the gatehouse, heading for the Hanz Clan Chief's Royal Study Library. The remaining squads exchanged glances—then scattered like shadows, each stepping deeper into the Hanz Estate's waiting silence. Garrick Blackthorn held up a fist, halting the Thorn Squad just past the gatehouse, his eyes sharp with calculation. He lingered, scanning the dispersing squads—Thirst Bull, Suicide, and Dominator—until they were nearly out of sight. Only then did he signal his team forward with a curt, "Move." But his path veered deliberately, trailing behind Donovan Valdez's Dominator Squad toward the royal study library, not the ancestral shrine assigned to his Thorn Squad. They hadn't gone far when they crossed into a shadowed courtyard. Scattered across the ground were shattered parts of several Battle Dao Puppets, their jagged edges glinting faintly in the dim light. Amid the debris stood a pale, short-haired male cultivator in his early thirties, his white sect unifrom robes pristine, a web of tattoos visible on his neck and hands. He sheathed his sword with slow, deliberate calm, his gaze locking onto Garrick. "What a surprise, Captain Blackthorn," he said, his voice laced with a cold edge like a whetted blade. "Each squad drew their own region to scour. Why dog our steps? What's your game?" "Oh, greetings fellow comrade! We're en route to the Hanz Clan's Ancestral Shrine. Pure coincidence." Garrick replied smoothly, his tone calm. The tattooed cultivator's sneer was icy. "Oh yeah? Coincidence? Or you're leeching off us to clear your path?" He tapped the Dominator Squad's badge on his sleeve. "Fine, fine. The First Dominator's words ring true. 'Everything is possible'. You don't get anything for free in this world, do you? Just like our holy sect motto goes, 'No $tones, No Go.' So here's my question again. What's your offer? What's your game, Captain Blackthorn?" Garrick's face softened, a warm, almost jovial smile spreading. He gently slammed a hand on his chest, his voice rich with camaraderie. "Come on, bro—must we dwell on such trifles? We're sect comrades, bound by loyalty and shared purpose. Wouldn't you agree?" His gaze flickered toward everyone on spot, seeking affirmation before turning back with an earnest chuckle. "I bet Senior Brother Valdez, the mighty First Dominator, also agree my words. Dear Junior Brother, why let something so small fray the ties that unite us?" Garrick waved a hand dismissively, his tone brimming with earnest conviction. "Bro, you're sharp as a blade and twice as clever. Surely you see it too?" He leaned in slightly, eyes alight with camaraderie. "The real prize isn't in squabbling—it's the treasury house, waiting just ahead! That's where our focus should be, don't you agree? So let's not waste another breath. Every moment we delay is a $tone lost. Let's move—before someone else beats us to it!" The tattooed cultivator's eyes burned with fury. For a moment, he stood frozen—then his rage erupted in a harsh, mocking laugh. "Oh, Captain Blackthorn!" he spat, voice dripping with venom. "So you sent we Dominator Squad to bleed for you—to clear your path like free mercenaries—while you slink behind to steal the spoils?!" His fists clenched, spirit energy crackling around him. "You think our lives are so cheap? That we'd fight your battles just to watch you claim the treasure?!" "That's so cruel. Your words cut deep," Garrick Blackthorn pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded, his smile unwavering as he gestured for Thorn Squad members to advance. "Look, brother. We're covering your rear, guarding Dominator Squad's flank. And rest assured, we'll show proper gratitude to Senior Brother Valdez when we meet." Seeing the cultivator's anger flared, the Thorn Squad captain's grin widened, his tone earnest. "Patience is noble, Junior Brother. The treasury house's location is still a mystery. Why bicker over trifles when we're all sect comrades?" The tattooed cultivator's eyes blazed with fury, his expression icing over as he unsheathed his long sword with a sharp rasp. "Words don't cut it," he snarled. "No $tone, no go. Pay the toll, or this path is closed!" Garrick Blackthorn's face twisted in mock horror, his voice dripping with theatrical dismay. "Oh, Mother of the Abyss! Are you robbing us, Mr. Thug? 'Your money or your life'? Alas, I've no $tone in my pocket... but I do have a life to offer." Before the tattooed cultivator could lunge, a bone-chilling presence gripped the air. A rotten, black zombie hand, materialized midair, its gnarled fingers clamping around his throat. With eerie strength, it hoisted him off the ground, his feet dangling helplessly. Garrick's face settled into calm authority, his tone almost bored as he recited. "Threatening and robbing sect comrades violates the Laws of the Abyss Pit Sect: deterring or coercing through violence or intimidation. Penalties include—" "For menial handyman disciples, 100 to 300 D$t fine." "For outer sect disciples, 1,000 to 3,000 D$t fine... " He sighed then chuckled, shaking his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Look at this—I'm so terrified by this criminal's violent threat that I unconsciously acted in self-defense. Surely all of you will testify to my innocence?" The zombie's grip was deathly cold, sapping the cultivator's strength. He thrashed with all his might, but his movements slowed to a sluggish crawl, his limbs numbed by the unnatural cold. His legs kicked feebly, his voice a strangled stammer. "The... Dominator Squad... won't... forgive..." "Captain... Donovan... will... make you... pay..." Garrick Blackthorn leaned in, smiling. "Oh, yeah. Thank you for the reminder. I'll pay him a visit and show him my gratitude." Just as the tattooed cultivator's life seemed forfeit, the rotten zombie hand vanished without a trace. Plop. The man collapsed to the courtyard's stone floor, gasping and coughing, his tattooed neck bruised. His eyes blazed with hatred, locked on Garrick Blackthorn, who stood calmly as Lordi Payne, the last of Thorn Squad, passed through the courtyard's floral gate. Garrick Blackthorn tilted his head, his lips curled into a mocking smile. "'Your money or your life?' Well... I've paid you in life. A generous transaction, no?" The tattooed cultivator coughed and rasped, his fingers clawing at the dirt. Sensing the venomous glare, Garrick widened his eyes in mock innocence. "Dear Junior Brother, surely you know I was only playing thug-and-victim with you? Come on, hey! Just a game—don't take it personally, alright?" With a casual flick of his sleeve, he turned, his crimson cloak blending into the estate's shadowy gloom as the entire Thorn Squad vanished beyond the gate. The tattooed cultivator's gaze burned with hated, his fingers tracing the throbbing bruise on his throat. "Zombie Morphing Art," he hissed, voice thick with malice. "Garrick Blackthorn, you'll pay for this." Gripping his long sword, he staggered to his feet, intent on finding Donovan Valdez to report the humiliation. But as he took a step, a cold, clammy hand clamped onto his shoulder from behind. Startled, he whipped around, his expression shifting from fury to shock. "Senior Brother... Soren Langley?!" —— After passing through blood-streaked gazebos, mountain observation decks, and slipping past two more defensive citywall gatehouses with silent precision, Garrick Blackthorn raised a fist, halting Thorn Squad at a misty crossroad on the hill's waist. The Hanz Clan Estate sprawled vast, its twin towering peaks and lesser ridges dominating the horizon. The squad had trekked for dozens of minutes through damp, chilly clouds, the air heavy with foreboding. Ahead, the twin peaks loomed, their silhouette echoing the Hanz Clan symbol Lordi Payne had glimpsed etched on the plaques of the first three gatehouses. "We're close enough," Garrick said, his voice low, eyes scanning the shadowed cluster of buildings atop the peaks. "Beyond that fourth gatehouse lies the front range of the Twin Peak Hill, where Hanz Stronghold and the Clan Chief's Royal Study Library locates. If we push further, we risk running into other battle squads. Let's take the side path to the rear mountain of the hill instead." Thorn Squad nodded, falling into step behind him. Soon, a narrow, two-man-wide shadow cut stretched before them, descending into a seemingly endless mountain valley. Blue brick stairs, spliced with gnarled wood trunks, were flanked by towering citywalls on one side and a sheer cliff face on the other. At regular intervals, man-high gray clay water pots stood like silent sentinels, their surfaces crawling with dense Fulu characters. From within came a shrill, grating screech—like nails clawing at wood, setting teeth on edge. Alena Newman's voice cut through the silence, shock with disbelief. "Has the Hanz Clan lost their mind? Sealing resentment girls here in these pots? If a careless servant cracked one, a single resentment girl could slaughter anyone below the Third Layer of Qi Refinement Stage, leaving bodies and blood flow like a river." Carl Murphy's brow furrowed, his tone speculative. "Maybe the Hanz Clan's downfall came from mishandling these ghost things?" "Doesn't matter," Garrick said flatly, his voice devoid of curiosity. "Solving the mystery of their doom is irrelevant. Finding the treasury house is our only goal." He approached a nearby clay pot, his movements deliberate, and pried open its lid. A translucent figure erupted—a young woman with wild hair and a face twisted in hate. The moment she emerged, a banshee's wail tore through the air, shrill and piercing, a psychic assault that could shatter the minds of low-layer cultivators, leaving them comatose for days without a cure. But Thorn Squad stood unfazed. Even Lordi Payne, the weakest at Seventh Layer Qi Refinement, felt only mild irritation at the hoarse, grating cry. Every member, far surpassing the Third Layer threshold, remained untouched, their minds and bodies unscathed. To them, the wail was merely grating—an annoyance, not a threat. Garrick Blackthorn raised a hand, his spirit energy coiling like invisible chains to trap the resentment girl before him. He studied her translucent form, her twisted face radiating malice, and nodded approvingly. "The Hanz Clan's legacy shines through," he said, voice tinged with admiration. "Once a glorious lineage of formidable cultivators... and now, their craftsmanship endures even in death. Raised in pure negative energy, this ghost pulses with pristine Yin aura—a high-grade, mid-tier resentment girl, brimming with premium hatred and excellent malice. Fine quality." With a flick of his wrist, he invoked the Zombie Morphing Art. A tall rotten, black zombie materialized, its icy fingers seizing the resentment girl and swallowing her body in one grotesque gulp. Garrick's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "I'll take half these resentment girls," he told Thorn Squad. "Store the rest. We'll divide them after we're done here and leave. Move fast—this is a mere bonus, not our main goal. Don't dawdle." No further urging was needed. Carl Murphy and the others sprang into action, cracking open clay pots with deft precision, capturing the shrieking resentment girls within. Lordi Payne, hesitant but eager not to miss out, mimicked their gestures. He pried open a clay pot, reaching for the translucent ghost inside, but his hand passed through her form like mist, grasping nothing. Frustration surged, his Seventh Layer cultivation suddenly feeling inadequate. Just as he feared missing the reward, the heavy, clouded sky above flashed with faint dark purple light, pulsing several times as if a brilliant flare had shot from the mountain estate's twin peaks. The Thorn Squad froze, heads snapping upward in shock. Two heartbeats later, low, ominous thunder rumbled across the estate, rolling from the innermost gatehouse atop the distant twin hills, the sound heavy with foreboding.