The Might of the Blood Puppet

The next moment, the scarlet palace sleeve stirred without wind. A pale fist wreathed in black qi abruptly enlarged before Zhang Tie's eyes. Yet when it was only an inch from his brow, it suddenly froze, as though it had struck an invisible wall.

The fierce wind from the punch sent the hair before Zhang Tie's forehead flying back, yet he did not even blink. He merely gazed calmly at the exquisite yet deathly corpse puppet before him, the corner of his lips even curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

"Fellow Daoist Yang, let us dispense with such pointless tests." Zhang Tie's voice was not loud, yet it clearly pierced the spreading baleful aura, each word striking the silent underground palace.

"Hehe... an accident, purely an accident. Fellow Daoist Wang, please do not take it to heart. This old man will immediately teach you the method for controlling this corpse puppet, as a small token of my sincerity." Yang Lan's dry laugh echoed directly within Zhang Tie's sea of consciousness, carrying a trace of barely concealed haste.

Immediately afterward, an obscure and intricate incantation steeped in an ancient, bloody aura was imprinted into Zhang Tie's sea of consciousness without reservation.

Zhang Tie did not act at once. He carefully studied that incantation, his divine sense like the finest carving blade as it dissected every turn of every rune and every path along which power flowed.

After confirming that there were no errors, he raised his hand. His ten fingers fluttered like butterflies, forming one profound hand seal after another. As the final incantation was cast—

He forced a drop of crimson essence blood from his fingertip. Rather than falling, the blood droplet hovered in midair, buzzing and trembling slightly before transforming into an extremely thin streak of bloody light.