Late at night,
in Hammer Daim's Blacksmith Shop, several apprentices lay sprawled in the hay, their day's hard labor making them snore like thunder.
Only Zhang Yang was the exception.
At that moment, he was studying the piece of jade he had acquired earlier. It was the only thing he could study at his current stage, because the Soul Power he had seized earlier had been almost completely exhausted.
Carefully, he covered it with the Soul Force Field. Zhang Yang immediately heard a burst of weeping—the weeping of a woman.
After hesitating briefly, Zhang Yang continued probing into it with his Soul Power. The next second, his expression changed drastically. It was not because he had encountered danger, nor because the jade concealed some terrifying mechanism or formation. Rather, he had sensed hundreds or thousands—no, probably at least tens of thousands—of independent souls.
To put it vividly, Zhang Yang felt as though he had arrived at a gigantic prison. The prison had no entrance or exit, and tens of thousands of people were locked inside. Men and women, old and young—every kind of person was there. They were packed together like sardines, wailing, weeping, grieving, and despairing.
It was practically as though he had arrived in hell.
The sight sent chills down Zhang Yang's spine, because he suddenly thought of the two paper figures hunting the caravan earlier. Were they hunting souls?
And every one of those souls was so complete. What an evil method.
"My lord, these all seem to be living souls."
Zhao Xianyu, who had not shown his face for a long time and was now making his presence known, suddenly spoke.
"What are living souls?"
"Well, there are many explanations, but the most precise one is this: the souls of people whose lifespans were not yet