When the Soul-Calming Figurines are fired, I'll recommend you to a immortal sect to cultivate immortal arts.

The young man stood with his hands behind his back, glancing sideways at Shen Le. The hem of his robes lifted slightly as he hovered in the air. Even standing atop a mass grave, he remained spotless and aloof, as though untouched by the mortal world.

Looking closely, one could even see that his feet hovered about an inch above the ground. His feet never touched earth; not a trace of foulness or dust could stain his body.

By comparison, Shen Le—or rather, the Lu Family youth possessed by Shen Le—looked far filthier, far more bedraggled.

Standing amid the mass grave and looking up at the immortal master, Shen Le felt the ground beneath his feet give slightly. With the smallest movement, there came a soft pop. He had no idea whether he had stepped on an intestine or burst a patch of rotten flesh.

Perhaps there was nothing at all. Whether intestines or rotten flesh, they were all things wild dogs and crows would have picked over first.

Even now, crows circled the nearby treetops, cawing hoarsely and fighting each other over a soft, purplish-black tubular object.

A little farther away stood more than a dozen wild dogs of varying sizes. The biggest, if it stood up, could probably plant its paws on Shen Le's shoulders; even the smallest could raise its head and bite down on his knee.

Their tails tucked between their legs, they slunk around the edges and stared at the two people on the hill with blood-red eyes. They did not bark. Perhaps their instincts had already sensed the terror of the person atop the hill.

Yet they did not flee in panic either. They seemed utterly certain that the flesh in this mass grave belonged to them—rightfully belonged to them, and would always belong