Black Snake had gone nowhere these past few days. He had not gone into the mountains to gather herbs, nor stirred when he heard a nearby opera stage had been set up. He simply kept watch at the foot of the mountain.
Coiled in the grass, he looked back at the hazy mountain towering behind him, an uneasy feeling stirring in his heart.
He lived on that mountain.
The summit worn smooth, the cave where he hibernated, the clear spring where he drank.
Yet now he dared not leave for even a day. There were things on the mountain he could not bear to part with-not gold or silver, not medicinal herbs, but memories he could never forget. He feared those people would come seize the mountain the moment he left and destroy what few reminders he had left.
Black Snake seriously considered whether to assassinate the so-called Holy King.
It was merely a powerful ghost hiding in the Underworld, trading flattery with certain living people and concocting the title of Holy King.
Destroying the Holy King Hall buildings would do no good. He had to kill it outright, but the opportunity had yet to come.
It stayed in the Underworld, where Black Snake could not ambush it.
If it dared come out, the lightning he had stored would be enough to slay it. Black Snake was utterly confident of that. But the powerful ghost was exceedingly cautious. He had never seen it leave the Underworld; those wandering outside were only ordinary yin souls and stray ghosts.
After turning it over in his mind, he could only resign himself. Entering the Underworld in his yin spirit form to carry out an assassination was too dangerous.
Things had not yet reached the point where one of them had to die. There