My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

The blade was also covered in oil, a golden, sticky substance that wouldn't come off no matter how hard I shook it.

She rubbed the knife on the bluestone slab a few times, scraping off some of the oil, but a thin layer of oil remained on the blade.

She frowned.

Lü Yang also stepped back.

He stood next to Ye Qingfeng, panting heavily, his right hand gripping a sword, while the oil on his left arm was still burning, making him grimace.

"Master, this thing is too slippery, I can't cut it in." His voice trembled slightly.

Ye Qingfeng didn't speak, he just looked at the old man.

The old man's body continued to swell, growing larger and larger, until he transformed from a person into a small mountain.

The golden oil flowed down his body, onto the ground, onto the bluestone slabs, onto the stone blocks, and onto the oil drums.

The oil drums tipped over, and the oil inside spilled out, pooling together and flooding half the street.

The noodles glistened, golden and shiny, like a mirror.

The mirror reflected the closed doors, the extinguished lanterns, and the cold moon in the sky.

The old man's body stood in the middle of the sea of ​​oil, like a fountain, constantly gushing out oil.

His mouth was open, and a "hoho" sound came from the black hole, like he was laughing or crying.

Ye Qingfeng watched for a few moments, then suddenly raised his right hand, joined his index and middle fingers together, and gently stroked the blade of Lü Yang's sword.

A golden-red flame flowed from the hilt to the tip of the sword; it wasn't burning, but flowing, like water, down the blade.

Wherever the flames passed, the sticky grease evaporated instantly, making a hissing sound.

The blue light and golden-red firelight on the sword intertwined, turning into a color that Lü Yang had never seen before—a purplish-gold color that was dazzlingly bright.

The sword blade started to get hot, not hot to the touch, but hot from the oil.

The oil that got on the sword was like water falling into boiling oil; it hissed and turned into white smoke.

As Lü Yang gripped the sword, he felt as if the blade had come alive.

It was breathing, one breath at a time, in sync with his heartbeat.

He looked down at the sword, and the firelight on the blade reflected in his eyes, turning them a purplish-gold color.

Shen Zhaoyue walked over and handed the knife to Ye Qingfeng.

Ye Qingfeng also ran his finger along the blade.

Similarly, the golden-red flames flowed from the hilt to the tip of the blade, and the oil film on the blade evaporated instantly, revealing the gleaming blade underneath.

The old man's laughter stopped.

He stared at the two burning weapons, watching the flames dance in the air, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints.

Lu Yang gripped his sword tightly and charged towards the old man.

This time, his sword did not slip away.

The sword tip pierced the old man's stomach, and golden-red flames spread from the wound inward, hissing as they burned.

The old man screamed and his body shrank abruptly, shrinking back from a small hill into a human form.

He clutched his stomach, staring wide-eyed at Lü Yang, then at the sword in his hand.

His face was filled with fear, no longer the fear of looking down on and toying with the prey, but the fear of the prey discovering that it was the prey that was being hunted.

Shen Zhaoyue rushed in from the side and slashed the old man's shoulder with her knife.

The blade cut into the flesh without sliding away.

Flames seeped into the wound, burning half of the old man's body until it was bent out of shape.

He screamed and turned to run, but his legs were stuck in the oil.

The oil was no longer his weapon, but his prison.

He leaked so much oil that it flooded half the street, reaching up to his knees.

He couldn't take another step.

Lu Yang chased after him and pierced his back with a sword.

Shen Zhaoyue also slashed at him from the front, the blade cutting across his throat.

The old man opened his mouth, and a "hoho" sound came from the darkness, as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't say anything.

His body shrank little by little in the flames, from a person to a child, from a child to an infant, from an infant to a dark blob, and finally, with a "crack," it shattered.

Even the oil spilled all over the streets turned into smoke and rose into the sky.

Lu Yang sheathed his sword, leaned against the wall beside him, and gasped for breath.

His arm still hurt. Although the oil had burned off, the scalded skin was still there, red and with a blister.

Shen Zhaoyue walked over, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and handed it to him.

Lu Yang paused for a moment, then took it and wrapped it around his arm.

The handkerchief was white, embroidered with a small plum blossom. He glanced at the plum blossom, then looked up at Shen Zhaoyue.

Shen Zhaoyue had already turned around and was wiping the oil stains off the knife with a cloth.

Her movements were very light and careful, as if she were afraid of damaging the knife.

Lu Yang opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again, only tightening the handkerchief on his arm.

......

The oil seller died.

The eyes hidden behind the door were shining, staring at the hunched figure at the end of the alley as it slowly turned to ashes.

The eyes hidden behind the door all shrank back at the same time.

It wasn't blinking, it was shrinking; the pupils shrank to pinpoints, as if they had seen something extremely terrifying.

Huaiyin Village has never been so quiet.

There were no hawkers' cries, no laughter or cursing, no children's playful noises.

Even the wind stopped, and the lanterns stopped swaying.

The red lanterns hanging under the eaves had their light frozen, like open, unblinking eyes.

Under the old locust tree, several dark figures gathered together again.

This time they moved closer together and spoke in hushed tones, as if they were plotting something or trying to keep each other warm.

"Old Zhao is dead," a voice said.

Just like last time, his tone was still one of lingering fear.

"The oil seller is dead too."

No one responded.

After a long while, a voice whispered, "Old Zhao is no good, he was never going to make it. But the oil seller... he lived for hundreds of years, his oil could burn through the soul. He died too."

silence.

A longer silence.

The leaves rustled, as if speaking for them the unspoken words in their hearts.

A voice drifted down from the treetops, high-pitched and thin, with a hint of impatience.

"Where's the melon seller? Wasn't it supposed to be his turn? Where is he?"

A muffled cough came from under the tree roots, as if something was stuck in the throat with phlegm.

Then a hoarse, exasperated voice boomed out, shaking the locust tree leaves to the ground.

"Aren't you fucking going by yourself?"

The sound immediately subsided and shrank, like a snail trying to retreat into its shell.

"I...I was just asking..."

"What are you asking?" The aged voice became even more irritable.

"If you're so good, why don't you go sell your melons? What are you standing there for?"

"My melon isn't ripe yet..."

"Bullshit! Your melon has been ripe for hundreds of years!"