"Boss?" Tang Bo called out nervously. "Where are you going?"

"I have a delivery to make," Ji’an sighed, looking across the foggy street toward the dilapidated inn where the Blood Sovereign had retreated. "Keep the fire stoked. Do not break the circle."

She crossed the cobblestones, the eerie whispers of the village growing louder the further she got from the light. She reached the broken doors of the inn and stepped inside.

It was pitch black, save for the faint red glow of two eyes waiting in the darkness.

Yan Lie sat in the center of the ruined tavern, lounging on a broken table like it was a throne. He watched her approach, the feral, fascinated grin returning to his face.

"You brought my dinner, Grandmother," Yan Lie purred, his deep voice vibrating in the dark.

"Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t want you throwing a tantrum and destroying the village because you were hungry," Ji’an retorted smoothly, walking right up to him.

She didn’t show an ounce of fear. She slammed the hot bowl of stew onto the table right next to his massive hand.

"Eat. It’s spicy," Ji’an said, turning on her heel to leave.

Before she could take a step, a massive, incredibly hot hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist like an iron vise.

Ji’an froze. The grip was inescapable.

Yan Lie pulled her slightly closer, his red eyes burning into hers through the gloom. He didn’t look at the food; instead, he was staring at her neck, her jaw, directly into her eyes.

"You are very brave, fellow disciple Lin," Yan Lie whispered, the scent of ozone and blood heavy in the air. "Or very foolish. I haven’t decided which is more entertaining yet."

He leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear.

"Survive the night, little cook," the Demon Lord murmured, releasing her wrist as quickly as he had grabbed it. "Because if the ghosts of this village don’t claim you... I will."

Ji’an didn’t run. She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him in the dark.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold, edge-lord," Ji’an snapped, turning and walking back out into the fog.

She marched back to the campfire, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

The night had officially begun. The village was whispering, the shadows were moving, and Lin Ji’an was trapped in a pocket dimension with a literal Demon Lord, a sociopathic Assassin, and a horde of unseen horrors.

She sat down by the fire, gripping her spatula.

’I am definitely underpaid for this,’ she thought, staring into the flames.

***

The atmosphere inside the dilapidated village elder’s hut was thick with an oppressive, suffocating dread.

The spicy, hearty aroma of the rhino stew had long since faded, replaced by the unmistakable, metallic tang of ozone and the damp, earthy scent of a freshly dug grave.

Lin Ji’an returned from the ruined tavern, her expression grim.

She stepped over the threshold, carefully avoiding the thick line of crushed garlic and spirit-salt she had laid down, before closing the rotting wooden doors and dropping a heavy wooden beam across them to lock them.

She turned to face her makeshift squad. The Class 9 misfits, the battered Class 7 disciples, Princess Ling’er, and the ever-enigmatic Mo Wuchen were all huddled around the small firepit in the center of the room.

The flames, which had been burning a healthy, vibrant orange just moments ago, were now flickering erratically, casting long, distorted shadows against the peeling walls.

"Listen up," Ji’an said, her voice dropping the casual, teasing tone she usually employed. She drove the tip of her Black Iron Spatula into the floorboards, leaning her weight against it. "The dynamics of this trial have just changed. We are no longer dealing with mindless beasts driven by hunger. We are dealing with tricksters."

Tang Bo swallowed hard, pulling his knees to his chest. "Tricksters? Boss, you mean... spirits?"

"Vengeful ones," Ji’an confirmed, her dark eyes sweeping across the terrified faces of the disciples. "This village is a localized Yin-energy sinkhole. Whatever happened here in the past trapped the souls of the inhabitants. They resent the living. They resent our warmth. And right now, they are waking up."

Princess Ling’er, sitting on her mat with her bandaged ankle elevated, pulled her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. "But... spirits are immune to physical attacks. Our swords won’t be able to do anything to them, and there is no skilled array master present, either."

"Exactly," Ji’an nodded. "They attack the mind and the soul and use illusions. They will mimic the voices of your loved ones. They will show you your deepest regrets and your worst fears to drain your Yang Qi. If they break your mental fortitude, they will possess you."

A collective shudder ran through the room. Liu Liu let out a quiet, terrified whimper, clutching Su Wan’s arm.

Su Wan herself looked unusually pale, her calculating mind struggling to find a way to cope against intangible ghosts.

"Here is the good news," Ji’an continued, forcing a confident, unwavering calm into her voice to anchor them. "Time flows differently in the Lower Realm. Judging by the ambient Qi compression, we only have about four hours until dawn breaks in this dimension. When the sun rises, the Yin energy will scatter, and the three-day tournament timer will expire. We just have to hold out for four hours."

"Four hours," Zhang Min, the Class 7 leader, repeated, gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. "We can do that. We have numbers."

Ji’an looked at him, her heart sinking slightly.

’Numbers are exactly the problem,’ she thought.

If Lin Ji’an were alone, this would be a cakewalk. Her Harmonious Five-Grain Constitution generated an immense amount of pure, burning Yang Qi, the absolute kryptonite to Yin spirits.

She could coat her spatula in blazing culinary fire and smash her way through the horde, or simply use her Shadow Step to outmaneuver them until dawn.