Chapter 158: My Name is Kinson Wexford
Lordi turned a deaf ear at the voice’s query, his every instinct cell screaming for escape. He poured flood of spirit energy into his Blood Spectre Footwork Art, his form blurring as he surged forward with desperate speed.
But no sooner had he moved than an overwhelming oppressive force locked onto him, like an abyss predator’s gaze pinning its mortal prey. A tidal wave of dread suddenly crashed through his heart, his skin prickling in numb as every hair stood on end, his body spasm warning him of imminent peril. The air itself seemed to tighten, as if an unseen presence above the entire mountain range had tethered his soul.
Lordi exchanged a glance with Ruru Rosa, this Senior Sister’s face pale with the same unspoken fear. Halting his steps, Lordi steadied his breath and spoke, his voice low but respectfully. "With the utmost reverence, this humble junior greets Your Honor. My name is Kinson Wexford, an Outer Sect disciple of the Abyss Pit Sect. If I may be so bold as to inquire, might Your Honor also be a revered senior legend of our most sacred holy sect?"
The voice hovering in the air paused, as if appraising him. "Kinson Wexford..."
It mused, its tone carrying a faint sneer. "Your cultivation is feeble, a mere flicker in the vast darkness of true power. Yet... I sense the embers of potential within you—unyielding Dao resolve, an unbroken Dao will. For this, I grant you the rare privilege to stand in my presence."
As the words faded, a sudden gale howled through the stone well courtyard, stirring the oppressive air.
From the depths of the Ancient Stone Well came a sound—first a soft trickle, like a stream over river bed, then a roaring surge, as if the ocean itself churned within.
The noise crescendoed, a deafening rush toward the stone well’s mouth.
Lordi braced himself, expecting a flooding deluge, but what emerged was no water. Instead, a river of ink-black hair cascaded from the stone well’s edge, spilling onto the dirt floor in sinuous coils, as though alive. Each strand slithered with a mind of its own, undulating like vipers poised to strike, their surfaces gleaming with a sickly, spectral luster.
Between the coiling tresses, a pair of ashen eyes burned with a malice so thick it choked the air. Pupils like cracked ice—pale, fractured, and depthless—fixed upon Lordi with unnatural hunger. There was no life in that gaze, only the seething rancor of the wronged dead, a venom that seeped into the marrow. The longer he stared, the more the eyes seemed to swell, their hollow pallor swallowing the light, the stone courtyard, even the breath in his lungs. Lordi’s brow furrowed, his breath hitching as an invisible frost slithered up his spine—a slow, deliberate invasion. The air itself grew heavy, pressing against his ribs like the weight of a tombstone. His pulse, once steady, now hammered in erratic thrums, each beat a frantic echo of run, run, RUN. Yet his limbs refused to obey, locked in place by the sheer wrongness of those ashen eyes.