Xuanming was completely sealed by that pale-golden talisman, frozen upright like a puppet, his face locked in terror and unwillingness. The scene hit the Penglai Immortal Palace like the coldest of cold fronts, instantly sweeping through it and turning the slight heaviness that had arisen after Qingmu’s defeat into a bone-chilling, absolute stillness. The men and women who had been indulging in pleasures had long since collapsed to the ground, their trembling reduced to barely audible shivers; only the pounding of terrified hearts drummed loudly in the silence. The wine pools no longer rippled, the carnal thickets ceased to sway, and even the lascivious immortal music had been cut off — as if the whole palace were mourning the consecutive losses of two “immortals.” The peerless beauty — she called herself Houtu — now had not a shred of flirtation left in her pair of world-toppling eyes. Only a surging storm of shock remained, and a chill she herself refused to admit. Qingmu’s defeat co...