My Golden Core is a Star, do you call this cultivating?

Chapter 489: The Crisis at Red Cloud Village, The Soundless Sound?

A widow had died—someone from the madhouse.
If no one had reported the incident, the yamen wouldn’t have bothered with it.

After all, investigating meant spending their own resources.

Working at the yamen as a constable was just a job for survival.
No one was eager to take on extra responsibility.

In this chaotic era, countless lives—treated as insignificant as weeds—vanished every day.
How could the yamen possibly keep up with it all?

Unless the deceased were people of status, or unless the “weeds” died en masse, the yamen wouldn’t act.

Lin Qinghe’s sharp gaze landed on a servant. A faint aura of a Weapon Master flickered around him, though it was restrained.

The servant, already hunched over, immediately collapsed to his knees in fear. “This past… these past few days, Sir, yesterday… Qi Yuan of the Qi family was sent to the madhouse…”

“Qi Yuan?” Lin Qinghe frowned. “The Shen family’s live-in son-in-law?”

The news of Qi Yuan becoming the Shen family’s son-in-law had caused a stir in Ninghe County just half a month ago.

Lin Qinghe had met Qi Yuan a few times.

His father had been a skilled artificer, ultimately dying in service.

Even so, the residual prestige of his ancestors had allowed Qi Yuan to secure a minor position at the yamen.

But this man was lazy and undisciplined, quitting after only half a month because he couldn’t bear the hardship.

Over the years, he had squandered his family’s wealth. Becoming the Shen family’s son-in-law had been his saving grace—otherwise, Lin Qinghe reckoned, it was only a matter of time before Qi Yuan’s body was found in some back alley.

“Him?” Lin Qinghe’s expression turned disdainful.

He didn’t for a second believe that Qi Yuan could be involved in what had happened at the madhouse.

Leaving aside the strength of the black-and-white beast, even Zhou Xiao, the madhouse’s director, was more than Qi Yuan could handle.

“I’ve seen that Qi Yuan,” Lin Qinghe said dismissively. “He’s useless. Unless…”

He paused briefly.

“Unless someone from the Shen family took action. But if that were the case, Qi Yuan would already be long gone.

“Or… unless the Shen family spent a fortune hiring a skilled alchemist to create a powerful elixir to improve his physical foundation.”

Standing nearby, Constable Zhou Hu nodded. He had worked under Lin Qinghe for years and was used to his methods.

“True,” Zhou Hu agreed. “I’ve heard rumors about Qi Yuan. He has no potential for this. If anything, he might be cannon fodder at best.”

Lin Qinghe gave a faint nod. Zhou Hu’s loyalty and quick thinking were why he kept him close.

After a moment’s thought, Lin Qinghe spoke in a low voice, “Zhou Hu, in a few days, I’ll be transferred to the provincial capital. Would you like to come with me?”

The other constables overheard this and immediately turned green with envy.

Lin Qinghe, unlike the rest of them, came from a prominent family. His time in Ninghe County was little more than a resume-building exercise. A move to the provincial capital was inevitable for someone of his background.

Zhou Hu was taken aback, a vague sense of foreboding creeping into his mind.

“Sir, I’d like to think about it for a bit,” Zhou Hu replied hesitantly.

About half an hour later, the yamen’s forces withdrew from the madhouse.

As Zhou Hu followed Lin Qinghe, his face was tinged with worry.

“Sir, if you’re willing to bring me to the provincial capital, I’ll be forever in your debt.

“But typically, a constable’s term lasts three years at minimum. Why leave now? Could it be related to Red Cloud Village?”

Lin Qinghe had been stationed in Ninghe County for two and a half years. By all rights, he had only six months left before his promotion. Leaving prematurely was certainly unusual.

And recently, villagers had been going missing in Red Cloud Village—a case Lin Qinghe had been investigating personally.

Zhou Hu suspected a connection.

“You’re correct,” Lin Qinghe admitted. “It’s about Red Cloud Village.”

From his tone, it was clear he didn’t care if anyone overheard.

In this world, noble families didn’t need to hide their actions.

“For the past month, the disappearances in Red Cloud Village have been caused by a specter,” Lin Qinghe said gravely.

“This isn’t just any specter—it’s a Yellow-Rank specter, and not a weak one at that.”

At this, Zhou Hu’s expression turned grim.

In this world, specters were classified into six ranks: Mortal, Yellow, Profound, Earth, Heaven, and Divine.

Mortal-ranked specters were the weakest. Some merely sapped a man’s vitality and caused minor injuries to a dozen victims at most.

Yellow-ranked specters, however, were an entirely different matter.

A single Yellow-ranked specter could wreak havoc on a region, leading to the deaths of hundreds.

County-level forces struggled to deal with such threats.

“A Yellow-ranked specter?” Zhou Hu’s face turned pale. “We need to evacuate the entire village!”

“That’s not possible,” Lin Qinghe replied, his voice heavy with resignation. “The specter is tied to an ancient well that connects to an underground river beneath the village. Nearly every villager has consumed water from that well. They’re all tainted.

“They’re as good as dead.”

“What’s more,” he continued, “the villagers are ceramists. Red Cloud porcelain is a critical tribute for Mo Shan Nation, and the final batch will be completed in half a month.

“They can’t leave.”

Zhou Hu stepped carefully through the muddy streets. The recent rain had turned the soil into a thick, red paste.

His boots stuck with every step, the weight of his task bearing down on him.

“Over here, sir.”

A young boy named Li Xiaodan waved him over, his patched clothing flapping as he ran.

The boy’s face was dark from the kiln’s soot.

Zhou Hu entered the humble, red-clay dwelling. Inside, an old man lay motionless on the floor.

“He vomited water last night,” the boy explained softly, “then… he passed.”

Zhou Hu’s face darkened. He stayed in the hut for some time, examining the scene before stepping back out.

As he emerged, Xiaodan greeted him with a bowl of water.

“Sir, please have some water,” the boy offered.

“Did this come from the ancient well?” Zhou Hu asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t drink from it anymore,” Zhou Hu warned. “It’s not clean.”

The boy nodded hesitantly but said nothing. He knew there was no other water source for the village.

Inside Xiaodan’s house, Zhou Hu’s gaze landed on an odd figurine atop a small altar.

“What’s that?” he asked. “You’re worshiping a god?”

“This… a merchant sold it to me,” the boy stammered. “He said it was the likeness of Shenlin—the strongest divine weapon of the Central Plains.

“With all the deaths lately, I bought it in hopes it could protect me and my sister.”

Zhou Hu shook his head. He doubted its authenticity. Genuine relics imbued with power were far beyond the means of a poor boy like Xiaodan.

But before he could speak, a sharp voice interrupted him.

“Shenlin? That was Bai Cang Nation’s national treasure.”

A cold-eyed woman dressed in the robes of a Taoist priestess strode into the room. Her presence was commanding, her tone disdainful.

“It was destroyed a century ago,” she continued. “Even if this figurine is genuine, it’s useless. The weapon has perished. What good is its image?”

Her frosty gaze softened momentarily as she turned to Xiaodan.

“Child, sell me this figurine for 500 taels of silver. Do we have a deal?”

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