The Invincible Female Ghost Is A Bit Of A Hopeless Romantic Chapter 249: Now It's Your Turn to Spit One Out

The Ritual Spirit pressed down, and it felt like the entire stone path sank half an inch.

It wasn't the earth cracking, nor a mountain collapsing—it was a darker, heavier, more bone-chilling "seat sinking."

A living person standing here could barely hold on with a trace of yang qi.

But when it forced the entire altar seat's montum down completely, everyone's feet felt like they had suddenly stepped into soone else's funeral seat, their breath turning rough and labored.

Lu Yuan was the first to give way.

One hand held his sword horizontally, the other pressed against his right shoulder, his entire body nearly unable to straighten under that invisible yin pressure.

His ritual sword was still there, but the golden patterns on its spine had dimd to gray, like a fla line about to go out.

Every ti he tried to muster his energy, the altar eye at the Ritual Spirit's forehead would shift slightly, and the blackness would sink a layer deeper, like iron nails driving into the energy points around his body.

"It's pressing the positions of our three hun and seven po."

Lin Zhaoxuan gritted his teeth, his voice already weak.

"It's not just pressing us—it's pressing our spirit gates... It wants to hamr all our spirit gates into the ground."

As he spoke, his legs gave way, and the Thunderclap Token clanged as it hit the stone.

The thunder patterns on the token's face still held a faint trace of cyan-white, but after the fall, that light seed to be swallowed by sothing, instantly dimming by half.

Lin Zhaoxuan's chest tightened, a sweetness rising in his throat. He fell to one knee on the ground, his arm trembling violently, his knuckles turning white.

Song Qinghe was even worse off.

The sealing plate in her arms had already developed fine cracks. Now, under the pressure of yin energy, the plate's center lurched sharply. The Yin-Yang Fish on its surface ca alive, colliding left and right, emitting a thin, trembling whine.

She held it tightly with both hands, but the plate only grew heavier, as cold as holding a coffin stone, crushing her wrists, shoulders, and chest with pain.

"The plate... the plate is about to overturn..."

Her voice trembled, her face bloodlessly pale.

Zhou Heng gritted his teeth and tried to help, but his long sword was still nailed into a stone crevice. The seat shadow had already coiled around the blade, like a black hand gripping the hilt.

The mont he exerted force, his wrist went numb from the backlash. His entire arm felt boneless, unable to lift at all.

"Can't pull it out."

He cursed under his breath, cold sweat rolling down his forehead.

"This thing has welded my sword and the earth's energy together."

Xu Erxiao and Wang Cheng'an had already retreated to the edge of the stone path. Behind them was the churning black soil and the paper hands climbing upward.

All color had drained from their faces. Xu Erxiao's short blade trembled like a withered leaf in the wind. Wang Cheng'an gritted his teeth so hard his palms were slick with sweat, struggling just to stay standing.

The Ritual Spirit stood at the center of the seat-eye, like a mobile yin altar.

It didn't rush to strike again. Instead, it tilted its head slightly, watching them slowly collapse.

Its eye sockets had no real eyes, yet they were colder than real eyes, as if they could see through, pull out, and strip away the last bit of vitality from a person.

"They can't hold on much longer."

It spoke slowly.

"Holding out any longer will only let watch a little more."

Lu Yuan raised his eyes. His gaze was cold, like frost forming in a stone crevice.

He knew this couldn't go on.

The Ritual Spirit wasn't just using force now—it was "sitting in the seat." Once it fully compacted the entire altar's montum, it wouldn't just suppress them—it would claim their lives.

By then, not only the few of them, but even this mountain path would be dragged into the yin altar, becoming a true death ground.

But right now, there was no way out.

To the left was the overturned-seat lamp; to the right, shadows sealed by paper banners; ahead was the Ritual Spirit's seat-eye; behind them, the black soil slope they had been forced back from.

Nowhere to retreat, nowhere to advance.

Lu Yuan suddenly looked down at the ritual sword in his hand.

The sword was still there, but its sword energy was nearly gone.

After being devoured several tis by the Ritual Spirit, the golden patterns on the blade flickered unsteadily, like a lamp about to be blown out.

His throat tightened. He knew that if he pushed for one more round, the ritual sword might not hold up.

But if he didn't push, they could only wait for death.

"Lu Yuan..."

Song Qinghe's voice was hoarse, squeezed out from her throat.

"The sealing plate can't hold out anymore."

Before she could finish, the Ritual Spirit suddenly raised its hand and swept.

A sheet of gray-white yin fla burst from the paper banners, like an unburnable rag, flying straight toward Song Qinghe's face.

Song Qinghe instinctively raised the plate to block it, but the mont the yin fla hit the plate's surface, it felt like countless fine needles stabbed into her wrist at once.

She scread, the sealing plate slipping half an inch from her hands. Her entire body was knocked back three steps, her back slamming hard against the stone wall.

"Junior sister!"

Lin Zhaoxuan's eyes were nearly split. He tried to rush forward but was stopped by black qi coiling around his calves.

The black qi moved like living ropes, climbing upward along his pant legs, cold as ice, sticky as oil.

Lin Zhaoxuan pulled at it desperately, only to be dragged into a stumble, falling to his knees.

He tried to activate the token again, but the altar eye on the Ritual Spirit's forehead suddenly contracted.

"Thump."

The sound wasn't loud, but it felt like it struck directly into Lin Zhaoxuan's chest.

His entire body stiffened instantly, and then he spat out a mouthful of blood. The Thunderclap Token slipped from his hand and crashed heavily onto the stone.

Another crack spread across the token's face. The thunder intent was completely thrown into chaos.

"That bit of thunder of yours isn't even enough to light the road."

The Ritual Spirit said coldly.

As it spoke, it hooked its finger.

The black soil beneath the ground suddenly split open into two thin cracks. Several paper hands extended from the cracks silently, like grabbing a piece of living flesh, climbing onto the ankles of Lin Zhaoxuan and Zhou Heng.

The mont the paper hands wrapped around them, both felt their legs beco a hundred tis heavier, as if they were being dragged into a coffin's bottom.

Zhou Heng roared in fury. Unable to pull out his sword, he instead drew the short blade from his waist and slashed hard at the paper hands.

The blade fell, only cutting off a corner of the paper.

The paper hands didn't scatter; instead, they tightened, like a layer of cold, wet burial shroud.

Zhou Heng felt a chill on his calf. Looking down, black qi was climbing up the edge of his cloth shoes, sending chills up his scalp.

"It's using our feet to set the positions."

He gritted his teeth, his voice heavy.

"It wants us unable to retreat even one step."

Lu Yuan's heart sank.

That was right.

The Ritual Spirit wasn't just attacking. Every step they retreated, it occupied another inch of earth's energy. Every struggle only paved the way for it.

Now, it had completely claid the middle section of the stone path as its own seat field. If it pressed further, they would be driven into the darkest stretch alive.

Just then, Lu Yuan suddenly felt sothing was wrong.

It wasn't that the pressure outside was heavier—it was that his ritual sword had suddenly beco lighter for a mont.

That lightness wasn't from letting go, but from the remaining true intent within the sword being slowly drained away by sothing.

He looked down sharply, his heart shaken violently.

The golden patterns on the sword's spine had been driven by the Ritual Spirit's yin energy into a thin black mark, which was crawling along the blade like a living worm.

With every inch it climbed, the sword energy weakened by one degree.

"It's devouring the sword's intent!"

Lu Yuan shouted.

But the mont he said it, the Ritual Spirit seed to hear him. The altar eye on its forehead turned gently, and it let out a very, very low laugh.

"Only now you realize?"

"Too late."

The next mont, it stepped forward.

When that foot landed, all the shadows on the entire stone path contracted sharply, as if twisted into a single thread by an invisible hand.

Lu Yuan felt as if sothing had squeezed his chest hard from the inside. His breath cut off for half a beat, his right knee buckled, nearly sending him to the ground.

Zhou Heng, Lin Zhaoxuan, and Song Qinghe all let out muffled groans at the sa ti, clearly shaken by this blow.

The Ritual Spirit gave them no ti to breathe. It slowly raised both arms, and the seat shadow beneath its sleeves fell like a waterfall.

The seat shadow didn't just cover—it "pressed down."

Like a yin mountain descending from above, the air on the entire stone path grew thick and sticky. Spots danced before their eyes, and only a low, dull hum filled their ears.

Lu Yuan forced his head up and saw that all the white faces on the paper banners lining both sides of the stone path had turned toward them.

The corners of their mouths split open bit by bit, as if waiting to see how they would be pressed into the seat.

"Into the seat."

The Ritual Spirit spat out those two words again.

This ti, there was no trace of amusent in its voice—only complete coldness and ruthlessness.

Its right hand pressed down lightly.

The black soil beneath their feet instantly ca alive, churning upward.

The white salt, withered grass, broken stones, and bloodstains that had been exposed were all rolled inward. The stone path's surface actually sank by a finger's width.

Lu Yuan's foot stepped into empty air. His entire body lurched forward violently, nearly dropping his ritual sword.

If he hadn't desperately gripped the hilt with his right hand, even that last weapon might have been taken from him.

"Lu Yuan!"

Song Qinghe's voice had changed completely.

"We can't retreat!"

Lu Yuan gritted his teeth, bloodshot eyes staring ahead.

Of course he knew they couldn't retreat.

Every direction was filled with paper shadows. Above them was the yin seat. Below them was the churning black soil. And the Ritual Spirit stood at the very center of the altar eye, as if turning the entire stone path into its own lungs.

They weren't fighting it now—they were being slowly ground to pieces by it.

Lin Zhaoxuan propped himself up with half his body, raised his head, and stared fixedly at the Ritual Spirit, his voice hoarse.

"Lu Yuan... it's trying to crush us to death alive in this altar."

Lu Yuan didn't answer.

He just slowly lifted his head and looked at that nearly eyeless face.

Then, he clearly saw sothing moving slowly and writhing deep within the bloody crack on the Ritual Spirit's forehead.

Like a lump of black flesh roasted by sacrificial fire, or like a living well, slowly opening outward.

It was about to truly devour them.

And they had almost no strength left to resist.

When Lu Yuan was about to be forced to his knees into the black soil by that yin seat, he suddenly lifted his head.

His face was frighteningly pale. Blood still hung from the corner of his mouth. His right arm was numb, barely able to lift.

But just before the Ritual Spirit's pitch-black altar eye was about to press down completely, his gaze suddenly lit up, as if sothing had ignited it.

It wasn't the madness of a dead end.

It was a coldness buried deep in his bones.

"You want to devour my ritual sword?"

Lu Yuan said in a low voice, hoarse like sandpaper scraping across wood.

"Then let show you what a true artifact is."

His left hand suddenly reached into his sleeve.

The next mont, a cold light seed to materialize from his palm, forcing the surrounding black qi back by half an inch.

It was a sword.

Not an ordinary long sword, nor a wooden ritual tool displayed in a Taoist temple—but a sword that had truly seen blood, thunder, and age.

The sword was three feet and seven inches long, narrow and straight, with seven dark, star-like rivets embedded in its spine.

The sword guard was ancient and simple, while the scabbard was old black sharkskin wrapped in copper edges. Faint Bagua patterns, long worn smooth by ti, were carved at the scabbard's mouth.

Before the sword was even drawn, an extrely cold iron intent seeped out.

Like old ice buried beneath a snow crust in deep winter, or like the relentless, killing aura of the wilderness beyond the Great Wall.

The mont this sword appeared, even the Ritual Spirit paused slightly.

Lin Zhaoxuan looked up in a daze, his lips pale.

"This... this isn't an ordinary ritual tool."

Zhou Heng, ignoring the pain in his chest, stared intently at the sword.

"Did you pull out your family heirloom?"

Lu Yuan didn't answer. He just pressed his thumb against the sword guard.

"Zheng—"

The sword was drawn three inches, and the cold light led the way.

That light wasn't bright—it was cold, cold like moonlight falling on a frozen river. It instantly turned the surrounding seat shadows a pale white.

The seven rivet stars on the sword's body lit up one by one in the black qi, as if they had been sleeping for years and were only truly waking tonight.

"This sword is called—"

Lu Yuan said, word by word, lifting his eyes to the Ritual Spirit, with no trace of retreat left in his gaze.

"Town Pass Seven Stars."

"It was originally a seal-keeping sword from a ruined Taoist temple on Old Pine Ridge outside Fengtian City."

"In its early years, the temple suppressed a corpse disaster from the war beyond the Great Wall. Later, the temple collapsed, the incense offerings stopped, and only this sword remained buried beneath the beam."

"Seven Big Dipper nails are embedded in its spine. The year it was sharpened happened to coincide with the first autumn thunder beyond the Great Wall."

"The old Taoist said it wasn't ant to be displayed for the living, but to finish off what couldn't be suppressed."

As he spoke, he turned his wrist, and the blade was finally fully drawn.

In an instant, all the yin energy on the stone path seed to be pricked by a needle, recoiling violently.

The paper hand inside the overturned-seat lamp also stiffened. The gray-white fla of the wick beca unstable for the first ti, trembling slightly.

The black qi in the Ritual Spirit's eye sockets visibly sank.

"A true artifact?"

It slowly uttered the words, a note of genuine wariness finally appearing in its voice.

"How could you possibly have sothing like this?"

Lu Yuan only sneered coldly and didn't answer.

He had plenty of things like this!

He hadn't brought it out earlier only because it wasn't yet the critical mont. Lu Yuan had thought he could still turn the tide on his own.

After all, Lu Yuan didn't want to rely entirely on ritual tools. But now... not bringing it out was no longer an option.

He raised the sword and held it horizontally across his chest. His right foot stamped hard against the ground. His entire body seed to suddenly expand with a breath of air.

The true yang that had been nearly crushed earlier was now reignited from his dantian, drawn forth by this Town Pass Seven Stars sword.

The sword was old, and the technique was not new.

But the worst thing for old objects was never rust—it was sleep.

Once awakened, they were even fiercer than newly forged ones.

Lu Yuan's eyes sharpened, and he shouted in a low voice:

"The heavens have seven stars, the earth has seven malevolences."

"Ahead lies the yin seat, behind lies the dead end."

"Now, borrowing a thread of light from the Big Dipper, I will sever your altar soul's three-inch root!"

As the final word fell, he charged forward with his sword.

This charge made him seem like a cold wind pulled straight out of a crevice in the earth.

The Ritual Spirit imdiately raised its hand to block. The seat shadow beneath its sleeves rolled, forming a wall of black qi.

But as the Town Pass Seven Stars sword's blade thrust forward, it cut a fine slit straight through that yin wall.

The slit wasn't large, but it was extrely sharp. As the sword energy passed, the very air seed to freeze and crack, emitting a very light, brittle sound.

"Chi—"

The Ritual Spirit's sleeve was sliced open with a long gash. Black qi spilled out from the tear, like air leaking from a paper lantern.

It retreated half a step for the first ti.

In that half-step, Lu Yuan had already stepped inside.

He sought no fancy moves, no artful techniques. He only used this old sword as a true demon-slaying blade, taking the straightest path.

He struck relentlessly at three points: the Ritual Spirit's forehead altar eye, the gaps in its wrist as it breathed, and the roots of its seat shadow.

Every swing sought not flashiness, but ruthlessness, precision, and brevity—like an old knifeman slaughtering wolves on a snowy night, every cut to the bone.

The Ritual Spirit was enraged. It spread both arms wide, and the entire stone path once again erupted with yin wind.

But every ti the Town Pass Seven Stars sword clashed with the yin energy, one of the seven dark stars on its spine would light up. Each ti it lit, the black qi was forced back by one degree.

The seat evil that had been suffocating them all was now forcibly torn open by this old sword.

"Fall back!"

Lu Yuan shouted without looking back.

"Don't let its seat wind touch you!"

Song Qinghe, Lin Zhaoxuan, and the others instinctively retreated half a step.

The mont they pulled back, they saw Lu Yuan sweep his sword horizontally, hacking three charging paper shadows into shreds.

As the shredded paper fell, the yin flas that had been churning montarily stalled, as if choked by a righteous energy.

The Ritual Spirit stared at him darkly. The blackness within the crack on its forehead rolled even more violently.

"This isn't a borrowed thod."

"This is an old killing weapon for suppressing altars."

The corner of Lu Yuan's mouth moved, cold as frost on a blade's back.

"You only recognize it now? Too late."

With that, his footing shifted, and his sword montum suddenly sank. Instead of attacking the Ritual Spirit head-on, he first cut the base of the overturned-seat lamp, then slashed at the roots of the paper banners.

Finally, one strike aid straight at the point three inches below its forehead altar eye.

That strike was incredibly steady, as steady as an old river that never turns, flowing only toward the most vital spot.

The Ritual Spirit was furious. The black qi on its entire face surged, like a pot of yin water boiling over.

But Lu Yuan was no longer the man being crushed and beaten just monts ago.

Once the Town Pass Seven Stars sword gathered montum, it was as if it had brought up all the frost-fire buried deep in the earth.

With every strike Lu Yuan made, the sword tip carried a trace of extrely fine white light. Where the white light fell on the seat shadow, it burned through it like old paper. Where it fell on the black soil, it pinned an inch of the yin vein. Where it fell on the Ritual Spirit itself, it made its entire seat-evil form convulse and retreat.

The others watched, almost forgetting to breathe.

The situation that had been completely crushing them monts before was now forcibly torn open by this suddenly revealed old sword.

And Lu Yuan stood within that opening, his clothes stained with blood, his blade bright as snow—like a living demon clawing his way back from a pile of corpses.

He raised his sword, his gaze like frost.

"Ritual Spirit."

"You were eating too greedily just now."

"Now, it's your turn to spit one out."