The Invincible Female Ghost Is A Bit Of A Hopeless Romantic Chapter 251: This Time, It's Your Turn to Figure Out How to

Lu Yuan was being dragged down by that retracting yin seat, his feet growing heavy, his whole body nearly forced back into the black earth, yet he did not retreat.

The Town Pass Seven Stars Sword lay across his chest, the fourth dim star on its spine already glowing almost white, cold as an iron needle buried in ice for decades.

That chill crept up along his palm into his arm bone, pricking until his right hand started to go numb.

But it was precisely that numbness that let him plant his body like a stake in the fiercest gulp of yin energy.

The altar spirit’s counterattack this round ca fiercely.

It no longer ramd as before, instead it began to “retract.”

The paper banners on both sides of the stone path slowly bent inward, the lamp shadows sank little by little, and paper hands in the black surface probed out from the cracks.

Like countless wet, cold hands, they specialized in yanking at ankles, tangling calves, dragging at the gate of life.

Though everyone was clearly still alive, it felt as if half their bodies were already covered by the seat; another inch of downward pressure and they would be utterly pinned.

“Brother Lu!”

Song Qinghe’s voice tightened, the sealing plate already cracked a second hairline, the cold light on its surface flickering like a candle in the wind.

“It’s drawing the seat-heart toward under our feet!”

Lin Zhaoxuan half-kneeling, the Thunderclap Token pressed against his knee, the crack across the token’s face widening.

He ground his teeth to summon one last breath of thunder intent, but the mont he inhaled, it felt as if a yin hamr slamd his chest, and he spat out half a mouthful of blood.

“I can’t raise it…”

He panted heavily, eyes bloodshot.

“It’s bitten the earth vein too.”

Zhou Heng moved to cut those paper cords coiling his feet, but the instant he bent, the cords tightened and actually choked his wrist in reverse.

They looked feathery light, but were cold, sticky and slippery, like underwater weeds beneath ice that once entangled never let go.

Zhou Heng grunted; his short blade nearly flew from his hand.

Xu Erxiao and Wang Cheng'an were forced to the edge of the stone path; behind them churned the black surface and the repeatedly surfacing paper faces.

Both of them were deathly pale, each tiny shuffle feeling like stepping on coffin lids.

And the altar spirit was already starting to sit itself back up.

The blood-red fracture on its forehead was being stitched closed by black gas bit by bit, like a wounded well gradually sealing.

It stood there, unhurried, as if it had long since decided Lu Yuan and the others would be worn out and die.

“You’re very stubborn.”

It looked at Lu Yuan, its voice gloomy as if scraped out from the black surface.

“But stubborn people fear attrition the most.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“I’ll accompany you to your slow death.”

Lu Yuan lifted his eyes, his breathing steady, but a fierce cold glinted in them.

He knew clearly: if this round let it draw its seat-formation back, there would be no way out afterward.

The Town Pass Seven Stars Sword was sharp, but no ancient tool, however keen, could endure endless pressure.

It wasn’t ant for perpetual head-on collisions; its true use was to pin a point, force an opponent to reveal an opening.

In the first round they had already torn the altar’s base; now the altar spirit was trying to stitch that gap back.

He could not let it.

Lu Yuan inhaled deeply and suddenly spoke low:

“Zhou Heng, don’t pull your sword. Take the short blade and nail the banner root.”

“Lin Zhaoxuan, draw your thunder back. Don’t strike the lamp; press the earth fissure instead.”

“Miss Song, anchor the sealing plate to hold the north bias. Don’t let the lamp shadow fall onto the black surface.”

“Cheng'an, Erxiao, don’t scatter the salt. Reroute it along this white path and lay it out in a line.”

Everyone answered in unison.

This was clearly not a plea for one more surge, but the reassembly of a temporary ‘escape formation.’

The altar spirit sensed it too; the crack at its forehead contracted slightly, black gas gyrating up as if guarding against Lu Yuan’s attempt to reestablish montum.

Lu Yuan wasted no ti waiting for it to see through him. He flipped his right hand; the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword angled down and pressed against the ground.

The mont the tip touched earth, the surrounding yin energy stalled as if frozen.

“Settle!”

He said the word in a low, steady voice.

It wasn’t loud but it was firm, like hamring an old nail into the black surface.

Imdiately Lu Yuan ford two fingers with his left hand and pulled from his sleeve a yellow talisman, already crumpled and wrinkled.

The talisman wasn’t freshly drawn; its edges were softened by sweat and blood, evidently a reserve he had kept and not used until now.

He didn’t light it right away. Instead he bit his fingertip and wiped a streak of blood swiftly across the talisman’s back.

“Blood as lure, qi as road.”

“As the road persists, the talisman will not die.”

Having spoken, he slamd the talisman onto the fourth star on the sword’s spine.

The yellow talisman ignited instantly, not into ordinary fla but into a piercing white blaze.

As the white fla touched the sword’s spine, the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword’s chill burst outward in a layer.

The seven dim stars on the blade faintly linked in a line, as if the North Dipper had been forcibly dragged down into the world.

The altar spirit’s expression finally changed.

It could see this was not rely a sword, but Lu Yuan trying to leverage the sword’s montum to start another formation.

“You still want to overturn?”

The altar spirit sneered, and with a flick of its sleeve the black gas surged.

At the stone path’s far end, the overturned-seat lamp sank as well; the ash-white fla in its wick suddenly surged, lighting the entire path with a cold brightness.

All the paper banners and paper faces scread at once, a shriek so piercing it seed ready to tear eardrums.

A massive whirl of yin seat rolled down again toward Lu Yuan’s head.

His feet lurched; his shoulders were forced down, knees nearly touching stone.

But he used the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword’s settling montum to brace that urge to kneel and hold it steady.

“It wants to snap my rising montum.”

He understood that completely.

But the more that was true, the more he could not yield.

“Zhou Heng!”

Lu Yuan barked sharply.

“Give two steps!”

Zhou Heng gritted his teeth. Ignoring the cords still binding his wrist, he slashed the outside of his forearm with his short blade to wrench his body upright through the pain, then lunged toward the left banner root and drove the blade into the split of the banner pole.

“Cut!”

He scread hoarsely.

The banner wavered, and the seat-shadow instantly shifted half an inch aside.

Half an inch was enough.

Lin Zhaoxuan’s pupils shrank. He forced down the surging blood in his chest and pressed the Thunderclap Token into the black soil fissure.

This ti he didn’t try to chop or explode, he only sought to press.

“Thunder to ground, evil do not lift.”

“Lowered is the ancestral thunder, sealing the gate with earth.”

“By decree!”

Pale blue fine thunder slid into the fissure like a thin electric snake and bit down on the most yin earth vein under the altar spirit’s feet.

For an instant the altar spirit swayed.

Song Qinghe seized the chance and slamd the sealing plate down, face to the north, the cold light deepening, forcing the lamp shadow off that fatal angle by the slightest degree.

This was the mont Lu Yuan had been waiting for.

He took a sudden step forward and slashed the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword across the void.

The blade no longer chased the altar spirit’s body; it aid for the altar’s foot, that previously pressured earth fissure just now being suppressed.

“Break the seat by breaking the foot first!”

“Seven stars light the path, pin your switching!”

The sword light descended.

The black gas burst outward like boiling water, exploding in a ring. The small patch of altar ground beneath the altar spirit loosened a hair under the sword’s force.

Before they could draw a breath, the altar spirit abruptly raised its head; the black gas in its eye sockets shrank, as if its whole face had suddenly sunk into a pit.

“Good.”

“You dare force this far.”

It murmured low, and its voice had turned deadly.

The next instant it clapped its arms.

The yarn of yin seat across the stone path seed to be twisted tight by an invisible giant hand; the white path Lu Yuan had torn was swallowed again by black.

The backward gust hit Zhou Heng; he slamd to his knees against the stone wall.

The Thunderclap Token in Lin Zhaoxuan’s hand cracked a hairline with a “crack.”

Song Qinghe was once more driven to bleed at the corner of her mouth by the refluxing yin energy; the sealing plate nearly flew out of her grasp.

Lu Yuan felt a dull pressure in his chest; his right palm splintered, blood trickling down the sword hilt.

But he did not fall back.

He looked up at the altar spirit and suddenly realized this round had only temporarily unsettled it, far from a decisive turn.

The enemy still had reserves, still could draw the seat, gather the shadow, close the lamp, and change position.

In other words, they had only gone from “pressed to death” to “barely alive.”

And that was the most dangerous state.

If one person faltered, the whole situation would collapse back.

The altar spirit clearly knew this.

It did not rush another frontal assault. Instead, it used that instant recoil to gather the paper banners, black earth, and lamp shadow back around itself.

Like a snake that had been beaten apart yet wound itself back together.

Its seat formation was recovering—less fierce than initially, but steadier, slipperier, and harder to cut.

Lu Yuan tightened his grip on the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword and muttered to himself:

“It’s learning.”

“Learning how to evade my sword, learning how to drag my qi.”

He lifted his head, a cold flash in his eyes.

“Then I won’t fight you for speed.”

“I’ll fight you for steadiness.”

He slowly pressed the sword tip into the ground, no longer attacking urgently, but using the sword’s intent and the salt path to sink his yang energy bit by bit.

What looked like withdrawal was actually accumulation.

The altar spirit sensed the change and surged black gas, about to pounce, but Lu Yuan preempted it with a shout:

“Zhou Heng, seal left!”

“Lin Zhaoxuan, press center!”

“Song Qinghe, hold the lamp shadow!”

“Cheng'an, Erxiao, don’t pull back. Scatter salt at my feet!”

Startled, the others gritted their teeth and obeyed.

The salt path was laid out slowly, like a snow line revealing a bright strip across the black surface.

The cold of the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword together with the salt’s energy temporarily pressed the altar spirit beyond a half-ring.

This was Lu Yuan’s second step.

Not to kill it yet, but to trap it, to force open another weak spot.

The altar spirit stood in that ring of shadow; the black gas in its eye sockets rolled.

At last it began to take seriously this young man it hadn’t consud.

Lu Yuan did not press forward.

He depressed the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword into the ground and pinned the tip onto the freshly laid salt line.

He withdrew half the breath from a sharp assault and instead stably pressed that breath into the ground under his feet.

Outsiders wouldn’t understand this move.

But the altar spirit imdiately sensed the oddity.

What it had feared before was Lu Yuan’s headlong charge—because once the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword reached the altar foot, it could tear the seat’s root out.

Now Lu Yuan was not chasing. Instead, he seed to be using their remaining forces—salt line, sword intent, thunder traces, and the fading cold on the sealing plate—to slowly “right” the entire stone path.

It was not retreat; it was setting a formation.

“What is he doing?”

Zhou Heng panted and asked. The paper cord around his wrist hadn’t fully loosened; blood dripped between his fingers.

Lin Zhaoxuan stared at the circle of white salt at Lu Yuan’s feet, first puzzled, then he suddenly understood; his voice changed tone.

“He’s going to invert the altar field!”

“He’s not just defending—he’s using our residual montum to remake the altar spirit’s own layout into a snare!”

Song Qinghe understood as well.

The sealing plate had cracked, yet its remaining cold light was being drawn northward by Lu Yuan’s sword intent, slowly returning.

The cut banner roots, the thunder pressed into the earth fissure, the yang energy left on the salt path—

Lu Yuan forcibly threaded them into a single line with the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword.

This was not a naturally ford structure; it was a manmade rigging.

And the harder it was forced, the more like a nail driven into the altar heart it looked.

The altar spirit no longer rely sneered.

The black gas in its eye sockets sank sharply. It raised a hand to lift the seat.

But Lu Yuan was quicker.

He shifted his foot along the salt line and took three reverse steps, each landing precisely on those earth-vein nodes the altar spirit had pressed hardest before.

The Town Pass Seven Stars Sword shivered, and the fifth dim star on its spine flared to life.

Its cold light was like frost, casting a thin white edge along the stone path.

“Left banner as wind, right seat as abyss.”

“Lamp as eye, plate as mouth.”

Lu Yuan’s voice was low and clear, like an incantation to himself and to the altar ground beneath him.

“You know how to nd an altar; then I’ll let you stitch into the mouth I set.”

He raised the sword; the tip no longer pointed at the altar spirit but at the shadow root beneath the overturned lamp—the most yin, heaviest spot.

That stroke was not fast, but astonishingly steady.

The altar spirit whipped its sleeve; black gas cracked like a whip, slashing Lu Yuan’s wrist.

Yet Lu Yuan did not dodge. His left shoulder took the blow.

His body rocked and blood spurted from his mouth, but the sword did not waver.

Because he did not want to dodge.

He wanted to “take” it.

If he took that blow, the altar spirit would believe he was still bracing for a frontal fight and instinctively pile more yin onto that side—

exactly the place Lu Yuan wanted it to step into.

“It’s done!”

Lin Zhaoxuan cried out.

As Lu Yuan pressed the sword down, the white salt line seed to co alive.

The thin salt trace widened along the stone fissures and drew a faint circle under the overturned lamp.

When that circle completed, the altar spirit finally realized this was no ordinary defensive line but a broken-altar circle ford by inverting its own yin.

If it tried to stitch the seat foot back, it would be sewing the foot into Lu Yuan’s circle.

If it pressed the lamp shadow, it would press the shadow into that circle.

The more it tried to gather, the more Lu Yuan would corner it with salt, thunder, sword, and plate.

“You dare to take my qi to make your formation?”

The altar spirit’s voice chilled; black gas surged in the forehead crack, nearly spilling out.

Lu Yuan coughed blood, fingers steady on the hilt.

“Yes.”

“You’re the best at using the field, aren’t you?”

“Then I’ll use your field and trap you with it.”

He spun the blade; the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword gave a very low hum, like north wind across an old iron tower.

After the fifth, the sixth star began to glow.

Though the light hadn’t fully ford, it was enough to make the black earth under the altar spirit shift minutely.

Sensing danger, the altar spirit forced a step.

But the mont it moved, Lu Yuan’s second breaking formation snapped into place.

To the left a severed banner made a wind gap, to the right lingering thunder closed in; salt ring locked the lamp shadow in front, and the sealing plate pressed its escape route behind.

As the altar spirit lifted half a step, yin fiends surged into an invisible net and were forced to recoil, actually entrapping it in the center.

“It can’t retreat…”

Wang Cheng'an felt his scalp prickle and muttered.

Zhou Heng showed a fierce glint. Seizing a mont when the cords slackened, he ripped the short blade out of the banner root and planted it into a second seat corner.

“Then don’t let it retreat!”

He shouted hoarsely.

Song Qinghe bit down and steadied the nearly shattered sealing plate, whispering:

“The north is locked. The lamp shadow cannot fall.”

Lin Zhaoxuan pushed his last strength and pressed the Thunderclap Token into the earth.

Residual thunder jumped along the salt circle like a slender serpent and slipped into the soil slit at the altar spirit’s feet.

Only then did the second broken-altar formation truly solidify.

The altar spirit stood at the center, first ti tasting “being trapped.”

Black gas in its face churned violently; the paper banners, seat shadow, and overturned lamp all tried to find it an escape.

But Lu Yuan’s formation built with the Town Pass Seven Stars Sword refused to let it smoothly change place.

They tugged again.

Only this ti it was no longer a one-sided crushing; every half inch it pushed forward, Lu Yuan nailed half an inch shut.

Every ti it attempted to reconstitute a piece of its altar, the second breaking formation bit back.

Lu Yuan knew this was still far from enough.

Though he steadied the situation, he had also pushed himself into an extre risk.

Light along the sword’s spine had reached the fifth star; his right arm was nearly powerless from the altar spirit’s recoil and the dull pain in his chest worsened.

If the altar spirit grew crueler, if it dragged things out longer, this newly erected formation could still be ground down.

But at least now it would not be so easy for it to swallow them back.

Lu Yuan looked at the altar spirit; his gaze was as cold as iron in a snowy night.

“This ti, it’s your turn to figure out how to break my formation.”