This was what Zhang Lan had told Mo Hua.
The Pale-faced Man absorbed the Spiritual Power of the Spirit Slave and sat in meditation to refine it, his facial features shifting unpredictably.
At times he looked ferocious, at times ecstatic, at times mad, and at times a mix of agony and pleasure showed on his face.
A moment later, after the Pale-faced Man had finished his cultivation, he reverted to his initial weak and pale appearance, although the aura of his cultivation indeed seemed somewhat stronger.
Feeling pleased, the Pale-faced Man took out a book from his storage bag and began to read intently.
Mo Hua took a furtive glance and felt a jolt in her heart.
The cover of the book was partially obscured by the Pale-faced Man’s hand, but two characters that were visible read “Fireball.”
Fireball Technique!
Indeed, the Pale-faced Man was practicing a special Fireball Technique!
If it were an ordinary Fireball Technique, there would be no reason for him to treat it as a treasure, carrying it with him and studying it from time to time.
But since the Secret Manual of the Fireball Technique was with him, it was not something Mo Hua could simply steal.
It seemed she would have to wait for another opportunity to come along.
Before Mo Hua left, she cast another glance at the wooden box in the corner, which contained a Spirit Slave.
The Spirit Slave appeared quite young, but was emaciated with a drained countenance, looking much older than his years.
Now his expression was vacant and without emotion, but perhaps he once was a cheerful and kind-hearted youth.
Did his parents even know he had fallen into the hands of the Black Mountain Stronghold?
With this thought, Mo Hua sighed.
Currently, with her limited cultivation, she was far from capable of saving him.
But if one day she gained sufficient power, she vowed to slaughter all these Heretical Demons one by one!
Mo Hua thought angrily.
In the following days, Mo Hua continued to focus on drawing the Map.
One day, finding herself hungry, she went to the Black Mountain Stronghold’s dining hall for something to eat.
The dining hall of the Black Mountain Stronghold was huge, and in a somewhat remote location.
It was somewhat dirty and chaotic inside, stains of blood everywhere, with chunks of meat strewn all over the tables.
Mo Hua did not recognize the meat, so she dared not eat it.
She could only steal some wild fruit and pastries to fill her stomach.
Before her arrival, she hadn’t expected to stay so long in the Black Mountain Stronghold, so she hadn’t brought much food in her storage bag.
The supplies in her storage bag were already consumed, and now she had to settle for the food of the Evil Cultivators.
The wild fruits were a bit sour and astringent, not tasting good.
She guessed the thick miasma of the deep mountains was likely to blame, the soil there ill-suited to producing good fruit.
The pastries were even worse to eat.
Mo Hua took a bite and almost spit it out.
It fell far short of what her mother made.
Mo Hua began to miss her mother’s cooking and suddenly thought of her parents. Having stayed in the Black Mountain Stronghold for several days with no news reaching them, she realized they must be worried sick.
Mo Hua inwardly sighed, “Had I known, I would have informed my parents beforehand to spare them the worry.”
But regret was pointless now.
She needed to finish the Map as quickly as possible, gather the necessary information, and then return home sooner rather than later.
To avoid causing further worry to her parents.
Mo Hua nodded to herself, then continued to force down the pastries despite their odd taste.
Though the pastries were unpalatable, they at least filled the stomach.
There was no room for pickiness in such times.
As Mo Hua went on eating, she suddenly heard people talking.
The speakers were an old man working in the kitchen and another voice that sounded familiar to Mo Hua.
She lifted her head from under the table and covertly observed that the other person was the fat Cultivator.
The fat Cultivator had killed the skinny one, used the latter’s head to find his way to the Black Mountain Stronghold, and ended up with the menial job of delivering meals.
The old man instructed the fat Cultivator, “Take this meal to the ‘young master,’ don’t let him starve to death.”
The fat Cultivator nodded in agreement.
Chewing on her pastries, Mo Hua suddenly paused.
“Young master? What young master?”
Mo Hua furrowed her brow.
“Could it be… the young master of the Kong Family?