The Mystical Sect Powerhouse I Raise Pretends to Be Frail Every Day

The most outrageous thing Lin Zhao ever did wasn’t taking over a funeral service business on the verge of bankruptcy at the age of twenty, nor was it learning to make paper effigies to save money, only to make them so beautiful that customers kept placing orders.

It was picking up a woman outside a coffin shop on a stormy night during the Ghost Festival.

The woman was drenched, her face as white as paper, and so beautiful she didn’t seem human. Lin Zhao’s heart softened. She fed her, warmed her hands, and earned money by making paper effigies to support her, like tending a delicate white rose.

The woman said her name was Jiang Suihan. She was in poor health, timid, and afraid of ghosts, the dark, and thunder. Lin Zhao believed her.

To support Jiang Suihan, Lin Zhao shielded her from bottles thrown by debt collectors, made enemies of the entire occult community of Nancheng, and even pawned the old house her grandfather had left her to cover medical expenses.

Until one day, the greatest occult clan in Nancheng arrived in full force, surrounding her shabby coffin shop.

The leader of the Celestial Masters sect, a man in his nineties, dropped to his knees with a thud in full view of the whole street.

He wasn’t kneeling to Lin Zhao.

He was kneeling to Jiang Suihan, who was cowering behind Lin Zhao and tugging at her clothes as she said, “Big sister, I’m so scared.”

“Grandmaster Jiang, you’ve been missing for three years. The entire occult community has nearly turned itself upside down looking for you.”

Lin Zhao looked down at the hand tugging at her clothes. A golden sigil was faintly appearing on its jade-white back, glowing brightly.

Jiang Suihan looked up and met Lin Zhao’s gaze.

The eyes that were usually so timid suddenly held nothing at all.

Only a calmness that sent a chill crawling through Lin Zhao’s bones.

“Lin Zhao, I’m sorry. I lied to you.”