Chapter Thirty-Six: The Old Ghost of Pine Slope

Songpo Forest, a burial ground littered with graves by day, transformed at night into a sprawling ghostly town. The winding paths through the woods became streets; the tombs, houses. Many of these ghostly dwellings even displayed signs for taverns and teahouses. The streets teemed with “passersby,” and at first glance, the scene was almost indistinguishable from the world of the living.

Yet the starkest contrast was the silence—an eerie, suffocating stillness. The bustling street before her should have been raucous with life, but except for the faint rustling of the wind, no sound reached her ears. There were no voices, not even the tread of footsteps.

A thick fog began to rise along the streets, soon growing so dense that one could barely see ahead. At first, Zhou Hongxian suspected it was some illusion, but when she tried to dispel it with her magic and found her vision unchanged, she realized it was real mist—mist that not only obscured, but also brought with it a damp chill that bit deep into the bones of this winter night. Though bundled in layers, Zhou Hongxian drew her clothes tighter and moved cautiously along the ghostly street.

Every time a “passerby” came into her line of sight, Zhou Hongxian shivered. They were all clad in dark, left-crossed robes; their faces were ashen and expressionless, their postures unnaturally stiff and straight. Their feet made no movement as they drifted along, as if pulled by invisible strings, gliding over the ground. The sight was chilling. The only comfort was that none of these “passersby” seemed to notice her at all, as if she were invisible. This, at least, gave her a small measure of reassurance.

But reassurance was not a solution. The thickening fog made finding Cui Yu all the more difficult. The mist showed no sign of lifting, and Zhou Hongxian began to grow anxious.

“Si-niang, Si-niang, are you here or not? If you are, please come out!” she murmured, but it was futile. This ghost town was utterly unfamiliar, and wandering aimlessly was no way to solve her problem.

What was the solution? Naturally, she ought to ask the locals. Yet as she gazed at the “locals” around her, she couldn’t help but hesitate.

She finally decided: perhaps she could approach one who looked weaker—if anything went amiss, her own powers might be enough to handle it. With this in mind, Zhou Hongxian scanned the crowd for a while before settling on a suitable target.

It was a scrawny “scholar” with a square scarf on his head, barely reaching one meter sixty—half a head shorter than Zhou Hongxian herself. He walked ahead of her, so she hurried to catch up.

“Excuse me, sir, may I ask you something?” Zhou Hongxian ventured, her tone wary.

“What—is—it—?” The “scholar” turned toward her at a glacial pace, as if in an old film running in slow motion. Zhou Hongxian nearly blurted out an apology as soon as she saw his face.

His complexion was a ghastly blue-black, veins bulging from his temples, his eyeballs protruding from their sockets, and his mouth hung open to reveal a long, scarlet tongue—a soul hanged to death.

“So—it’s—a—young—lady—what—do—you—seek—of—me—?” The “scholar’s” face was so rigid it was impossible to read his mood, and his voice was drawn out, cold and mournful.

Zhou Hongxian stammered, “I—I’d like to ask you about—about someone.”

“Who—are—you—looking—for?” The pace of his speech was suffocating.

Steadying her nerves, Zhou Hongxian replied, “A girl, fourteen or fifteen years old, about as tall as my brow, thin, with an oval face—delicate and lovely. Have you seen anyone like that?”

“Is—she—more—beautiful—than—you—?” The “scholar’s” lips parted in a faint, chilling smile.

A shiver ran through Zhou Hongxian. “Sir, have you seen her or not?”

“No—I—have—not—seen—her. May—I—ask—your—name, young—lady?”

Zhou Hongxian fell silent, realizing there was no point in continuing. She nodded politely and moved to walk past him. Yet before she’d gone far, the “scholar’s” spectral voice sounded behind her: “Don’t—go—young—lady—you—carry—the—scent—of—the—living—now—that—you—are—here—stay—and—keep—me—company!”

Zhou Hongxian turned, just in time to see the “scholar” gliding towards her, his crimson tongue trailing. Terrified, she shouted, “Stay back!” and struck out with her palm, hitting him square in the face. The “scholar” let out a shriek and vanished into the fog, leaving only a faint echo: “So—not—a—human—after—all!”

All returned to silence. Zhou Hongxian wiped her hand again and again on her clothes, unsettled by the cold, muddy touch of the “scholar’s” tongue—nothing like the warmth and elasticity of a living person. After this unsettling encounter, she began to question whether it was wise to ask any more of these “locals.”

Just then, a hunched, white-haired old man emerged from the mist. He walked up to Zhou Hongxian, studied her for a long moment, and then spoke: “Lady, you are a demon—why intrude upon our Songpo Town?”

Thrown off guard, Zhou Hongxian recognized him as another ghost, though his nature was unclear. Still, she had little to conceal, so she answered, “I mean no offense. I’m only here searching for someone—once I find her, I will leave.”

“Searching? You must be mistaken. There are only ghosts here, no living souls!”

“Forgive me, I misspoke! My friend is human, but her soul has been lost—she may have wandered here by mistake, so I have to find her.”

The old man nodded. “I see. What does your friend look like?”

Zhou Hongxian described Cui Yu’s appearance once more. The old man lowered his head, pondering, then abruptly asked, “Is your friend surnamed Cui, known as ‘Si-niang’?”

At these words, Zhou Hongxian’s heart leapt with shock and hope. “Yes, that’s her! Sir, you’ve seen her, haven’t you? Please—can you tell me where she is?”

The old man nodded again, then sighed. “Yesterday, a young lady did come through town. She was but a solitary wisp of soul, clearly not long dead—I thought she might be a daughter from a nearby family who had lost her soul, so I tried leading her out. Unfortunately, we ran into Old Ghost Songpo on the way. He is powerful, so I dared not interfere and could only watch as he took her away.”

Zhou Hongxian’s face, which had brightened with hope, now darkened in alarm. “Who is this Old Ghost Songpo? Why did he take Si-niang?”

The old man gave a hollow, mournful laugh. “For the same reason that scholar chased you! In life, Old Ghost Songpo was a sorcerer—a trickster who used spells to cheat and defile innocent women. He was beheaded in the market square by order of Magistrate Hu Su, and his corpse was cast aside here. But he cultivated deeper powers in death and has ruled Songpo for seven years, calling himself Old Ghost Songpo.”

Zhou Hongxian’s heart sank. “You say Old Ghost Songpo covets Si-niang’s beauty, but she’s not dead—she’s only a wisp of soul. What use could he have for her?”

The old man shook his head. “Your friend lost her fetal soul—if it does not return to her body within three days, she will surely die. Then Old Ghost Songpo can draw in her remaining souls and spirits, making her his ghost slave. He’s done this many times.”

A cold panic seized Zhou Hongxian—today was the last day for Cui Yu. She pressed anxiously, “Where does Old Ghost Songpo live? Sir, can you take me there?”

The old man regarded her steadily, not answering at once. “Lady, Old Ghost Songpo may have died only a few years ago, but he was a sorcerer in life with his own cultivation—are you certain your powers surpass his?”

Zhou Hongxian hesitated, feeling a pang of uncertainty. “Sir, do you know how Old Ghost Songpo’s cultivation compares to ours—demons, I mean? How many years would he have?”

The old man shook his head. “I’m not sure—I’ve been dead just over twenty years and don’t understand demon ranks. I can see you’re a demon, but not what kind. Still, Old Ghost Songpo is sworn brothers with a rat demon known to have two hundred years of cultivation, and that rat demon calls him ‘big brother.’ I’d say Old Ghost Songpo must be even stronger.”

“How much stronger? Three hundred years? Five hundred?” Zhou Hongxian felt a bitter chill. But whether Old Ghost Songpo’s cultivation was three or five hundred years, it hardly mattered—she herself, from birth to now, was not yet a hundred years old. The gap was insurmountable.

“Don’t worry, sir—just take me there. I’m a mighty demon with six hundred years of cultivation!” Zhou Hongxian flashed a charming smile, bluffing both the old man and herself. There was no turning back now.