Chapter Forty-Two: Purging the Corpses, Upholding the Way

Tong Rang had once been a destitute scholar—somewhat timid, somewhat vain, and sometimes stirred with passion by the heroic deeds in the books he read. So now he patted his chest and declared generously, “Eradicating evil and upholding the Way is the very purpose of our path. You may rest assured and wait for me to exterminate this demon!” Yet, as soon as the words left his lips, he shrank back and stole a glance at Zhou Qian, knowing well that this man’s skills surpassed his own. Hoping to secure a bodyguard, he ventured cautiously, “Brother Zhou, it seems we can hardly turn a blind eye to this. Perhaps we should…”

Zhou Qian, too, realized that the entire village teetered on the brink of collapse. There were matters of greater urgency, and his own motives for lingering here—chasing after romantic interests—were indeed untenable. So he said, “In that case, let me help as well.”

Tong Yuan was instantly delighted, and quickly turned to the village’s old schoolmaster. “Why aren’t you leading us to your clan’s ancestral hall?”

The old scholar, equally overjoyed, dismissed the gathered villagers, leaving only two clever and able young men to carry torches and lead the three of them deep into the shadowed heart of the ancestral hall. There, dozens of stone tombs stood in neat rows. Yet several of the tombstones had already been pried open, and the stench of corpses wafted heavily through the air. Zhou Qian frowned and asked, “When the corpses left, did you attempt to stop them? And which mass grave did they go to?”

The old scholar, noting Zhou Qian’s imposing manner, replied respectfully, “The first two times, the villagers were too frightened to interfere. The third time, the strongest men in the village gathered—dozens of them, with torches and weapons—forming the Pear Blossom Formation passed down by our ancestors. At last, they managed to block the three ancestral corpses. But just as they approached, a sweep of black mist flashed through the air, and the corpses were snatched away by the demon. As for where they went, it was to the largest mass grave in the nearby Three Mile Hamlet.”

“How large was this black mist? Was it dense or thin?”

“It was about ten feet across, and rather diffuse. Moreover, after sweeping up the three corpses, it visibly weakened. If not for the fact that it flew through the air, perhaps we could have stopped it.”

Tong Yuan clearly breathed a sigh of relief. “Find a room where the two of us may rest. We’ll discuss our plans further before taking action.”

The old scholar hurried to select the finest room in the village for them, even sending in two comely village girls to tend to their needs. Zhou Qian promptly sent them away.

Tong Yuan carefully closed the doors and windows, making sure they were alone before he turned to Zhou Qian. “Brother Zhou, I believe I can now deduce what sort of demon we’re dealing with!”

“Oh?” Zhou Qian was intrigued. “What manner of demon is it?”

“It’s a mass of black baleful energy, condensed in the haunted grounds of the mass graves!” Tong Yuan exclaimed, animated. “This yin energy is formed from the accumulated grievances, death, and murderous intent within corpses. Over time, it becomes sentient, thus able to command the dead to march into the graveyard. The more bodies it gathers, the stronger it grows. If left unchecked, it will eventually possess a corpse and evolve into a green-furred revenant, wreaking havoc on the land. But if we capture it beforehand and refine it into my flying sword, then my sword will never again require blood sacrifices for consecration, and its power will increase fivefold—emitting a rolling tide of yin energy that kills all it touches.”

He glanced at Zhou Qian, thinking to himself: With such a weapon, I could rise to high office, perhaps even rival the power of a regional lord—carving out new territories and leaving my name for the ages...

Having failed the imperial examinations time and again, Tong Yuan’s heart had grown twisted and resentful—much like many impoverished scholars who, upon finally attaining high rank, do not devote themselves to honest governance and the education of the people, but first seek to recoup all the suffering they have endured over the years, postponing virtue for later.

He assumed Zhou Qian knew nothing of this and deliberately distorted the truth. But Zhou Qian, ever fascinated by tales of immortals and spirits, had borrowed many such books from Doctor Lu. He’d heard that this kind of black baleful mist was filled with vengeful souls. Instead of seeking to redeem it, Tong Yuan wished to harness it for himself—surely a sign of questionable character. Zhou Qian grew wary, though his face betrayed nothing, and listened as Tong Yuan boasted endlessly about how, once he possessed the black mist, he would rise to glory and never forget his friends. Zhou Qian’s frown deepened, silently resolving not to let Tong Yuan obtain the black mist and so unleash disaster upon the world.

He nodded. “Then, brother Tong, do you have any good methods for subduing this black mist?”

Tong Yuan replied with conceited pride, “I dare not vouch for other things, but such baleful energy is easy for me to deal with. My talismans are specially designed to counter it—just a few dozen will be enough to shatter the mist!”

He summoned the old scholar and instructed him not to disturb them, as he was about to inscribe a talisman for capturing the demon and would drive out evil that very night. The old scholar was overjoyed and left them to their work.

Engraving these talismans was different from drawing the blood-seeking tracking sigils; it required no blood, only a strand of true energy conjured from the dantian. After three years of cultivation, Tong Yuan’s true energy was as thick as a fine thread—enough to draw four talismans, after which he’d need half an hour of meditation to recover.

Zhou Qian, out of boredom, tried to conjure his own true energy. Expecting to fail like most, he was surprised to find it came effortlessly—a warm sensation rising from his abdomen and coiling in his dantian. This true energy was about as thick as his pinky, neither wholly real nor illusory, and he could direct it at will. Not daring to let it run rampant through his body, he kept it in his dantian, musing in wonder: Why does this true energy feel so familiar? It’s reminiscent of how I felt after eating that immortal fruit. Could it be that the fruit contained true energy as well? And what’s more, it’s faintly red—I sense that this power is far greater than his.

Unbeknownst to Zhou Qian, the truth was far beyond his assumptions. That fire apricot he’d swallowed—one fruit in a hundred years, the finest of treasures even among cultivators—was meant to be refined with other herbs to produce a divine fire elixir, granting the user the True Fire Baleful Energy. Yet Zhou Qian had swallowed it raw, wasting most of its vast potency, though some still lingered dormant in his body and was now awakened by the act of cultivation.

Seeing Tong Yuan still meditating, Zhou Qian decided to try drawing a talisman himself. The process was curious—like the scribbles of a child, yet faintly exuding a sense of solemnity and menace. As he focused, his mind emptied of all distractions, and with each stroke, he felt his true energy being drawn forth. The first attempt was wasted due to inexperience, but on the second he succeeded in one go—a fleeting flash of golden light told him he had done it.

Tong Yuan opened his eyes in astonishment. “You succeeded?” A flicker of jealousy passed through his gaze. He himself had toiled endlessly to master the talisman, always hampered by insufficient power. For Zhou Qian to manage it on only his second try suggested a talent far above his own. He wondered, Just what kind of family is Zhou Qian from, to be so gifted? Apparently, I’m not the only one who can master these immortal arts. I mustn’t lend the secret manual to others so freely. As for Zhou Qian, once I have the black mist refined into my sword, he’ll be no threat. But the immortal arts—only I should possess them in this world!

Harboring such vicious thoughts, he outwardly laughed and clapped Zhou Qian on the shoulder, feigning camaraderie. “Congratulations, brother Zhou! With both of us, we’re sure to handle that black mist.”

Zhou Qian frowned slightly, puzzled by Tong Yuan’s sudden warmth. But in a flash, he understood: After the apprenticeship banquet, he’d spoken with a few notorious thieves, and they’d told him, “If someone is unusually courteous for no reason, it’s probably nothing good—likely a setup.” So, I’ve cultivated true energy, and now this man, small-minded to the extreme, is acting as if we’re competitors.

The night was dark and the wind high, but outside the ancestral hall, dozens of torches burned brightly, illuminating the surroundings. Zhou Qian and Tong Yuan sat cross-legged near a stone coffin, with Yang Sanlang—the village’s finest spearman—guarding the door. As time passed, Zhou Qian felt a growing sense of unease; the temperature around them began to drop.

“It’s nearly past midnight—why hasn’t it come yet?” Tong Yuan muttered.

“Something’s wrong!” Zhou Qian reacted instantly, drawing his sword in a flash of light. With a resounding crack, the stone coffin’s lid split in two. Wisps of black mist clung to the corpse within, twisting together into wormlike threads that burrowed into its eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Zhou Qian slapped a talisman onto the mist, reciting the incantation. The talisman flared yellow and shot into the darkness, instantly causing the black mist to sizzle and evaporate in a wisp of green smoke.

But this was like poking a hornet’s nest—dozens of coffins released plumes of black mist, which merged in the air to form a hideous, fan-sized monstrous hand that lunged for Zhou Qian. He hurled the coffin lid at it—hundreds of pounds spinning through the air—but it passed through the hand as if through empty air, crashing into the wall beyond.

The withered claw snatched at Zhou Qian, who leaped and dodged three yards in an instant, clearly employing the Flowing Cloud Feather Step. At its peak, this technique could make one as light as a feather, able to twist and turn within a single yard more than any other technique in the martial world.

Failing to catch Zhou Qian, the monstrous hand turned its attention to Tong Yuan. He floundered in panic, flinging his sleeve and sending a streak of white light through the black claw. The blow left a wound that glimmered with red sparks, stalling its regeneration. Sensing the sword’s power, the black hand spat out a ball of mist which formed into a skull, grappling with the white light. Its own speed slowed, giving Zhou Qian and Tong Yuan their chance—they showered the black hand with talismans as if they cost nothing...