Volume One: The Journey of the Useless—Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Thirteen: Chen San Invokes the Spirits—The Treacherous Nature of the Human Heart

In the middle of the night, Chen San was nearly scared out of his wits. Sleep was impossible, and he dared not venture into the outer room again. He spent the entire night sitting by the old woman’s bedside; at least with another living soul nearby, his heart felt a bit steadier. He sat there, stunned, his mind a blank, barely making it through until the rooster crowed at dawn. The fright this time was no small matter.

The old woman rose as well, glanced out the window, and sighed deeply.

Chen San, now a little sleepy, was startled awake by her sigh and scratched his head.

“That coffin outside—is it the daughter’s coffin from the Zhao family? How did a coffin that six men couldn’t move end up hopping here on its own?” Chen San whispered.

The old woman sighed again. “It’s my fault, I should have told you. I thought it’d bring misfortune, but the more you try to avoid something, the more likely it happens. The night after a coffin is nailed shut, it starts thumping around the village, jumping here and there. But it’s never harmed anyone and doesn’t jump every night. That’s why I didn’t mention it. But now… now, what will we do?”

She meant, of course, the coffin blocking their doorway. What could they do? Chen San was frantic, pacing in circles. He still needed to be on his way. What kind of situation was it, having a huge coffin barring the entrance?

Chen San was timid—too scared to go outside. He waited until noon, peeking out the window hundreds of times, but the coffin didn’t budge.

He hadn’t realized that the corpse’s resentment in the coffin was immense, compounded by the unborn child within, whose soul couldn’t reincarnate, intensifying the wrath. With such overwhelming resentment, reincarnation was impossible; it was only a matter of time before the soul turned vengeful and monstrous.

A coffin blocking the door meant it was seeking vengeance. Chen San’s meddling hand had opened the door, and those who died in bitterness do not reason; she was waiting for Chen San to step outside so she could claim his life.

He thought and thought, but this couldn’t go on forever. Would he spend the rest of his days with the old woman? No, absolutely not…

After much deliberation, he said to her, “Granny, I’ll jump out the window and find the Zhao family. They should still have white mourning cloth hanging; I’ll ask them to come and move the coffin back. Leaving it here isn’t right.”

The old woman, having no better solution, nodded and urged him to be careful. Chen San scrambled out the window—timid as he was, he kept his promises.

He didn’t flee the village, instead running toward the Zhao family at the east end. There was only the main road in the village; Chen San dashed like a rabbit, almost flying.

He’d barely taken a few steps when a heavy scraping noise echoed behind him. Chen San didn’t look back; not a soul was on the road, so what else could it be but the coffin? Hearing the sound, he ran east with even greater desperation.

Everyone in the village knew the Zhao family’s misfortune; news of such supernatural events spread fastest, which explained why, even at midday, the streets were deserted.

Just as when Chen San first arrived, aside from a few dogs keeping their distance, not a single person was to be seen.

He ran with all his strength, nearly fainting from exertion, but the coffin had no intention of letting him escape—it was nearly upon him.

He spotted the Zhao house, white cloth still fluttering at the door—a sign of a recent death—and shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Whose coffin is this? Aren’t you going to do something?”

He yelled a few times with his eyes shut, but no one responded, so he pushed himself to run harder.

The village wasn’t large; after a few more steps, he found himself at a river—no way forward, only a narrow path.

He’d barely considered taking the path when a heavy thud struck his back, sending a surge of pain through him. Before he could react, he was airborne, terror-stricken, and plunged with a splash into the river. He couldn’t swim; the little creek back in Chenjia Town barely reached his knees and never taught him how.

His back throbbed unbearably, but his will to survive was fierce. The delicate Chen Xin was waiting for his teasing—he hadn’t yet tasted the sweetness of women; how could he die here?

He gulped water, held his breath, closed his eyes, and silently recited the soul-calming mantra, then the tranquility mantra. The only sound was the water around him, and in an instant, he entered a state where spirit and soul merged.

Sensing the old man’s spirit, he quickly formed the ritual seals, chanting the invocation, summoning the old man’s soul.

“Wind strides without fear, summon the god; ten thousand miles of sky, the soul goes ahead. Chou, Shen, Zi, Hai, You, Mao, Wei…” This time, both spell and hand signs were completed in a flash. Indeed, people are only driven to their limits before they act.

Only the final step remained—a stomp upon the earth. But how could he stomp underwater? Chen San kicked his legs wildly, exhaled his last breath, bubbles rising as he sank into unconsciousness.

He sank deeper, down to the riverbed. As soon as his feet touched the bottom, the old man’s soul entered his consciousness. With spirits connected, the old man understood his predicament.

With a kick, his body began to float upwards. Chen San rose to the surface; gasping for air, he saw the huge coffin, its ropes now frayed and torn—a bad sign. He swam to the opposite bank, intending to get ashore and assess the situation.

Reaching the far side, the coffin lay motionless. On land, he examined it closely, finding only evidence it had been moved and the ropes worn through. No one else was nearby—could it be…?

Chen San couldn’t see through the spiritual veil. The old man raised his right hand, fingers vertical, and quickly formed the hand seals for spiritual vision. When the spell was cast, two fingers brushed his eyes, and instantly the world turned black and red.

He scrutinized the sight—the black and red aura emanated from the coffin. The corpse inside had already become a vengeful spirit, and the color indicated it was no ordinary revenant. The old man now understood how Chen San ended up in the water.

Shaking his head, he muttered, “You brat, good thing I know how to swim. If I were a landlubber, you’d have met your end today. I told you to find two people, and you let yourself get targeted by this kind of thing.”

He wrung the water from his clothes and strode over, standing beside the coffin. The coffin shifted and lunged toward Chen San.

The old man didn’t dodge, instead biting his finger and quickly drawing a thunder sigil in his palm. He stamped his feet, hands ready to meet the coffin head-on. In an instant, the coffin was upon him, and he slammed his palm thunder onto it.

With a bang, the coffin exploded. The female corpse was blown apart, splintered wood and flesh scattering everywhere, filling the air with stench.

In a single blow, both coffin and corpse were dealt with. The old man paused, surprised—Chen San was still a virgin, and the palm thunder’s power was immense. He shook his head, sighing, “Such sin…”

After that, Chen San’s body went limp, collapsing to the ground. A long while later, consciousness returned.

He sat up, glanced around, and scrambled to his feet in panic. The ground was littered with broken boards and mangled flesh, making him nauseous. He staggered away, tumbling and crawling.

Only after leaving the village did he stop, gripping a tree by the roadside and retching. There was little in his stomach, so he threw up bile.

Suddenly he felt pain in his fingers; looking at the blood mark in his palm, he marveled at the old man’s power—he’d nearly died there. Curse that innkeeper; did he have a vendetta against Chen San? If he ever met him again, he’d…

He kicked a pebble in frustration, checked the sky, and saw dusk approaching. He hurried on his way.

This time, Chen San was wiser. When evening approached, he sought out a post station or a tavern where he could eat and rest, rather than wandering late at night searching for a place to sleep.

Though he lost some time on the road, at least he had somewhere to stay at night.

...

Several days passed without incident. Unconsciously, Chen San had been on the road for five days. He spent his days traveling, searching for inns, grateful his direction was correct. After the last ordeal, he was cautious, asking several people for directions at every turn.

He kept pondering the innkeeper’s motives—why lead him to that haunted village? He couldn’t figure it out.

On the fifth evening, Chen San arrived at a place called Luoyi Town. Compared to the previous villages and towns, Luoyi was bustling. The streets were filled with people; stalls and vendors lined the roads, shops abounded, dazzling Chen San with their novelty.

As night fell, he hurried to a cheap tavern, sat alone at a table in the main hall, and indulged in long-missed delicacies.

The hall was crowded, most tables occupied by groups, usually two or three per table. Chen San was entirely unguarded, unaware that not far away, a table of three watched him intently, their eyes fixed on the peachwood sword at his back, a glint of murderous intent within.

After eating his fill, Chen San went upstairs to his room to sleep. At the staircase, he spotted the trio, who quickly avoided his gaze.

He thought nothing of it—no one knew anyone here—so he went straight up, entered his room, and lay down.

The leader of the trio practiced dark arts; his appearance was fierce, his skin dark, dressed like an ordinary man except for the ear hoops he wore, marking him as an outsider.

The other two looked entirely local, ordinary in both dress and features, easily lost in a crowd, but their demeanor betrayed ill intent—one tall, one short and stout. They whispered among themselves.

Chen San slept early, the constant travel taking a toll on his stamina. Though young and quick to recover, he needed more sleep than in idle times.

In the deep of night, with the bright moon shining, Chen San had slept soundly for over two hours when a rustling noise woke him.

He opened his eyes to find the floor crawling with snakes, slithering and flicking their tongues. Thankfully, he noticed before any reached the bed. He jolted upright.

Truth be told, Chen San wasn’t afraid of snakes; he’d seen plenty in the hills behind Chenjia Town. But such a dense swarm would make anyone quail.

Timid, he retreated to the innermost corner of the bed. Calmly, he wondered—how could so many snakes appear in a town? It didn’t make sense. Back home, even near the mountains, snakes were rare. This town was nowhere near any forest; where did all these snakes come from?

The more he thought, the more uneasy he felt. A dreadful realization dawned—someone was using these snakes to kill him.

He peered over the bed’s edge and saw that most were venomous, triangular-headed vipers. Any bite would be fatal, and there were so many—it was clearly an attempt on his life.

He’d barely pulled his head back when a snake poked onto the bed’s edge, its crimson tongue flicking, making his scalp tingle. Chen San quickly swung his peachwood sword, knocking it to the floor.

More snakes climbed up the bed, but he cut them down one by one. Luckily, it was midsummer; the tavern used thick hemp mosquito nets to protect guests from bugs.

Otherwise, with snakes attacking from all sides, Chen San wouldn’t dare imagine his fate. What to do? These snakes were deadly, and he couldn’t escape in the middle of the night. Should he summon the old man’s spirit?

He immediately shook his head—though the old man was formidable against evil spirits, so many snakes would be a challenge. If the old man tried and got bitten, Chen San would pay the price.

As he pondered, he suddenly noticed a figure move outside the window. Instantly, he realized the snakes must have been sent by this person.

He closed his eyes, focusing his soul to sense the spirit of the white tiger. A silvery light flashed in his mind; he willed it to seize the person outside.

With a thunderous crash, the shattered door revealed a silver-white tiger leaping to the ground. With a roar, it pounced on the stunned figure outside, pinning him with a swipe to the waist and dragging him, biting his shoulder, to Chen San’s doorway.

Seeing the tiger bring the man over, Chen San ordered it to release him. Looking closely, he found the man familiar—it was one of the trio he’d glimpsed upstairs.

Chen San didn’t know he was a dark arts practitioner, so he asked, “What grudge do you have against me? Why try to kill me? We don’t know each other, do we?”

The sorcerer, his shoulder punctured, was in agony, teeth nearly cracking from pain, but didn’t answer. The tiger struck his back, claws slowly digging in, forcing him to scream. Outside, voices cried out, calling for help and exclaiming about monsters.

Chen San noticed the tiger’s hindquarters were outside—space was tight. He asked the man again.

“Why did you try to harm me?”

Sweating profusely, the man growled, “Don’t play dumb. Aren’t you here to kill us? We heard rumors that a Taoist was coming for us. We never expected mercy, so we struck first. Hmph, I lost. If you’re going to kill me, do it quickly.”

Chen San grew more confused.

“You released these snakes, right? Get rid of them—I can barely stand.”

The man spat, “Even if I die, I’ll drag someone down with me. Any one of these snakes could kill you—you won’t escape…”

Before he finished, the tiger slammed his back again, blood spewing from his mouth.

Suddenly, Chen San understood. “Wait—you said I’m a Taoist? When did I become a Taoist? Which eye of yours sees me as one?”

The sorcerer cursed, “You damned Taoist, carrying a peachwood sword like you’re performing opera—are you afraid no one will know you’re a Taoist?”

Chen San finally realized—looking at the sword. It must have been the reason the innkeeper tricked him into the haunted village; he’d been carrying the peachwood sword. The old woman had also assumed he was a Taoist at first glance.

This time, the sword again led others to mistake him for a Taoist and attempt to kill him.

If he weren’t lucky, he’d be in the underworld by now. Suddenly, a snake lunged; Chen San instinctively slashed it down.

He gazed at the peachwood sword—sometimes it endangered him, sometimes it saved him. He debated whether to discard it, but feared it was the old man’s treasure and didn’t dare.

Since it was all a misunderstanding, and he wasn’t a killer, he decided to slip away. The man was half-crippled anyway. With a thought, the white tiger roared, scattering the snakes. Chen San grabbed his bundle and sword, leapt onto the tiger’s back.

Clinging tightly to its neck, the tiger bounded onto the tavern’s roof, crossed a few strides, and sprinted away. Soon, the man’s agonized screams echoed behind.

Chen San, scared out of his wits, clung desperately to the tiger; when he couldn’t hold on, he gripped its fur. Never in his life had he felt such wild excitement.

With a thought, he commanded the tiger to stop. He found himself once more in the wilderness. Such was his fate—to eat wind and sleep under the stars. After several encounters, his courage grew.

He approached the tiger, which still eyed him fiercely. Yet Chen San felt the tiger was like a person; its eyes were full of spirit, as if two people were gazing at each other. He said, “Let me give you a name, since we’ll be seeing each other often.”

He hadn’t finished speaking when the tiger transformed into a silver streak and vanished into the night, leaving Chen San standing awkwardly in the chill wind.

He checked the darkness—only midnight, with two hours till dawn. He pondered whether to continue his journey, but with only the moon, sometimes hidden by clouds, it was hard to see; yet he dared not sleep alone in the wild. In the end, he decided to light a fire.