Volume One: The Journey of the Useless, Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Fourteen: The Ghost Appears, Slaying the Vengeful Spirit

Chen San gathered some dry grass and branches, used his fire striker to light a bonfire, and sat beside it, warming himself. After all the shocks he’d endured in the dead of night, anyone would find it impossible to sleep. He poked at the flames with a small wooden stick, lost in thought. After a while, he unfastened the peachwood sword from his back and held it in his hand. At that moment, he truly wanted to burn the sword and cursed the old man a hundred times in his heart.

What was the point of giving him a peachwood sword? He didn’t know how to use it and had already encountered trouble twice because of it, nearly losing his life. Looking closely in the firelight, he could see the intricate runes carved into the sword and traces of dried blood on its blade.

Suddenly, inspiration struck him, and he slapped his forehead with a sigh. “That’s right, isn’t it? You just have to bite your finger, smear blood on the peachwood sword, and it’ll work.”

The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. Scenes of flashing swords and fighting evil, revered by thousands, danced in his mind. Then he remembered that staying in inns and taverns at night wasn’t safe, though daytime seemed fine—there were more people around.

After pondering a bit, Chen San slapped his thigh and made what would become the most misguided decision of his life: to sleep during the day and travel at night. He didn’t consider the difficulty of seeing the road after dark, the risk of encountering something sinister, or the challenge of asking for directions at night. His mind was filled only with visions of martial arts masters and flashing blades.

With his summoning spell and the spirit tiger at his disposal, Chen San naturally overlooked these details. If he ran into trouble, he’d simply use the summoning spell to call the old man. That was his plan.

With that in mind, he stood up, found two thicker branches nearby—one he lit as a torch, the other he kept as a spare and slung over his back. He returned to the main road. From the directions he’d gathered over the past two days, he knew Mao Mountain lay to the south, so most roads heading south were correct. Yet the road before him stretched long and empty; he walked for over two hours without seeing even a dog, and the solitude began to unsettle him. Only when dawn began to break did he spot a small village.

The sun was just rising, and not even the roosters had crowed. No one stirred in the village, and Chen San had no intention of stopping. He continued along the main road but soon became unbearably thirsty; he’d spent the night walking and hadn’t had a sip of water. He figured it might be a long while before he reached another inn or tavern, so he entered the village, hoping to find some water.

Only dogs wandered outside, eyeing him warily. Chen San paid them no mind and searched for a well or a river. After meandering for a bit, he found a small creek behind the village.

By then, two women were already washing clothes by the stream. He greeted them, drank some water, washed his face, chatted briefly, and asked for directions before continuing on his way.

After a night on the road, Chen San felt fine; nothing seemed amiss except for his gnawing hunger. After walking another hour or so, he reached a small town with few people.

The town wasn’t bustling, but had everything necessary. Still early, he found a porridge stall and downed three bowls, filling his belly. He paid with silver and went to find a place to sleep.

At a small tavern, Chen San asked for a modest room, went upstairs, and collapsed into bed. After an entire night’s journey, his spirit was depleted—no wonder people preferred sleeping at night. He slept like the dead, utterly defenseless, snoring away as if nothing in the world could trouble him. The evil spirits and monsters wouldn’t appear during daylight.

But he gave no thought to the wickedness of people. Though he’d suffered two losses before, he blamed the peachwood sword for both. Now, a bit wiser, he wrapped the sword in a piece of clothing from his pack. Its shape was still visible, but less conspicuous.

While he was deep in dreams, the inn’s servant entered to ask what he wanted for lunch. Chen San, oblivious, hadn’t even shut the door. Seeing him sleeping like a pig, the servant’s greed was aroused, and he stole the rest of Chen San’s silver. Naturally, Chen San didn’t wake, only stirring after a few more hours, groggy and disoriented.

By then, it was dusk and the sun was setting. He wandered downstairs for dinner, ordered a few dishes, and prepared to pay, only to discover his silver was gone.

The servant feigned ignorance, demanding payment as if nothing were amiss. Chen San’s eyes darted around; he relied on his streetwise instincts, shoved the servant aside, grabbed his bundle, and bolted.

He sprinted for several miles, gasping for breath, finally collapsing onto a stone. He rummaged through his pack—his silver was truly gone, and night had fallen. Muttering curses, he pressed onward, grateful at least for his full stomach.

He lit a torch and walked, cursing as he went, his mind occupied with thoughts of what he’d eat tomorrow and where he’d stay. But with no money, he realized he’d have to make do with a bonfire in the wild.

He pondered food—heroes need to eat, after all. He wasn’t hungry yet, but when he was, he couldn’t just eat grass. He considered catching wild game, but with empty hands and only a peachwood sword, he’d have more luck catching ghosts than animals. After much thought, he found no solution.

The long night stretched on. Traveling at night posed a problem—he rarely encountered anyone, except in towns with night-watchmen, and those were few and far between.

It was his own foolishness, traveling in the dead of night. Chen San had been walking the main road for ages, so long he began to panic—why hadn’t he reached another village or town? The road never changed, never turned or branched, just a single avenue stretching endlessly forward. He began to doubt his own existence.

Usually, every hour or two, you’d encounter a village or town; sometimes, even half an hour would suffice. But this time, he’d been walking for ages, grumbling as he went—when would it end?

The road ahead was pitch-black and endless, the night warm and oppressive. Chen San’s anxiety grew. He jogged, eager to reach somewhere with people.

Another half hour passed, but the road still seemed infinite. He stopped, panting, and considered a possibility: was he caught in the legendary “ghost wall”?

Old men in Chen Family Town loved to gather and tell children spooky tales. Chen San had heard of the “ghost wall” long ago, but he couldn’t recall if they’d ever explained how to escape it.

By now, his patience was gone. Alone, walking through the night, he was tormented by the endless journey.

He planted his torch in the mud beside the road, sat cross-legged in the middle, and began reciting the calming soul incantation, trying to sense the old man’s spirit. He searched for a long time, but sensed nothing.

Chen San opened his eyes, wondering if the old man had vanished. He tried to sense the spirit tiger, but the silvery glow did not appear in his spiritual awareness.

He was stunned. Spiritual sensing wasn’t limited by distance; it worked anywhere, provided your spirit was strong enough—the old man had told him so. Now, he was even more anxious.

He knew no other yin-yang techniques besides the summoning spell; faced with the “ghost wall,” he had no recourse. He sighed and lay back, exhausted.

Gazing up at the stars, his mind wandered. The “ghost wall” was troublesome, but he’d likely walk out of it by daylight. His thoughts drifted to Chen Xin, and he lost himself in memories.

Just as he was grinning foolishly, a man dressed as a Taoist suddenly flew out from the roadside.

With a thud, he landed in front of Chen San, startling him. Before he could react, a burly man—a head taller and resembling a villager—charged out from the roadside, heading straight for the Taoist.

The scene was so surreal that Chen San could hardly believe his eyes. How had they appeared from the roadside? How had two men emerged from thin air? Before he could process it, the burly villager lifted the Taoist and hurled him at Chen San.

Chen San, still lost in thought, didn’t react in time. With a heavy thud, he was struck squarely, his head spinning, chest aching, nearly unable to breathe.

He hurriedly pushed the Taoist aside. Without the spirit tiger and the old man, he was just an ordinary person, and facing this towering villager, he knew he couldn’t win. He grabbed the torch from the ground and swung it at the villager.

The villager dodged backward, wary of the torch, hesitant to approach. The Taoist finally caught his breath; blood stained his lips, his robe was torn, his peachwood sword broken, and he gasped raggedly, clearly battered.

Before he could recover, the villager charged again, heading straight for Chen San. Chen San waved the torch, ready to burn him.

But this time, the villager made no effort to dodge—he grabbed the burning end of the torch with one hand, and with the other, swung at Chen San. Chen San was astonished; even a fool wouldn’t grab a burning torch with his bare hand.

Before he could react, the villager’s palm slapped him across the face, leaving him dizzy and nearly unconscious.

The Taoist, just getting up, flew in with a broken peachwood sword and kicked the villager, sending him stumbling back several steps.

“Get up, stop playing dead!” the Taoist spat blood and barked at Chen San, but Chen San, dizzy and dazed, didn’t respond. Left with no choice, the Taoist pulled out a yellow talisman from his robe.

He bit his finger and smeared blood on the talisman, then pressed it toward the villager. The villager didn’t dodge, swinging his fist in response.

Both men struck each other simultaneously. The Taoist was hit hard in the chest, rolling twice before stopping, barely able to support himself, coughing up blood—he looked close to death.

The villager fared no better. The yellow talisman was stuck to his forehead, and in an instant, a disheveled soul was expelled from his body. The villager tumbled backward, but before he hit the ground, the soul returned to his body.

After a moment, Chen San recovered. As all three lay motionless, a stunningly beautiful woman appeared behind Chen San. Her long hair flowed, her eyes cold as she gazed indifferently at the villager.

Her ethereal beauty was such that, if she were alive, few men would not be bewitched. She was the ghost spirit—the one the old man said would follow Chen San down the mountain.

Chen San had seen her before, but now that his soul had returned to his body, he could no longer perceive her. The Taoist, however, saw her immediately; his furrowed brow and anxious gaze seemed to warn Chen San that something was behind him.

The Taoist sat up, took a deep breath, his heart a tumult of emotions. One crisis not yet resolved, and another greater one had appeared. He opened his heavenly eye, and only when she revealed herself could he see her. It seemed they would not leave tonight.

His brow furrowed more deeply. Chen San, meanwhile, felt nothing and didn’t notice the Taoist’s anxious expression. He wondered if the Taoist’s head had been damaged—why wasn’t he looking at the villager but at himself?

As the Taoist prepared for a desperate struggle, the ghost spirit spoke.

“Taoist, I am a person from Chen Family Town a century ago, wronged and unable to reincarnate. I follow this child down the mountain, needing him to help me find my remains, but I bear no ill intent.”

She glanced at the villager lying on the ground and continued, “One of his souls has been expelled; as long as the resentful ghost remains in his body, you’ll be powerless against him. Why not use your earlier method to force the ghost out again? I’ll possess his body, leaving no place for the ghost to hide. In this Soul-Trapping Formation, you can easily subdue it.”

Chen San’s luck was never good—the old man’s predictions were accurate. Without some life-preserving techniques, he’d encounter endless obstacles. In just a few days of travel, he’d met the drowned woman and the snake keeper; this time, it wasn’t a ghost wall, but the Taoist’s great formation.

The Taoist had set up a Bagua Soul-Trapping Formation, combined with the art of Qimen Dunjia, to trap and destroy the resentful ghost attached to his disciple—the villager. He knew the ghost could confuse minds and seize souls, so he took extra precautions and set up a powerful formation.

That explained why Chen San, after walking so long, couldn’t escape. His path lay within the Bagua Soul-Trapping Formation’s range. The Taoist hadn’t planned so thoroughly at midnight.

Hearing the ghost spirit, the Taoist dared not be careless. Both were no ordinary souls; the female ghost, invisible even to his heavenly eye until she revealed herself, surely possessed cultivation equal to his own—especially as he was now badly wounded.

Yet the ghost spirit was right: as long as the resentful ghost remained in his disciple’s body, he was powerless. With one soul expelled, forcing the ghost out would be easy, but missing a soul meant the ghost could easily return.

The Taoist looked at the ghost spirit, then at his slowly rising disciple.

“All right, I’ll risk it. I’ll force out the resentful ghost, and you possess his body.”

Chen San was bewildered; unable to see or hear the ghost spirit, he was dumbfounded by the Taoist’s sudden declaration.

He stammered, “I—I’ve only been possessed before, never possessed anyone myself…”

The Taoist rolled his eyes and ignored him. His disciple was already running over. The Taoist reached into his pocket—no talismans left—so he bit his finger and quickly drew a banishing symbol on his palm.

As he finished the last stroke, his disciple arrived. The Taoist slapped his palm onto the disciple’s chest—not a powerful blow, but the symbol’s force was far greater than any yellow talisman.

The resentful ghost was blasted from the body, flying far away. In an instant, the ghost spirit darted to the disciple and merged with his body.

She took control and moved to stand beside the Taoist. The ghost, shaken by the blood-drawn symbol, saw its host taken and tried to flee.

But within the Bagua Soul-Trapping Formation, unless the Taoist closed it, no one could escape except a master—a vengeful soul even less so. The formation trapped souls thoroughly; even Chen San couldn’t sense the old man’s spirit inside it.

Unable to escape, the Taoist rushed over, and with another palm, slammed a banishing symbol onto the ghost’s forehead, scattering its soul in an instant.