Volume One: The Journey of the Useless—Blazing Demon Slayer Chapter 24: Outside Hanshan Temple—A Perilous Moment

Yang Chengzi spoke with utmost seriousness, yet Chen San’s pain was so intense that his legs trembled. He clenched his teeth, eyes shut, and, shivering, slowly rose to his feet. As he stood, he muttered under his breath, “You’re ruthless, just wait—I’ll find time to teach you a lesson from my family’s Three Character Classic.”

Clutching his face and eyes still closed, Chen San followed after Yang Chengzi, mumbling all the while. Yang Chengzi laughed and replied, “I told you—I couldn’t think of a better way. Didn’t you keep saying ‘hurry, hurry, hurry’? Look how quick it was. Just one ‘ah’ and it’s done. Let’s go, stop whining. For a grown man, what’s a little wound? Honestly, stop dragging your feet.”

Hearing this, Chen San was so exasperated he nearly fainted, rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. Anyway, you’ll never get a wife, so I’ll let this go. Let’s move on, keep walking. By the way, is this Great Northern Dipper Incantation really powerful? Does this mean I’ll never have to fear ghosts or evil spirits again?”

“Of course it’s powerful. It’s one of Daoism’s Eight Great Incantations, and among them, the Great Northern Dipper Incantation is the most potent for slaying monsters and banishing evil. It borrows the force of the heavenly stars, calls down heavenly fire and thunderbolts, and forcibly destroys demons and malignant spirits.”

“Is it really that powerful?”

“Nobody’s ever really used it, so I can’t say for sure. As for you, you only have the incantation branded on your back. Ordinary wandering ghosts and minor spirits will keep their distance, but if you run into a fierce specter or a great demon, it won’t help much. And the brand only lasts twelve days—after that, the power fades and all you’re left with is a scar.”

Chen San hadn’t yet dropped his hand from his face before pretending to swoon, but Yang Chengzi caught him and, draping an arm over his shoulders, walked on, saying, “It’s not bad—you get twelve days of safety. We had no brush or ink, and besides, I did it exactly as you asked. You can’t blame me for everything…”

And so the two walked on, talking as they went, as the sky slowly darkened. A few more hours’ journey and they’d reach Cold Mountain Temple. The moon and stars shone bright overhead, illuminating the road so clearly that there was no need for torches.

The brand of the Great Northern Dipper Incantation on Chen San’s back still burned fiercely, making his scalp numb and his whole body itch. The hour-long walk felt as torturous as being scratched by a hundred claws. Yet, undeniably, ever since the incantation was branded into his back, wandering ghosts and vagrants truly did avoid them; now and then one might appear in the distance, but vanished long before they drew near. Seeing the effect, Chen San reluctantly accepted the brand, though the pain was almost unbearable.

As Yang Chengzi had said, had he known beforehand, he never would have dared to endure it. After thinking it over, he realized he wouldn’t have gone through with it—the brand only lasted twelve days, so he might as well have let the ghosts follow him, especially since the spirit tiger could handle them. Yang Chengzi really did know him well; perhaps there was truth to the saying that Daoist priests could read fate and faces with uncanny accuracy.

He was just about to ask Yang Chengzi for tips on divination and fortune-telling when six loud, consecutive booms rang out up ahead. Both men looked up toward the source of the sound.

Not far off, several enormous golden prayer beads appeared in the sky, ghostly and luminous, soaring upward before swelling in size and suddenly plunging straight down, striking the ground with another series of resounding booms.

Yang Chengzi, recognizing the vision at once, called out, “Quick, there’s a great monk exorcising demons ahead—we must hurry!”

Before Chen San could reply, Yang Chengzi was already more than thirty yards away.

Chen San froze, regret welling up inside him. He never should have listened to the old man and set out on this journey. In just a few days, they’d encountered demons great and small, as if reliving the trials of the Tang Monk’s pilgrimage—eighty-one tribulations, with death looming each time.

As for Master Taiyuan, after much pleading, he’d agreed to find him a powerful protector, and yet he’d ended up with someone who seemed to attract trouble wherever he went. Wasn’t it just his luck? Biting his lip, legs still weak, unable to keep up, he summoned the spirit tiger.

The spirit tiger immediately sensed Chen San’s intent to ride it in pursuit of Yang Chengzi and gave a great roar, shaking Chen San’s very soul. Only after Chen San promised it several roasted hares and pheasants did the tiger reluctantly agree to carry him forward, and the two arrived almost simultaneously at the scene of the commotion.

Before Chen San could dismount, a figure came hurtling toward him, crashing against a tree before slumping to the ground. Sure enough, it was a monk in a gilded kasaya, his staff lying some distance away—he looked half-dead from the impact.

The monk struggled to sit up against the tree, blood streaming from his mouth—he must have suffered internal injuries.

Yang Chengzi hadn’t moved. Chen San, surprised to see him so still, turned to look and found Yang Chengzi standing with eyes closed, his Supreme Purity Sword unsheathed and glowing red as if freshly forged.

Only then did Chen San realize the monk must have been thrown there, and he quickly scanned the surroundings. There was no sign of any ghostly creature, except for a tree nearby exuding a black miasma.

Startled, Chen San called out, “Has this tree become a demon? Monk, were you beaten by a tree?”

The monk was too weak to answer, blood still pouring from his lips.

The spirit tiger beside him also let out a roar toward the distant tree, but did not charge.

“Look carefully,” Yang Chengzi said, “That’s no demon tree—it must be a formidable ghost, and a cunning one at that.”

Yang Chengzi formed the thunder seal with his hands, stepped into the stance of the Heavenly Canopy, and slashed the Supreme Purity Sword through the air. “Fall!”

Thunder had already begun to rumble overhead, and silvery bolts of lightning followed the sword’s tip, crashing down.

With two tremendous crashes, twin bolts of heavenly thunder struck the tree. As the tree exploded under the thunder’s force, Chen San at last saw the ghost hiding behind it—a dense black mass, floating atop the shattered trunk.

“What is that?” he blurted.

Yang Chengzi opened his eyes at last. “I have no idea, but it’s certainly no tree demon. And to withstand heavenly thunder—it’s the most powerful ghost I’ve ever encountered. No wonder the monk was so badly hurt. Traveling with you, I really do encounter every kind of trouble.” With that, he raised two fingers and began chanting, opening his spirit-eyes.

Chen San furrowed his brows, rolling his eyes. “Wasn’t it you who insisted we come over here? How is this my fault?”

With his spirit-eyes open, Yang Chengzi charged forward, sword blazing like molten iron. With a single slash, the black miasma burrowed into the earth, leaving a long scorched mark on the trunk.

Yang Chengzi thrust the Supreme Purity Sword into the ground, but before he could pierce deep, a mass of black vapor shot out, aiming straight for his chest.

With a dull thud, his soul was blasted out of his body, only to snap back an instant later. He staggered back, shaken—he had underestimated this ghost. Whatever it was, it was incredibly powerful, able to use its aura alone to force his soul from his body.

If this creature broke free, they’d all be doomed. He considered using a sealing technique, but before he could even start chanting, another black shape burst from the earth and merged with the miasma above, slowly descending from the air.

“Damn it!”

When it rains, it pours. Faced with this apparition, all thought of sealing was futile. The ghost's form flickered between substance and shadow, its entire body encased in silver-black dragon-scale armor, as if the armor were fused to its flesh.

Within its silver helmet, no head could be seen—only twin bursts of black vapor where the eyes should have been, glowing ominously.

Its hands and feet were shackled with long iron chains, each chain black as ink, gleaming with an eerie luster, covered in dense, blood-red patterns.

Yang Chengzi knew at once that this was no thing of the mortal realm. He called out frantically, “Chen San, quickly—invoke the Spirit Summoning Rite! Call upon the strongest divine will you can sense! This ghost has escaped from the underworld, from the very depths of hell. Anything that can break through hell’s seals is far beyond our power to defeat!”

Chen San nearly fainted at that. The ghost, though terrifying, had until then inspired no particular dread in him—he’d always thought you only knew how dangerous something was after you fought it.

That was the difference between the experienced and the uninitiated. But Yang Chengzi’s words were clear.

Though Yang Chengzi and Chen San hadn’t known each other long, they’d already faced several great demons and ghosts together, and Yang Chengzi had never once shown fear.

But now, faced with this specter, he declared flatly that they could not win—a realization that left Chen San struggling to breathe.

“What are you waiting for? Hurry—have the spirit tiger drag the master monk away first!”

Yang Chengzi’s urgent cry snapped Chen San out of his fear. “Sp-sp-spirit tiger, quick, get the master out of here!”

He glanced at Yang Chengzi, who held the Supreme Purity Sword, his weary face and fluttering green robe lending him a tragic dignity in the wind.

Yang Chengzi was not much older than Chen San, yet always risked his life to protect him. Though obedience to his master’s orders left him little choice, Chen San could not help but feel guilty.

Looking at Yang Chengzi’s back, he was seized with foreboding—this time, they might both die here.

Chen San closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. “Hang in there, please—I haven’t married yet, I don’t want to die!”

With that, he swiftly formed the ritual seals: Chou, Shen, Zi, Hai, You, Mao, Wei. In an instant, his mind emptied, his spirit expanded, searching the vast heavens for the greatest divine will. Countless golden spirits flashed past his awareness.

These were the divine wills left behind by Daoist ancestors at the moment of their ascension. In Chen San’s perception, none seemed especially powerful; there seemed no way to find the greatest will Yang Chengzi had mentioned.

Meanwhile, Yang Chengzi refrained from attacking. Against this ghost, he had no confidence. All he could do was buy time until Chen San summoned a god to possess him, and then attempt his own spirit-invoking ritual—perhaps they would have a slim chance.

The black aura swirling around the ghost suddenly exploded, surging into its silver helmet. Sensing danger, Yang Chengzi feared the specter would attack, putting Chen San in grave peril, so he darted forward, slashing down with his blazing sword.

The ghost raised an arm to block, producing a thunderous clang. Yang Chengzi’s hand went numb with shock, and he staggered back, while the ghost stood unmoved.

He had used nearly all his strength in that blow, yet the ghost was unscathed, its black aura still gathering into the helmet.

He stomped his right foot, drew the sword blade across his palm, and let his blood cover the Northern Dipper Incantation engraved on the blade. Yang Chengzi knew that only a killing move could hope to harm the specter.

As his blood covered the incantation, he stared fixedly at the ghost and began to chant, preparing to unleash his strongest attack—the Heavenly Canopy Evil-Slaying Spell, handed down directly from his grandmaster, Master Guangyuan, who had imparted it alongside the Eight Great Incantations. The spell invoked the Northern Dipper as its guide, the caster’s own blood as sacrifice, the power of the soul as fuel, stepping the ritual steps, sword upright and chanting, calling down the force of the stars to form the Evil-Slaying Seal—seeking to suppress and destroy all evil.

He summoned the full strength of his soul, golden ripples radiating from his body.

“Thunder and wind shatter the heavens, the Northern Dipper smites all evil!”

Li, Kan, Zhen, Qian, Kun—he recited, hands moving in a blur. Above his head, the cloud sea churned, storm winds gathering overhead.

Countless crimson lights burst upward into the clouds, which surged like a great flood. As the lights entered the clouds, their tumult stilled, and the howl of the wind faded into silence.

Yang Chengzi’s face looked even more exhausted, his breath labored, yet his gaze never left the ghost, sweat pouring down his brow. Only the final step of the ritual remained.

Among all Daoist arts, the most difficult part was not the spell itself, but invoking the force of the stars. Nearly all profound spells relied on this power to slay monsters and demons.

Yang Chengzi had rarely cast such a great spell; each time, the final step always left him spent. This time, he had even drawn upon his soul’s strength.

His grandmaster had created this spell at the age of a hundred, and even then, it was no easy feat. Yang Chengzi, though prodigiously gifted and in his thirties, still lacked the deep foundation required.

At the critical moment, he gritted his teeth and raised his foot for the last step, but found he could not bring it down, as if his foot were rooted to stone.

He glanced at Chen San, who still sat with eyes closed, searching for a divine will. Turning back to the ghost, resolve shone in his eyes. He drew a deep breath.

A furious roar echoed across the heavens, veins bulging from his temples down his neck, blood streaming from his eyes and nose. He forced his foot down, and as he did, a massive black-gold incantation—the Heavenly Canopy Evil-Slaying Spell—appeared beneath the clouds, descending upon the ghost.

With all his remaining strength, Yang Chengzi completed the final step, and the spell pressed down.

At that moment, the ghost looked up. From its newly solidified silver helmet, it drew a long black spear of condensed ghostly force and struck it to the ground with a clang. The spear, jet-black and gleaming, radiated an ominous aura.

Seeing the Heavenly Canopy spell descend, the specter raised the spear in both hands, chains rattling dully, and lifted it before its brow, bracing to withstand the spell’s might.

Yang Chengzi watched, both incredulous and desperate, glancing again at Chen San.

Chen San had begun to chant, stamping the earth in supplication.

“Wind treads lightly, I invite the divine; through endless sky, let my soul advance.”

He stomped—the ground rippled like water.

As the Heavenly Canopy spell mark fell, a black-red spirit shot up from afar, piercing the clouds, then dove down and merged into Chen San’s body.

Yang Chengzi was aghast, too late to stop it. That black-red spirit was certainly not the will of a Daoist ancestor. The instant it entered Chen San’s body, he lost consciousness.

Even if Yang Chengzi had summoned it himself, his own consciousness would have been sealed away.

Under the great spell, the ghost seemed as insignificant as an ant. But as the spell impacted, the ghost’s aura erupted, and it stubbornly resisted, though cracks began to appear along its spear.

Yang Chengzi realized that the spell alone could not destroy this ghost.

While the specter struggled against the spell, Yang Chengzi seized the chance, leaping high and bringing the Supreme Purity Sword down with all his might. The blade struck the ghost’s spear, which shattered in a burst of black energy.

The Heavenly Canopy spell dissolved instantly before the surge of ghostly force, and Yang Chengzi was flung aside, knocked unconscious, his sword spinning through the air before embedding itself in the earth.

The ghost staggered back, enraged, and began to gather its strength, trying to break free of its chains.

Chen San opened his eyes—now black-red—and looked ahead. A mighty aura erupted around him, black energy swirling like a dragon drawing water, crashing like a tidal wave. The ghost’s attention was caught at once.

It ceased its struggle and looked at Chen San, suddenly speaking in a low, rasping voice: “I waited over seven hundred years for this chance at freedom. You, master of the Black Rope Hell, lord of countless lost souls—have you truly returned to the mortal world just to capture me?”