Volume One: The Worthless Set Out, Explosive Slaying of Demons Chapter Twenty-Five: Only Chen San Remains, Hell is Not Empty

Chen San gazed coldly at the ghost, a boundless, contemptuous aura surging from him as he spoke in a deep, resonant voice.

“This is but a wisp of my divine soul. You, a mere ant that escaped from Hell, even if you broke through the seal of the Eighteenth Purgatory, are still nothing. To capture you, a single strand of my soul is more than enough.”

As he finished, the black and red aura surged like a tidal wave, pressing down upon the ghost. The ghost did not retreat in the slightest; the black ghostly energy erupted again, transforming into a massive spectral hand to resist the overwhelming force, the ghostly energy gathering ceaselessly within the silver helmet.

Chen San made no move. Three Heaven-Overturning Seals descended from the surging waves, thundering down onto the spectral hand formed by the black energy. The spectral hand did not shatter, as ghostly energy from beneath the ground kept pouring in to reinforce it. Yet, under the weight of the three Heaven-Overturning Seals, the ghost was forced to one knee, unable to rise.

Ghostly energy frantically condensed within the hand and the silver helmet. Once more, the ghost drew forth a long, pitch-black spear from the helmet. This was no longer the shattered spear Yang Chengzi had cut down, but a flawless, jet-black weapon forged from purer ghostly energy, radiating the same black and red aura as Chen San.

With a heavy thud, the ghost propped itself up with the spear and stood. Chen San remained unmoved, closing his eyes. There were no clouds in the sky; the moon shone especially bright.

Suddenly, wails and howls began to sound from afar, growing nearer and nearer…

The ghost scanned its surroundings but saw no one. Refusing to wait for death, it instantly switched from defense to offense. With a piercing shriek, the spear thrust toward Chen San, while two streams of pure ghostly energy split off behind it, locking onto Chen San like deadly swords.

The wailing grew ever closer. Before the spear could even touch Chen San, an unbearable force pressed down. With a resounding crash, the ghost was slammed to the ground, unable to resist, the sword-like energy vanishing in an instant.

Then, in the sky, countless souls appeared, wild and untamed like stampeding horses, descending alongside heavenly fire and thunder. One after another, these souls were ignited by celestial flames, transforming in a flash into the soul of a Netherworld artifact.

This was none other than the artifact soul of “The Annihilator of All Life,” belonging to King Song, one of the Ten Lords of the Netherworld.

Like doomsday itself, the immense artifact soul swooped downward, crashing toward the immobilized ghost. The ghost, unwilling to yield, struggled desperately. It had waited seven hundred years for this chance—there would be no second opportunity. With a bang, the ghostly hand pressed against the ground, then the other burst forth, both hands pushing with all their might, straining to rise.

The artifact soul was already overhead. With a thunderous crash, it struck the ghost directly. In an instant, burning, crimson ghostly energy erupted like a meteor, sending vast ripples outward.

Crushed beneath the artifact soul, the ghost was driven, layer by layer, back into Hell, tumbling all the way to the Eighteenth Purgatory. Chains like writhing black serpents, glowing with black and red light, ensnared the ghost, dragging it straight toward the Soul-Locking Pillar of the Eighteenth Purgatory.

With a heavy thud, the ghost was pinned to the pillar, letting out a final, unwilling howl before slowly merging with it.

By now, Chen San had already collapsed, the world around him in shambles.

Yang Chengzi had long since lost consciousness. Not long after, Chen San awakened. Unlike before, when he’d been knocked out for days by a powerful divine presence, this time he awoke in just an hour or two.

It wasn’t that Chen San had grown stronger, but that the soul he’d summoned this time was from the depths of the Netherworld, not a lingering will from the mortal realm. Thus, the backlash on him was much lighter, just as it had been for the old man’s soul.

Chen San blinked, looking at the sky. Dawn had yet to break; the moon still hung overhead. He couldn’t recall why he’d fainted. Searching his memory, he remembered only that Yang Chengzi had asked him to perform the summoning ritual, forgetting even the reason for it. At the thought of Yang Chengzi, Chen San sat up abruptly.

Gazing at the devastation around him, he stood in shock for a moment before beginning to look for others. Not far away, he spotted the Shangqing Sword stuck in the ground, beside which lay Yang Chengzi, his face caked with dust.

Chen San rushed over and pulled Yang Chengzi up, shaking him and calling out, “Daoist Yang! Daoist Yang, how could you go down so easily? If you die, how will I explain to your master? Wake up! Don’t scare me like this!”

Shaking Yang Chengzi and seeing blood on his face, oozing from his eyes and nose, Chen San feared he might truly be dead. After a long while with no response, he finally set Yang Chengzi down and checked his breathing. Finding that he was still alive, Chen San let out a sigh of relief—but wondered anxiously what to do next.

Just then, he remembered the monk. He began searching the chaotic scene for him, but after a fruitless search, slapped his forehead and muttered, “Right, Linghu dragged him away.”

With a thought, Linghu appeared before him, then bounded off. Moments later, Linghu returned, dragging the monk and stopping in front of Chen San.

“Chen San.”

A cold yet gentle voice sounded, at once familiar and strange. Chen San turned in surprise—it was indeed Chen Wan’er.

Delighted, he called out, “Wan’er, you’re all right! Last time, you scared me to death. If the old man hadn’t given me that bamboo slip and told me you were in the bamboo hut, I’d have thought your soul was gone forever.”

“If Linghu hadn’t taken the beating for me and run fast, I’m afraid my soul really would have been scattered. When I got back, the old Daoist used a secret art to nurture my broken soul, and with the Spirit-Gathering Formation, I recovered in just a few days. I’m fine now, so I’ve returned,” Chen Wan’er replied calmly.

“Yes, yes, and I still need to find your remains—I almost forgot…” Chen San trailed off, glancing at the unconscious monk and the half-dead Yang Chengzi lying nearby, on the verge of tears.

“We haven’t even reached Hanshan Temple! How am I supposed to get these two there?” Utterly dispirited, Chen San imagined himself having to carry one and drag the other. He almost wished he could switch places with Yang Chengzi.

Chen Wan’er shot a look at Linghu, who instantly understood, giving Chen San a forced smile. Linghu let out a mournful roar, then turned into a streak of white light and vanished into the distance.

Chen San stared dumbly after Linghu and cursed, “Is it just one meal I owe you? Is that really necessary? Since when does a tiger care so much about rules? Can’t you just put it on my tab?”

No matter how Chen San summoned, Linghu ignored him. Chen Wan’er watched, powerless to help.

Left with no choice, Chen San hoisted Yang Chengzi onto his back and dragged the monk by the foot, inching his way toward Hanshan Temple. Fortunately, the temple was only half an hour away, but it still took Chen San an hour and a half to cover that short distance, carrying and dragging his burdens to the foot of the mountain.

Chen Wan’er drifted along leisurely beside him. Thankfully, Hanshan Temple was not perched atop a tall mountain, so by the time they arrived, dawn had already broken.

Exhausted, Chen San left the two where they were and asked Chen Wan’er to keep watch. He hurried into the temple, found the abbot, and explained the situation. The abbot sent several monks to help carry the unconscious men up the mountain.

As a soul, Chen Wan’er could not enter the temple, a place of Buddhist purity, and so she did not follow.

Dead tired, Chen San collapsed into sleep without even touching the vegetarian meal the monks had prepared. When he awoke, it was nearly dusk the next day.

He immediately sought out the monks for food, eating as he asked after Yang Chengzi and the monk’s condition. Hearing that Yang Chengzi had merely exhausted his soul force and would be fine after a few days’ rest, Chen San ate with even greater gusto.

Having gone hungry for two days, and finding a place where he could eat his fill without spending a coin, he was determined to make the most of it.

Full and satisfied, he went to find the abbot. The abbot, whose Dharma name was Suíyuán, had been a monk for forty or fifty years, entering Hanshan Temple as a child when his Buddhist aptitude first appeared. After the young monk led Chen San to the abbot’s meditation room, he withdrew.

After inviting Chen San to sit, the abbot asked about their recent experiences, listening carefully as Chen San recounted everything. From him, Chen San learned that the injured monk, Dharma name Wuchan, was the temple’s supervisor and renowned for his mastery of Buddhist arts.

Wuchan had originally set out for Fu Family Village, over a hundred miles south of Hanshan Temple, to address a strange incident that had occurred there a few days prior.

Fu Family Village, though called a village, housed several hundred people. The incident was bizarre: on a clear day with no wind or rain, a sudden crash of thunder struck a young man and an old woman dead in the fields.

They weren’t even family; the old woman had brought the young man water, but before the cup reached his hands, both were struck dead. While being killed by lightning was not unheard of, the bolt not only killed them but left a large pit in the ground.

Villagers, hearing the thunder and seeing the bodies, rushed to help but were too late. All they could do was inform the families and carry the bodies home.

An elderly man among the villagers, upon seeing the pit, recognized it as a tomb; peering inside, he saw the stone door of a burial chamber. He immediately ordered the tomb to be sealed.

To these simple villagers, ancient tombs were ominous places. They had no desire for the grave goods within, fearing bad luck or evil spirits, and kept their distance.

At first, they thought that sealing the tomb and having a Daoist perform a funeral rite would settle the matter. However, when the Daoist saw the young man’s body, he insisted it must be cremated immediately, as it could not be properly exorcised otherwise. The young man, the only son of his family and unmarried, had grieving parents who couldn’t accept cremation and refused all persuasion.

The Daoist then went to the old woman’s home and said the same thing, but with the same result. The villagers believed that cremation would prevent the soul from reincarnating, so there was no way they would allow it.

In the end, the Daoist proposed a compromise: he would perform the rite, but on two conditions—otherwise, he would withdraw. First, the bodies had to be placed in coffins immediately and exorcised together. Second, the coffins had to be sealed with coffin nails and bound with red cord. The ritual would be performed the first night, and burial must follow at dawn with no delay.

Seeing the Daoist’s urgency, the villagers suspected something was wrong and did not dare object further, reluctantly agreeing to his terms.

The coffins were placed together in the ancestral hall, as there was nowhere else suitable, and the ritual began. Though deaths by lightning were known to happen, never before had two people in the village died this way at once, fueling wild rumors.

The Daoist and some villagers kept vigil in the ancestral hall, performing the rite for the lightning victims, scarcely closing their eyes through the night.

At daybreak, the Daoist and the village head gathered eight strong men to carry the coffins for burial. But the eight men found themselves unable to lift the coffins at all. Four men to a side should have been more than enough for a hundred-pound coffin and its occupant, but neither of the two coffins budged after several tries.

As they made one last attempt, the benches holding the coffins suddenly collapsed with thunderous crashes, dropping both coffins to the ground.

This terrified the villagers, who scattered in panic. The inability to lift the coffins had already stirred unease, and now, both falling almost simultaneously, the villagers felt their hair stand on end and fled home, leaving only the bereaved families and the Daoist—the village head had vanished.

The Daoist was just an itinerant priest, skilled at burning offerings and chanting prayers, but this was beyond his depth. Realizing the matter was far more serious than he could handle, he had no idea what to do.

From the start, he’d known the case would be difficult, and that cremation was beyond his authority. He decided to try, as he’d been paid, but if it didn’t work, he could always suggest someone else. Never had he imagined things would spiral this way.

He had expected some disturbance, but not that the coffins would be impossible to move and yet so eerily quiet. It was nothing like what he’d envisioned.

With no other choice, he told the families to consult the village head, leave the coffins in the ancestral hall, seal it, and wait while he sought a Maoshan Daoist for help.

The village head, trembling with fear, agreed to everything, urging the Daoist to hurry lest more disaster befall them.

The Daoist departed at once, drawing a talisman in cinnabar on the ancestral hall door in hopes of warding off evil.

Soon after, a young monk from Hanshan Temple, on his way to another town to purchase incense materials, passed through Fu Family Village. Hearing the tale while begging for alms, he hurried back to the temple and reported to the abbot.

The abbot discussed the matter with the other elders and decided to send Wuchan to investigate. If possible, he would resolve it and prevent any demon from endangering the people.

But as luck would have it, Wuchan had barely set out before being gravely wounded and carried back—had he not met Chen San and the others, he might not have survived.

Having learned of Wuchan’s injuries, Chen San asked to visit him, and the abbot led him to the monk’s room.

Inside, Wuchan lay swathed in white bandages like a rice dumpling. Chen San was at a loss for words, unable to comfort the abbot, and since Wuchan was still unconscious, could only offer a few awkward remarks.

Finally, with nothing more to say, Chen San suggested, “Abbot, since Master Wuchan is so badly hurt, why don’t Yang Chengzi and I handle the matter at Fu Family Village? He’s not seriously injured, and once he wakes and eats something, he can be on his way. He’s the chief disciple of Maoshan—this task is perfect for him.”

The abbot nodded, making no fuss.

“You are compassionate, and Daoist Yang is from Maoshan. I entrust Fu Family Village to you. In truth, Buddhism is better suited for exorcism and ritual arrays, but for yin-yang arts, Maoshan’s expertise far surpasses ours. With you and Daoist Yang, I am sure the crisis will be resolved.”

Feigning modesty, Chen San replied, “You’re too kind, Abbot. Leave it to us.” With that, they returned to the abbot’s meditation room.

All the way back, Chen San deeply regretted opening his mouth. He wanted to slap himself. He had just been making conversation, not expecting to get himself involved in someone else’s business. The abbot had agreed so readily, leaving him no room to back out.

Lost in regret, he returned with the abbot, who then asked, “Little Master, where are you and your companion heading next?”

All this time, they’d discussed only the ghost and Fu Family Village; Chen San had forgotten why he’d come to Hanshan Temple in the first place and was momentarily stunned.

Suddenly, he slapped his thigh. “Abbot, if you hadn’t asked, I’d have forgotten! I must be tired from traveling; I felt like I was forgetting something important.”

The abbot, reading his expression, guessed the truth. “Little Master, you didn’t come here specifically for Hanshan Temple, did you? Are you looking for someone?”

Chen San nodded in surprise. “That’s right! I’m from Chen Family Town. There was a terrible incident there recently—many people died mysteriously, and I nearly died myself. Fortunately, I met an old Daoist who sent me to Hanshan Temple and Maoshan to find two people—one of whom is the Wall-Facing Monk here.”

At this, the abbot chanted a Buddhist blessing. “Amitabha. We do have such a person, but I cannot say whether the Wall-Facing Monk will go down the mountain with you.

He has been meditating in the rear mountains for nearly twenty years, sitting on the cliff’s edge through wind and sun, unmoving as a statue, still unable to let go of what weighs on his heart. Though the temple has faced many incidents, he has never left the rear mountains, and only young monks bring him meals. Even I have not seen him for years.”