Volume One: The Journey of the Misfit Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Sixty-Five: A Moment’s Oversight The Desolate Mountain Village

Yang Chengzi had always harbored a question in his heart, so he asked it aloud. Chen San had no answer, but Suichang, the monk, might know. Why was it that the Daoist ancestors Chen San summoned seemed different from what Yang Chengzi could perceive? Suichang didn’t immediately understand. Yang Chengzi explained further, “Though our methods of invoking the spirits differ, I’ve noticed that Chen San seems able to sense Daoist ancestors from several centuries ago, whereas we orthodox Maoshan disciples can only perceive the divine consciousness left behind by ancestors from a hundred years past. This disparity astounds me, and I don’t believe it’s merely a matter of technique.”

Suichang nodded, grasping the meaning: Chen San could summon the divine consciousness of the ancestors’ ancestors, even further back, while Maoshan disciples could only reach their immediate masters. Suichang recalled his experiences slaying demons alongside Old Taixuan, who also practiced the invocation technique. Like Yang Chengzi, Taixuan could summon more powerful spirit consciousness than they could, but even he did not reach Chen San’s level.

Though Suichang had only witnessed Chen San’s summoning of a Daoist ancestor once, that single instance left an indelible mark on him. To say the ancestor was powerful enough to scorn all living things might be an exaggeration, but to describe him as invincible was no overstatement. Most remarkable was that Chen San lacked any foundation in Daoist arts; if he had one, and the ancestor could employ spells through him, Chen San would be more formidable than any orthodox Maoshan priest.

At this thought, Suichang suddenly started, as if he had figured something out. Yang Chengzi noticed and hurriedly asked, “Master, did you think of something?”

Suichang glanced at Chen San, who looked back at him in confusion. The two exchanged a look. Suichang said uncertainly, “Could it be because he doesn’t know Daoist arts, has no spiritual foundation?”

Yang Chengzi didn’t follow—what did that have to do with perceiving the spirit consciousness? He looked at the master in puzzlement.

The master seemed more sure now, nodding. “Perhaps it really is because he has no Daoist foundation. The summoning methods may differ, but I know a bit about Taixuan’s technique—the incantation and perception are separate, meaning the divergence lies only in the incantation. Taixuan’s method truly can summon the spiritual soul, but perception depends on one’s cultivation, not the incantation. The spirit consciousness is a soul-like imprint left behind by the ancestors, lingering between heaven and earth as their final gift. After their ascension, they remain to protect the living, and to guard the younger generation of the sect. Yet once the spirit is summoned and possesses the host, the consciousness dissipates—there is a choice involved in this process.”

Yang Chengzi still didn’t understand and pressed for details. “Master, please explain more. I am slow-witted and don’t grasp it at all.”

Suichang continued, “Which Daoist ancestor was not versed in the arts of yin and yang, able to comprehend the cosmos? Their post-ascension fortune was calculated precisely. For example, this ancestor intended to impart to you the Heavenly Eight Trigrams Formation—how much you can learn is your own fortune, this is your fated connection with him.”

At this, Yang Chengzi seemed to grasp it. He pondered Suichang’s words—so, when Grandmaster Guangyuan had conveyed the Shangqing Sword and the Eight Great Incantations, it was the ancestor’s spirit consciousness choosing him.

The two continued discussing the events of recent days, until Changyu called them for dinner. Chen San listened only to the part about the summoning technique, then closed his eyes to silently recite the calming incantation.

Changyu had cooked some porridge for Chen San, who complained it was too bland and received a scolding. Fortunately, his soul power recovered quickly; after eating and meditating with the calming incantation, by dusk Chen San could already get out of bed.

During dinner, Chen San heard Yang Chengzi instructing Lu Qichang on the array used to slay corpse-men, finally learning that he had been unconscious for two days and missed much. The name “corpse-man” alone set it apart from other ghosts—unfortunately, he’d missed the opportunity. At least there was plenty of wild boar meat left, and Chen San made up for the missed meals by eating heartily.

Night fell. The group laid bedding in the main room; Chen San, nearly recovered, no longer slept on the bed but traded places with Suichang, joining the young men and chatting. Changyu still slept at the edge, next to Yang Chengzi. Not long after, Lu Qichang’s door was knocked.

The visitor was an elderly man, breathing heavily in panic, clearly audible even through the door. Lu Qichang got up and opened it—it was Uncle Fu from the east end of the village. Seeing everyone sprawled about, he paid no mind to propriety, urgently pulling Lu Qichang aside.

Uncle Fu’s bedridden wife had just passed away. Lu Qichang was the only Daoist priest in the area; all rituals and burial arrangements fell to him, so Uncle Fu had come in a hurry.

Lu Qichang told Uncle Fu to return home first, then went inside to prepare, taking a yellow cloth bundle and heading out. Yang Chengzi wanted to lend a hand, but Lu Qichang stopped him—such rituals need not trouble the senior Maoshan disciple; he should rest. Yang Chengzi did not insist, closed the door, and everyone settled down for the night.

That night, Lu Qichang would not return—on the first night of such rituals, one does not sleep; on the second, only a brief nap is taken; by the third day, after the coffin is sealed, there is little left to do apart from family vigil, and the priest can rest. Until the seventh day burial, unless the village has special customs, this is the usual practice.

After Lu Qichang left, Changyu grew fearful. Hearing of a death in the village, she dared not even breathe loudly, clinging to Yang Chengzi’s hand and refusing to let go. Unable to dissuade her, Yang Chengzi allowed it.

The night passed uneventfully. At dawn, the rooster crowed, and Suichang rose, sitting by the bed to wash up. Suddenly, he noticed the array he had laid and was startled—he had traded places with the young men last night, and Yang Chengzi, likely exhausted, hadn’t noticed. Without the array’s concealment, the spiritual energy was too conspicuous, and after lingering so long, there was a risk that those with ill intent might track them. Alarmed, he hobbled out and went to wake Chen San, dragging him back to the bed before feeling at ease.

Chen San, still sleepy, cared for nothing but continuing to rest. Yang Chengzi, seeing it was the master, asked no questions and went back to sleep.

Later, Suichang, with nothing to do, cooked porridge for everyone. Early in the morning, having hot food ready was a delight. Chen San was almost fully recovered, not quite vigorous but able to run a few steps. The group tidied up, ready to depart, but Suichang did not realize that his carelessness that night would bring mortal peril.

They went to the east end of the village to bid farewell to Lu Qichang, then left Beixian Village. After passing one small town, they would reach Chen Family Town. The town was not far from Beixian—thirty to forty li at most. Compared to other places, this town was peculiar.

Its name was Zhufeng Town—a refined name, though the town itself was anything but. It was only a bit larger than Beixian Village, just an acre or two more, but the inhabitants did not live by farming. Old Qu in Zhufeng Town was highly respected; his word was law, and though the population was small, all depended on him. If nothing befell him, the townsfolk lived comfortably. The story began with Old Qu.

Over ten years ago, Zhufeng Town was a run-down mountain hamlet. Unlike other villages, it had no decent land for growing grain—just about a hundred souls, with only three acres of arable land, not nearly enough to feed them.

Beyond those scant acres, the rest was mostly stone rather than soil, hard as iron. Forget farming—even if you could turn up a bit of earth, the real question was whether your hoe would break. With food scarce, villagers had to improvise, planting sweet potatoes and corn wherever a patch of dirt could be found. They didn’t care how much could be harvested; as long as something might grow, it was worth planting.

When that failed, they hunted for wild game—but truth be told, the mountains here weren’t really mountains, the waters weren’t really rivers. Even catching a fish was tough, and wild game was rare. Unlike Chen Family Town, which had a back mountain, the hills here were barren, with little soil, scant grass and trees, and thus few animals. So, the villagers ate whatever they could catch.

For generations, the villagers lived in this harsh, impoverished environment—hungry, cold, without money, the village grew poorer and life harder. Isolated as it was, nobody came except those passing through. This persisted until Old Qu became village chief.

Usually, the village head was a respected elder, but Old Qu earned the position through cursing. He was just over thirty when he became chief, still a bachelor, with parents dead early and an older brother lost in childhood. He grew up alone, much like Chen San.

Old Qu was different from others—eccentric, always doing things his own way. He didn’t just act differently; he couldn’t stand others doing things differently, and would scold them, loudly and relentlessly, like a shrew. He never hit anyone, but he was burly, taller than all the villagers, strong as an ox despite eating little. On the day he became chief, he got into a shouting match—this was how he won the title.

His opponent was his neighbor, and the dispute was over a meager patch of corn. With no land, everyone planted wherever they could. The neighbor had poked two kernels into a crack in the stones in front of his door—not expecting much, but hoping something might sprout.

Oddly enough, things really could grow in stone crevices, though not much. Just as the neighbor finished planting, Old Qu saw it and started cursing, nose to nose. Why? Because the path in front of the neighbor’s house was Old Qu’s route in and out. If a corn stalk grew, it would block his way. For this reason, Old Qu cursed for nearly half an incense stick’s time.

Everyone in the village knew his temper; none wanted to argue with him, lest they be subjected to endless verbal abuse. A burly man standing at your door, scolding until your scalp tingled—who could endure it? The neighbor, Old Huang, wanted no trouble, but Old Qu was unstoppable, and after half an incense’s time, Old Huang burst out and joined in the cursing.

Seeing someone engage him, Old Qu got even more fired up. As the shouting continued, Old Huang’s entire family came out to join, voices multiplying. Old Qu was outnumbered for the first time, and, red-eyed, he charged forward.