Volume One: The Journey of the Useless—Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Sixty-Eight: Six Coins to Command the Heavens, A Lamb Among Tigers

Although the mountains and rivers along the way were increasingly picturesque, as they drew closer to Zhufeng Town, Yang Chengzi’s unease only grew. A vague sense of foreboding gnawed at him, as though something were about to happen. Watching Chen San lounge about with a blade of wild grass dangling from his lips, Yang Chengzi felt certain that, whatever the trouble, it would no doubt have something to do with Chen San. As they hurried along, he constantly glanced around, worried that those attuned to the spiritual energies of heaven and earth might track them here.

Monk Suichang noticed Yang Chengzi’s disturbed state and asked casually, “Yang Chengzi, why are you so unsettled? This isn’t like your usual calm demeanor.”

Yang Chengzi and the others paused to rest for a moment.

Frowning, Yang Chengzi replied, “Master, the further we go, the more I sense something will happen—not just ahead of us, but I think someone may already be pursuing us from behind as well.”

Monk Suichang nodded. “After so many hard-fought battles lately, both mind and body are weary. We’ve had wolves before us and tigers behind, unable to relax for even a moment. Perhaps this constant tension has you on edge.”

Yang Chengzi sighed. “You’re right, Master. These past days have been exhausting. Thankfully, once we pass Zhufeng Town we’ll reach Chen Family Town. If we had to keep this up for another six months, I’d probably go mad even if I didn’t drop dead from fatigue.”

Chen San, with a lotus leaf on his head, sat down heavily and looked at Yang Chengzi with a languid air. “Daoist Yang, aren’t you a priest? Isn’t fortune-telling what you do best? Come on, don’t panic—why not cast a divination and see if our prospects are good or ill?”

Chang Yu’s large eyes blinked as she looked at Yang Chengzi, nodding in agreement.

Glancing back at the road they’d just traveled, Yang Chengzi decided that rather than continue second-guessing himself, he might as well consult the fates and find some peace of mind, whether good or bad. Resolute, he took a deep breath, retrieved his bundle from Monk Suichang’s reclining chair, and pulled out a yellow talisman and six copper coins. Seeing Yang Chengzi truly preparing to divine their fate, Chang Yu’s curiosity was piqued; she watched his every move with keen attention.

Yang Chengzi placed the coins in his palm, clasped his hands together with the yellow talisman pinched between his fingers, and began to intone the incantation. Suddenly, the talisman burst into flames. He opened his left hand, and the six coins lined up neatly across his palm. Despite holding his hand vertically, the coins didn’t fall. With his right hand shaped as a sword, he swept over the coins, producing a metallic “zing.”

Chen San was taken aback—how could a mere touch produce such a resonant sound? And why didn’t the coins fall? Just as he stared in bewilderment, the fourth coin suddenly sprang into the air, spun several times, and landed upright in the dirt.

Yang Chengzi first examined the divinatory pattern formed by the remaining five coins, then picked up the one embedded in the earth. His face turned ashen, like congealed blood.

Chang Yu was wide-eyed with amazement.

Monk Suichang shook his head at Yang Chengzi’s expression. “Fate is fixed, whether you calculate it or not. That’s why priests and fortune-tellers never divine their own fortunes. Whatever the result, nothing changes from before you cast the lot. Let’s hurry along—time is short, and we should reach Zhufeng Town before night falls. The secrets of heaven must not be revealed. Keep it to yourself, and the rest of you, don’t ask further.”

Chen San shot Monk Suichang a look of disdain. He’d been about to inquire about the result, but the monk had blocked him before he could even speak. It was as if he’d swallowed a fly—disgusted, but unable to spit it out.

Chang Yu, noticing Yang Chengzi’s grim visage, was much more perceptive than Chen San. Even if the monk hadn’t spoken, she wouldn’t have pressed for answers.

Yang Chengzi collected the coins with a grave look, muttered a few dismissive words, and the group continued on their way.

Dusk was approaching—within an hour, the sun would set. They picked up their pace, not stopping for further rest, hurrying toward Zhufeng Town.

Though few villagers in Zhufeng Town still farmed, some of the older generation stubbornly planted a little grain for reasons unknown even to themselves. In truth, it didn’t matter—every household had more food than they could ever eat. Most of the villagers’ work was for the black market or for grave-robbing.

As soon as they entered Zhufeng Town, Yang Chengzi’s uneasiness intensified. Night was falling, and as in every small town, the streets were deserted. They asked a local for directions to the inn.

The town was small; before long, they found their lodging. It was less an inn than a courtyard with four empty rooms, as if prepared especially for them.

Chen San swaggered in and ordered four large bowls of rice and three whole chickens and ducks for the younger men. Yang Chengzi and Monk Suichang requested vegetarian dishes, while Chang Yu insisted on a fish. The group fell to their meal with gusto.

On the western edge of town lived Old Qu, the second son. As soon as Yang Chengzi’s party arrived, someone informed him. This kind of business delivered to one’s door—how could Old Qu let it slip by? In the past, at most two travelers would pass through; this time was different—seven or eight in one go, a lucrative opportunity. In Old Qu’s eyes, every one of them meant silver, and he had already prepared rooms for them, with food and drink aplenty. Once they were befuddled, the silver would be his.

Half an hour later, Old Qu and more than a dozen young men were waiting near Yang Chengzi’s room, awaiting a signal from their accomplice inside.

The waiter outside the room occasionally listened for sounds, peeking through the cracks to see if the sedative had taken effect. Finally, after a tense wait, Yang Chengzi was the last to slump onto the table. The house fell silent.

The waiter, anxious that they might not be fully asleep, waited a little longer before signaling Old Qu and the others. Restless from waiting, they rushed over at the sign, several wielding hatchets.

Arriving at the courtyard, they asked about the situation inside and, reassured, prepared to act. They kicked open the door—inside, all was quiet. Every one of them, including Yang Chengzi, was slumped over the table, unresponsive despite the commotion.

Old Qu grinned viciously at the sight. “Come on, carry them all down to the cellar. Kill them over there—don’t dirty this place. Two hundred taels each, and here we have seven or eight—fifteen, sixteen hundred taels in one go. Don’t know if anyone wants the other organs—it’s a shame to bury so many. Ha! Quick, quick!”

With so many people, it took two trips to carry them all to the cellar, where they were thrown among other corpses. The other bodies were already being used for soul extraction, black talismans pasted to their foreheads—some had turned gray. The villagers were practiced in murder, as indifferent as if slaughtering chickens or ducks.

Three of the young men drew their hatchets and swung them down at Chang Yu, Yang Chengzi, and Chen San. At that critical moment, Yang Chengzi’s hand shot out and seized the blade aimed at himself and Chang Yu. Chen San likewise caught the hatchet poised above his brow, twisting the attacker’s arm so it bent at a grotesque angle, then kicked the hilt.

With a metallic clang, the hatchet—lifted by Chen San’s kick—plunged into the villager’s abdomen. A wretched scream rang out as blood flooded the floor. Monk Suichang also rose, taking the prayer beads from his neck to shield the younger companions.

Yang Chengzi hurled the two attackers he’d seized, sending them flying past himself and Chang Yu. They crashed to the ground, knocked unconscious. Yang Chengzi then shielded Chang Yu behind him, forming hand seals. In an instant, his living soul burst from his body, charging at the young men brandishing hatchets.

Old Qu was still stunned when the hatchets clattered to the ground. Several of the village youths collapsed to their knees in agony, eyes wide with pain, consciousness ebbing away.

Yang Chengzi’s soul grasped the souls of four villagers. Without their souls, ordinary people lost consciousness at once. Tossing aside the souls, he charged at the other villagers, repeating the process. In a flash, all but Old Qu were on their knees, succumbing to oblivion.

Old Qu was terrified—clearly, he’d run into practitioners wielding sorcery. He turned to flee the cellar.

With a bang, Chen San kicked the heavy iron door shut, blocking his escape. With nowhere to run, Old Qu steeled himself and charged at Chen San, thinking to knock him down and make a break for it. But as soon as he moved, Chen San’s foot crashed into his chest, sending him flying with a muffled groan, landing at Yang Chengzi’s feet.

Yang Chengzi’s soul was unrelenting. As Old Qu struggled to stand, the soul seized his own soul in a vice-like grip.

“I’ll ask, you answer. Lie to me once, and your soul will be scattered—no one can save you.”

Though in agony, Old Qu retained consciousness—Yang Chengzi had not pulled his soul from his body, only gripped it tightly. Nodding in pain, Old Qu acquiesced.

To Chang Yu, the scene was bewildering. Yang Chengzi hadn’t even moved, yet everyone had fallen to their knees. And why was Old Qu nodding to him? Question after question crowded her mind.

“What did you do to those people?” Yang Chengzi’s first question concerned the corpses with talismans, just as Chen San and the others had expected. The stench of rot had assaulted them the moment they entered the cellar.

Old Qu answered through clenched teeth, “They’re all beggars from around Wucheng. We… we killed them—for silver. Two hundred taels apiece.”