Volume One: The Outcast Sets Forth Blazing Demon-Slaying Chapter Seven: The Origins of Calamity—The Daoist Ancestor

Although Chen Family Town was but a small settlement on the edge of the mountains and forests, its history was not long; the ancestors of the Chen family had come here little more than two centuries ago. Before their arrival, this land had been desolate and wild, though in the surrounding hundreds of miles, there were many villages and small towns. Not far off, in the mountains, stood a Daoist temple, its purpose to guard against the local demons and evil spirits.

Those were chaotic times, an age of rampant monsters and devils. In this wasteland, an event occurred that would later bring disaster to Chen Family Town. Within this region stood a mountain called Deer Terrace, and dwelling deep within it was an ancestral Daoist master.

During the era of demonic chaos, when monsters roamed unchecked, this Daoist ancestor, moved by compassion, would frequently descend the mountain to aid the villagers, exorcising demons and driving away evil. With each journey, his fame grew. Villages and small towns in the region all knew that atop Deer Terrace Mountain lived a formidable Daoist capable of slaying demons and evil. Many young men, drawn by his reputation, climbed the mountain to learn the arts of Daoism and the mysteries of yin and yang. To accommodate this, a temple was built—the Temple of Guarded Heart—dedicated to preserving the peace of the land.

Many villages were remote, several days’ journey from Deer Terrace, so villagers would send their young to the temple to learn basic arts for defending themselves against supernatural threats. The Daoist ancestor accepted as disciples all but those with impure hearts, guiding them in self-cultivation and training in the arts of yin and yang.

Year after year, the learning of such arts was not easy; those lacking talent or patience gradually returned to their villages, yet some managed to acquire techniques for self-preservation and healing. On the mountain remained a number of accomplished Daoists. Whenever monsters or evil spirits troubled the villages, the people would seek these Daoists, who would descend to vanquish the threats.

The Daoist ancestor would observe the heavens by night, reading the stars and casting divinations. If an anomaly appeared, he would instruct his disciples to investigate at once.

One night, while gazing at the sky, he saw an abnormal alignment—disastrous stars falling. Alarmed, he bathed and changed his robes, burned incense, and cast the divination three times. Each time, the result was the same: a sign of lost vitality, of broken smoke and extinguished fire. Though the hexagrams appeared unremarkable, the ancestor understood their true meaning—should this omen come to pass, the land would be plunged into untold suffering, all living things wiped out.

With a heavy sigh, he summoned his disciples in the night and instructed some to descend first, evacuating all villagers within a hundred miles to the forest behind Chen Family Town, ensuring their safety. The remaining disciples followed him down the mountain, where in that barren land, they laid out numerous formations of exorcism, traps set for the coming evil.

Having trained under the Daoist ancestor for over a decade, the disciples knew his abilities well. He had mastered the laws of yin and yang and wielded three great Daoist incantations. Though he could not shatter heaven and earth, slaying local demons posed little challenge—he had never failed. Now, with all disciples called down the mountain and the villagers evacuated, and with vast prohibitive arrays set across the land, they understood a catastrophe of annihilation was at hand.

They had long since taken up the mission to save the world, to protect their homeland and loved ones; there was no turning back. Each man steeled himself for death, determined to stand guard over the wasteland.

On the third day after the Daoists descended, disaster struck. Some villagers who had previously ascended the mountain to learn Daoism, though of mediocre aptitude and without hope of mastery, had returned home but managed to learn a few life-saving arts. They too joined the Daoist ancestor in the wasteland, hoping to resist the evil. Yet their shallow foundation betrayed them; before the supernatural threat even appeared, they succumbed.

One night, as several villagers slept, they died within their dreams, without a trace or warning—five perished at once. By the time the Daoist ancestor discovered this, it was too late. Even he could not fathom what spirit or demon could silently claim five lives right under his nose. Examining the bodies, he found no wounds, nor was there any damage to the souls—the three souls and seven spirits were intact—yet they had died silently in their sleep.

Suddenly, a dreadful realization flashed through his mind. In the vast course of millennia, legendary figures had faced world-ending monsters. Of these, there was but one kind that could slay people within their dreams, not by killing, but by drawing them silently into an illusion from which they could never return. These were the Dream Phantoms—Chimei and Wangliang.

Daoist texts recorded that these two were ancient demon pairs: Chimei lured people into dreams, Wangliang trapped them in illusions. Once ensnared, the spirit would wander eternally within the dream world, while the body, though its souls intact, would perish from lost vitality—a silent death in sleep. Any living creature with a soul was vulnerable; none could escape the danger of being drawn into such an illusion.

Zhong Kui, the battle spirit of the Underworld, wielded the Seven-Star Dragon Abyss Sword and was famed for slaying all manner of evil. When he attained the Dao, he encountered Chimei and Wangliang. As twin spirits, both illusory and adept at concealment, they proved impossible for even Zhong Kui to vanquish. In the end, he was forced to use a great sealing incantation to bind them at the site of their discovery.

The Daoist ancestor was shaken. If this truly was the ancient illusion demon, even sacrificing his life might not suffice. Still, though it was only a suspicion, he judged it likely enough to send a disciple up the mountain to warn the villagers never to sleep at night.

But before the disciple returned, as darkness fell, ghostly blue fires began to flicker near the wasteland’s edge, close to the village. The blue flames drifted and multiplied, while in the distance came the wailing of ghosts and wolves. The Daoists, hands slick with sweat as they gripped their ritual implements, waited in tense silence, the only sound the pounding of their hearts. They had set their formations and could only await the oncoming evil.

Night deepened. The Daoists lit torches, illuminating the wasteland, but as darkness thickened, shadowy figures began to flicker near the village—too far to see clearly. The ancestor ordered his disciples to open their spiritual eyes, revealing the true forms of the evil. With the Eye of Heaven open, they saw ghostly shapes drifting among the villages.

Though they possessed this art, opening the Eye of Heaven came with a price—shortening one’s lifespan or damaging the soul. Most Daoists rarely dared use it, but none among them now cared for their own lives. Some forbidden techniques and formations, incomplete and dangerous, were also authorized—methods that could trap and destroy, but from which there might be no escape even for their own side. Many required the sacrifice of one’s spirit, yet these were their final, desperate weapons.

Soon, the ghostly apparitions multiplied, their blue eyes glinting, their forms growing clearer as they slowly approached. A mass of beast-like eyes glimmered in the darkness as they pressed in on the Daoists, who retreated step by step until the specters reached the edge of the formation and halted.

A white mist began to spill from the shadows, spreading swiftly, engulfing the Daoists before they could withdraw. In the dead silence, the ghostly shapes lunged. The Daoists raised swords, dusters, and talismans, engaging in a desperate struggle.

They fought and fell back, but the number of apparitions was overwhelming; resistance was nearly impossible. The ancestor, brow furrowed, began to chant, forming the sigil of the Four Symbols and stepping the Seven Stars. His silver hair billowed, his bearing resolute. “Heavenly thunder, descend!” he intoned.

With a thunderous crack, a silver bolt split the sky, blasting apart swathes of the evil spirits, their shattered souls scattering like dust. One bolt equaled dozens from his disciples, carving a gap in the enemy ranks, though it was quickly filled. Again and again, thunderbolts fell.

The Daoists invoked their own arts, fighting back as best they could. Yet just as they were about to be overwhelmed, a coldly beautiful woman in a red gown appeared among the phantoms, her face icy and cruel, her smile bloodthirsty as she swept toward the Daoists.

The ancestor recognized her at once—a manifestation of Yin Fiend, formed from a century of accumulated resentment and corpse energy, her target not himself but his disciples at the front.

At that critical moment, the ancestor drew his ritual sword. It was the Chiyang Coin Sword, over three feet long, forged from black-red Chiyang metal and inlaid with seven ancient coins. With a single stride, he thrust it toward the Yin Fiend.

The Yin Fiend’s phantom melded into the mist as the ancestor landed and continued hacking at the surrounding phantoms. Finding no further sign of her, he ordered his disciples to retreat from the formation while he covered their withdrawal. When the last had fled, he activated the final Wind and Thunder Grand Array. The phantoms sensed its power and halted their advance.

Surveying the devastation, the ancestor saw that only a dozen of his hundred-odd disciples remained. Shaking his head in bitterness, he murmured, “Since time immemorial, good and evil have stood opposed. Yet in all the Three Realms, only we Daoists sacrifice ourselves for the common people. This calamity bodes ill for us.”

He turned to his followers and said, “Hear me, disciples: our bond as master and pupil ends today. From this moment, you are no longer Daoists of the Temple of Guarded Heart on Deer Terrace Mountain. The common people are no longer your concern. Your families and villagers await on the mountain—go to them. Though you are not of my sect, you must defend them with your lives. Go now! Seal the mountain road with the Eight Trigrams and Qimen Formation. I will face these demons alone and buy you time. Go!”

The disciples stared in disbelief. Their master was expelling them now? The youngest, Chang Yin, knelt in tears, clutching his master. “Master, our brothers have all perished. I have no family but you—you have raised me. I will not leave. Let my brothers go, I will stay and fight with you—”

Before he could finish, the ancestor struck him unconscious. The remaining disciples knelt as one and said, “Master, please accept your children’s final bow.”

With that, they departed into the hills. As a chill wind swept the wasteland, only the Daoist ancestor remained, facing the horde alone.

He laughed wildly. “It has been decades since I stretched my limbs. Today, I’ll use you little ghosts and monsters for practice!”

Golden light rippled from his body, his silver hair and robes billowing. He formed the Four Symbols, stepped the Seven Stars, and called down thunder again and again. The ghosts began to dwindle, yet the mist thickened, the chill deepened.

“So, at last you’ve come. Let me see what kind of fiend you truly are.” He scattered a handful of yellow talismans, which floated out in all directions. Chanting, he ignited fire after fire, burning away the mist.

In the moonlight stood the Yin Fiend, grinning eerily, shifting between mist and human form, then suddenly merging into the corpse of a Daoist slain by the phantoms.

The ancestor frowned—not because he hesitated to destroy the corpse of a disciple, but because the Yin Fiend had entered the body of a Daoist. The man had only just died; two souls and five spirits had departed, but one soul and two spirits remained. The Yin Fiend now controlled the body, which, though unconscious, retained its memories and foundation in Daoist arts. Thus, the Yin Fiend could wield Daoist techniques.

Though many arts only harmed spirits, some could devastate the living soul—among them, the forbidden spells.

The corpse rose, grinning, its body unmarked, likely killed by the phantoms dispersing its soul. It formed a seal, golden light flaring around it—a forbidden spell, the Soul-Attracting Curse, which sacrificed its own soul as bait to forcibly draw the opponent’s seven spirits into itself, killing them by soul loss.

The ancestor bit his finger, drawing a blood-red trigram in his palm, and unleashed a thunder palm at the corpse, breaking the spell and forcing it back. Wasting no time, he drew his Chiyang Coin Sword, smearing it with blood. The sword gleamed black and red as the coins shot forth like arrows, striking the corpse down and forcing the Yin Fiend out with a shriek.

With swift action, the ancestor hurled the sword, piercing the Yin Fiend’s spirit, which howled and dissipated into Yin energy.

Before he could catch his breath, two illusory forms drifted from the darkness, twining together like fish—one male, one female, both with closed eyes, their blue translucence radiating an eerie power.