Volume One: The Journey of the Useless, Blazing Demon Slayer Chapter Seventy-Four: Preparations for the Seal, A Fierce Battle

When Linghu returned with a mouthful of pheasants and wild rabbits, Chen San couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated. If only there were wild boars or deer—just skin them and be done with it. But these hodgepodge pheasants and rabbits required both skinning and plucking, and the very thought gave him a headache. Still, they were lucky to have anything to eat at all; how could he afford to be picky? Frowning, he set to work. The aroma of two roasting rabbits made his mouth water. Just as he picked one up to check if it was done, Linghu snatched it away in a single bite.

Linghu wasn’t greedy, though; with a satisfied growl and a flash of white light, it vanished. Chen San felt a little awkward but was already used to it—Linghu always ate first. He resigned himself to building another fire and resumed roasting.

There wasn’t much left, and the few of them only managed to eat half their fill. Poor Yang Chengzi, being a vegetarian, wouldn’t touch a scrap of meat no matter how Chen San tried to tempt him. In the end, Chen San could only joke, “If you don’t eat meat, will you eat grass?” Yang Chengzi nodded, rose, and returned to the mountain they’d just climbed. He gathered a heap of wild greens, found a flat stone as thin as a book, and roasted the vegetables over the fire.

Seeing Yang Chengzi eat with such relish, Chen San couldn’t resist tasting some himself, only to find it bitter and nearly impossible to swallow.

“This is called dragon-head greens,” Yang Chengzi explained. “They can fill your belly in desolate places. You’ll find them growing everywhere. We Daoists of Mount Mao don’t eat meat, so we often eat these. The taste can’t compare to meat, of course, but it’s filling.” He stuffed another leaf into his mouth. Though the roasting had softened the leaves, the taste still left much to be desired.

Chen San wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “I really don’t see what’s so great about being a Daoist. Not only do you not marry, you don’t even eat meat. That’s truly ascetic.”

Yang Chengzi only smiled placidly. For Chen San, such days felt interminable, but for Yang Chengzi, decades had passed in this manner—he was long since accustomed.

After eating, Yang Chengzi and Monk Suichang continued discussing the matter of the seal. Chen San, exhausted, lay down within the protective array and dozed off. Chang Yu, peeking through a crack in the door with wide eyes, occasionally glanced at Yang Chengzi. Suddenly, someone stumbled into the maze array Monk Suichang had set in the courtyard.

Chang Yu thought the man was trying to break in and cried out, but Yang Chengzi glanced through a gap in the wall and signaled her to ignore it. So she watched as the man wandered around the courtyard for a full three hours.

By evening, Yang Chengzi and Monk Suichang finally settled on the formations best suited to the terrain: the Daoist Eight Trigrams Formation—Three Lakes Sealing Mountain Array—and the Buddhist Illusionary Seal—Ator Three Obstacles Illusion Array.

Both were sealing formations from Daoism and Buddhism. The former incorporated the Daoist arts of the Five Elements, while the latter added the Three Obstacles of illusion from Buddhism. As Yang Chengzi put it, not even a fly would escape.

At night, under the high-hanging moon, Yang Chengzi knocked out the villager wandering in the illusion array with a pebble, then took two young men and their hatchets to find suitable trees to cut. For the Daoist array, besides using the natural rocks, they needed to carve sealing runes onto wooden stakes to sever and shift the flow of the Five Elements, employing the Eight Trigrams to seal the area. The stakes would disrupt the elemental alignments, isolating the town within the protective formation.

Monk Suichang’s Buddhist array was simpler: empowered by Buddhist mantras and ritual implements, the illusion array would concentrate the Three Obstacles within the town. Anyone approaching the boundary would be confronted by visions of wrathful Arhats and endless hells, deterring them from crossing.

Though Monk Suichang’s leg wound had not fully healed, he was well enough to limp around. Laying out the array couldn’t rely on Yang Chengzi’s word alone; he had to inspect the perimeter for any weakness that could break the formation and, if found, find a way to eliminate it. Leaning on one of the carrying poles from a deck chair, he hobbled along the formation’s edge.

Yang Chengzi, having already surveyed the town, knew precisely where each stake should go. Time passed faster than expected. After cutting only a few stakes, nearly an hour had gone by. Cutting was easy; choosing was hard. The trees here all grew crooked, bent like old men. Finding a few straight trunks took considerable effort.

Inside, Chen San lay within the formation, chatting idly with Chang Yu to pass the time. Though he hadn’t known Yang Chengzi much longer than Chang Yu, she always asked him to tell stories about the Daoist, and he obliged with whatever came to mind.

Suddenly, a familiar thud resounded from outside, shaking their nerves. Chen San didn’t react at first—wasn’t that the sound of Monk Suichang’s Golden Bell phantom falling? He struggled to recall but only knew it was familiar. Then came a heavy blow against the wall.

Realizing something was wrong, Chen San leapt up and rushed outside, while Chang Yu shrank into a ball by the door in fright.

As soon as Chen San opened the door, he saw Monk Suichang’s Wrathful Vajra standing like a war god, wielding his demon-subduing staff against two men in black robes. One of them, with flowing silver hair, was clearly an elder. Something had crashed into the wall—it looked familiar, but in the darkness he couldn’t see clearly.

Monk Suichang stood guarded within his Golden Bell phantom, forming seals with his hands and glaring at the two black-robed figures. From the mountain, someone was rushing down—it had to be Yang Chengzi, drawn by the sight of the Vajra and sensing trouble.

The silver-haired black-robed man glanced over, but Chen San stood firm. With a thought, Linghu appeared beside him with a mighty roar. The black-robed man sneered and looked away.

Once again underestimated, Chen San’s temper flared. He roared, “Go, kill them!” Before he finished, Linghu shot forward like an arrow toward the black-robed men. Chen San clenched his teeth in fury, wishing he could tear them apart himself.

But fate was unkind. As soon as Linghu leaped, it was smacked back by a tremendous force, tumbling to Chen San’s side. This wasn’t the work of the black-robed men, but the thing that had been knocked into the wall by the Vajra. In the moonlight, Chen San finally saw what had emerged from beneath the eaves.

His face showed no fear, only disbelief. The one who had slapped Linghu aside was none other than the town mayor, Qu Lao’er—the very man the black-robed men had taken away that morning.

But now, Qu Lao’er’s body was no longer his own. His tall frame was wrapped in black cloth, his face hidden by a dark mask. He was larger and more robust than before—clearly not the same man. Yet with his ghostly sight, Chen San saw a tormented, hate-filled spirit glaring at him. Wasn’t that Qu Lao’er’s soul? How had it ended up in this monstrous body, and with such terrifying strength?

A chilling thought struck him: had these sorcerers forced Qu Lao’er’s soul into this abomination?

Though the idea flashed only briefly, it was the best his knowledge could offer.

A sharp, splintering sound rang out. As Linghu was knocked aside, the Wrathful Vajra leaped high, driving two demon-subduing staffs through Qu Lao’er’s new body.

The silver-haired black-robed man grinned wickedly. “No rush—let him keep you company for a while.” With that, he pulled out a black-purple talisman, tossed it into the air, and formed a seal with one hand, leering at Monk Suichang.

Despite being impaled by the staffs, Qu Lao’er showed no sign of pain. He kicked backward fiercely, sending the Vajra and Linghu flying. Monk Suichang frowned deeply, eyes fixed on the black-robed pair.

Linghu sprang to Chen San’s side, letting out a roar. Oddly, Qu Lao’er didn’t attack; Chen San thought Linghu’s roar had intimidated him. In truth, it had little to do with Linghu. Qu Lao’er’s soul had yet to fully merge with the corpse, and the agony of being forcibly torn from his body tormented him. Now, on the verge of full integration, he was momentarily motionless.

After seeing Linghu take such a blow, Chen San dared not act rashly.

The black-purple talisman drifted down toward Monk Suichang. In the instant he noticed it, a ghostly hand burst from the charm, plunging straight into the Golden Bell phantom.

The phantom, like a golden shield, enveloped Monk Suichang. But as the ghost hand struck, cracks spread across the bell. Monk Suichang spat blood—his soul damaged.

The phantom began to dissipate, its color fading. The ghost within the talisman, as if clutching a lifeline, struggled free from the charm.

Changing his hand signs, the Vajra swung its staff, hacking at the ghostly hand. The specter did not resist; its hand was severed and dissolved into mist. The Vajra did not relent, repeatedly hacking at the ghost not yet fully freed from the talisman. Each time the staff struck, the ghost’s hand instantly regenerated, and now, when staff met hand, ghostly weapons flickered into existence.

From within the bell, Monk Suichang’s every blow struck with less ease. The clangs rang out, as if he were striking solid rock. Others might not know, but Monk Suichang felt the resistance in every blow.

A true master knows his match with the first exchange. This ghost was about to break free entirely. Even at full strength, Monk Suichang would have struggled against its speed and power.

Its strength didn’t quite reach that of a thousand-year demon, but it was close to a calamity-grade fiend. The Vajra’s attacks were all but futile.

The specter nearly free, the Vajra mustered all its strength for a blow to its head. Pure ghostly energy surged forth, slamming into the staff before it could land.

With a deafening roar, the ghostly energy exploded outward, sending the Vajra flying and crashing to the ground. Monk Suichang spat blood again—the Golden Bell phantom vanished, his strength nearly spent.

With a final burst, the black-purple talisman burned away, the last of its ghostly essence drifting into the specter, which now revealed itself fully before their eyes.