Chapter 9: The Close-Fitting Old Ghost
Head Constable Chen took the lead, crossing the stone bridge, followed closely by Zhou Shan and his men. The iron horseshoes struck the stones, producing a pleasing sound. When they reached the entrance of the village, nothing seemed amiss. Chen breathed a sigh of relief, reassuring himself that his fears had been unfounded.
The villagers, upon seeing the newcomers, hurriedly summoned the village chief.
The chief, his hair and beard white, shuffled over to Chen and asked, “May I ask if you gentlemen are the officials from Crane County?”
Chen did not reply, instead glancing at Zhou Shan.
Zhou Shan understood instantly. “We are. Tell us what has happened.” His rugged face was particularly suited to inspire awe.
A crowd had already gathered at the village entrance, and amidst a cacophony of voices, the entire incident was pieced together.
“So you are saying you all witnessed a woman, her skin pale and bloated, seize your sons and daughters, and then leap into the river, vanishing? She can come ashore?” Zhou Shan no longer bothered with formalities.
If she could come ashore and snatch people, things were dire. Everyone knew that water ghosts were more formidable in the water, and ordinary ones could not leave it. If this was truly a water ghost of such calibre, their small band would stand little chance.
Zhou Shan looked to Chen, awaiting his command.
“Ashan, fire the signal arrow. This is beyond us.”
“Chief, gather all the children in the ancestral hall. Any adults who are worried can join them. We’ll hold out and wait for county reinforcements. Round up all the village’s roosters and black dogs, and find as many ropes as possible,” Chen issued his orders swiftly.
A shrill whistle pierced the air. Across the river, the sentry mounted his horse and sped away to summon aid.
“Chief, I don’t care whether you know this water ghost or not. I need to know which families she bore a grudge against, and how she died,” Chen asked sharply.
The chief, pressed and flustered, stammered out the truth, and Chen’s expression grew darker with every word.
The water ghost’s name was Lanlan, her surname unknown. The chief had bought her from a human trafficker to marry his son. Lanlan had a fierce spirit and refused to submit, so the chief’s son tied her up in the ancestral hall. Then, together with several village ne’er-do-wells, they took turns forcing themselves upon her.
The chief’s son thought Lanlan would be docile after being abused, but she donned red clothes and leapt into the river, cursing all men in the village to die without heirs, women to be barren, and children to perish.
Lanlan died with overwhelming hatred and turned into a water ghost, now returning to fulfill her curse.
With a loud slap, Chen struck the old chief’s face.
“Beast! You raise a son but fail to teach him. Why didn’t you just kill him outright and spare so many from suffering? Why didn’t you explain all this when you reported the case? This is no mere wandering spirit—it’s a second-stage vengeful ghost.”
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The chief lost several of his remaining teeth, clutching his cheek and mumbling incoherently.
“Ashan, slaughter all the roosters and black dogs. Weave the ropes into nets, soak them in the blood, and add this piece of cinnabar,” Chen said, handing Zhou Shan the cinnabar from his pocket.
“Ma Liu, tell all the men to coat their weapons with the blood, especially the crossbow bolts. No one may leave their post—if you must relieve yourselves, go in pairs. If we want to save this village, it’ll be tough. Hold the line and await reinforcements. Let’s hope the experts from Seven Stars Martial Hall arrive quickly.”
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Seven Stars Martial Hall, Training Grounds.
Two figures were sparring fiercely, neither dodging nor retreating, fists landing with solid impact. The onlookers winced with each blow. Suddenly, the tall, handsome man seized an opening, closed in, and shouted:
“Ha!”
This was a secret technique derived from the Extreme Yang Thunder Breathing Method—two syllables, “Hum” and “Ha”: “Hum” to extinguish souls, “Ha” to slay spirits, accompanied by rolling thunder that shook the heart.
With just a hint of its power, the opponent faltered.
The burly man opposite was dazed by the cry, and then received a punch to the face, collapsing in a stupor.
The tall man in black was Ling Chi. His striking features seemed carved from marble, with sharp lines and deep, piercing eyes that exuded an air of authority. He was now grown, able to match any reader in looks.
After three years of honing his skills, his physique rivaled any peer—let alone his fifth senior brother lying on the ground.
“Sixth, you’re truly formidable. That ‘Hum’ and ‘Ha’ technique of yours gets fiercer every day.”
Indeed, a year ago Ling Chi had broken through to the Pulse Opening stage and become a direct disciple, ranked sixth among the students. Now, with cultivation at the third level of Pulse Opening, his skills rivaled those of his fifth senior brother at the fifth level.
“Fifth brother, I only caught you off guard. If we fought for real, I’d hardly stand a chance,” Ling Chi replied modestly.
“Don’t be so humble. Losing to you, the martial fanatic, is no shame,” Zhao Shanhe sighed.
“Only Second Sister at the seventh level and First Brother at the ninth can best you now—and you haven’t even drawn your blade!” He glanced at the pair of swords at Ling Chi’s waist, one long and one short, one gold and one black. He had seen Ling Chi’s swordplay firsthand—slaughtering zombies like a tiger among sheep, swift and deadly. The memory still sent chills down his spine.
As they chatted, Old Hai walked over.
Three years had changed Old Hai the most. His once graying hair was now pure white, and his figure had grown more stooped.
“Ling, the county office has sent word. A squad of constables is trapped in Panshan Bay Village. Your master wants you and Fifth Brother to go, but prioritize safety. If you can’t save them, don’t risk yourselves. It’s not a big deal—your own lives matter most,” Old Hai rambled.
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This was also a source of income for the martial hall, relying on the county’s reward money to support everyone.
Ling Chi and Zhao Shanhe exchanged glances, saluted, and agreed.
They gathered their gear, fetched horses from the stable, and set out immediately.
Summer nights came late. At Panshan Bay Village, the ancestral hall was surrounded by villagers. The chief’s son, Li Shitou, was bound tightly and thrown to the ground, his mouth stuffed by Zhou Shan. Li Shitou writhed like a maggot.
Several young men knelt nearby, while a few elderly women wept and pleaded from the perimeter. The young wives looked on coldly.
“Sir, please spare my son. He’s still just a child,” an old woman wailed from the crowd.
Chen Mang ignored them. Why beg for mercy now? When Lanlan pleaded for mercy, none of them showed it.
As dusk approached, Chen ordered the constables to light torches around the hall, with a fire burning in the center. The constables sat together, eating their own rations, refusing the villagers’ offerings—not out of disdain, but caution. Who knew if desperate villagers would try to poison them to save their sons?
As Shan had said, those unafraid of death could try the food. Apparently, they all valued their lives.
Time flowed like a slow river. Night fell, and most villagers returned home. Seeing the preparations at the ancestral hall, they expected a battle before dawn.
The men wanted to watch, but their wives dragged them home.
Chen Mang, about thirty, possessed initial Pulse Opening cultivation. He sat cross-legged, regulating his breath, his Yanling saber resting on his knees. Zhou Shan, torch in one hand and heavy spear in the other, patrolled among the torches. His vigorous Qi and blood kept ordinary evil at bay.
Time ticked by.
“Baa, baa~”
From a nearby courtyard came the cry of a sheep, followed by angry shouts from a man, the sound of a woman scolding, and a child’s cries—all breaking the village’s silence.
Chen Mang grabbed his saber, bent his knees, and shot toward the noise.
“Ashan, you all stay here. I’ll go check it out.”
Zhou Shan could only obey.