Chapter Thirteen: The Rebirth Mantra

Upon hearing the words of the Daoist Hou, Zhou Bai couldn't help but gently run his palm over the blade, a chill spreading from the butcher's knife.

"In my great-grandfather's generation, he nearly became an executioner. This butcher's knife was passed down from that time."

Executioners’ beheading blades were forged by government craftsmen, and to subdue the condemned and prevent them from causing trouble after death, the forging process was elaborate. To say the blade was tempered a thousand times would not be an exaggeration; so even after a century of inheritance, the knife remained razor-sharp.

"After Emperor Li succeeded the throne in the Tang and Song dynasties, he proclaimed a general amnesty. Our Zhou family ancestors could only become renowned butchers, but this knife remained."

The Daoist Hou twitched his lips. After a century of slaughtering livestock, no wonder the beast-head on the knife possessed such ferocity, yet its killing aura was barely discernible.

"I see now, you're quite the oddity. Even the butcher's knife in your hand is a strange blade."

Zhou Bai glanced at him and ignored him, gripping the knife firmly in his right hand, feet planted in a horse stance before the wild boar.

He raised the butcher's knife until it was level with his shoulder, his expression solemn, eyes closed.

The Daoist Hou heard him muttering and leaned in to listen.

"By the decree of the Supreme One, deliver wandering souls, all specters, grant mercy to all beings; those with heads transcend, those without ascend; executed by spear and blade, drowned and hanged…"

It was unmistakably a Daoist chant for the departed. He hadn’t expected a butcher to know so much, feeling that Zhou Bai’s skill surpassed his own.

To Zhou Bai, this knowledge came naturally with mastery of the meat-cutting art. As for why his ancestors knew the chant for the departed, perhaps it was related to their near fate as executioners.

Under the soothing effect of the chant, the wild boar’s frenzied body gradually calmed, its muddled eyes clearing.

Zhou Bai opened his eyes, his empty left hand gently stroking the boar’s eyes, sending it into darkness as the butcher’s knife rose and fell.

A pig’s head, weighing more than ten pounds, rolled across the floor and came to rest facing the stone tiles.

Blood gushed uncontrollably from the boar’s neck, Zhou Bai swiftly catching it in a wooden bucket.

The Daoist Hou instinctively shrank his neck, feeling his hackles rise. The knife passed cleanly through the cervical gap, with no resistance—this slaughtering technique was peerless.

The wild boar filled the entire bucket before the blood stopped, and the air was thick with the scent of blood.

Zhou Bai turned away; he didn’t even need to activate his yin-yang vision. The three little ghosts, stirred by the smell of blood, were growing restless; if not for their inability to leave the corner, they would have pounced on the bucket already.

“Just a little more. Let me add some seasoning,” Hou Daoist said.

He opened his bag and tossed in all sorts of miscellaneous ingredients: toad skin, cricket antennae, a few fish scales, some unknown powders…

Seeing him busy, Zhou Bai did not remain idle. The butcher’s knife flew up and down, each cut precisely landing where intended.

Belly, shoulder, loin, neck, foreleg, hind leg…

In just moments, under his knife, a wild boar of several hundred pounds was transformed into dozens of variously sized cuts of meat.

The Daoist Hou watched in stunned amazement, his own hands pausing.

On the rooftop nearby, Lin Danian nearly exposed himself, jaw agape.

Zhou Bai carried the meat chunks into the butcher shop, but kept the knife in hand—the main event was yet to come.

“With skills like yours, being a butcher is a waste. As an executioner, you could decapitate with ease. Or, you could join the Department of the Nether Rites—they have methods to fully harness the yin-yang sight.”

“Killing men and slaughtering pigs are worlds apart. As for the Department of the Nether Rites… perhaps another time.”

For Zhou Bai, even if killing could speed up his accumulation of points, he wouldn’t take lives indiscriminately. To grow stronger for its own sake was not his wish.

Lin Danian, hidden, glanced sideways; Zhou Bai’s temperament was indeed suited for the Nether Rites.

“That’s true. In Daoism, executioners accrue sin, while butchers have no such burden.”

The Daoist Hou continued, tossing the last of the ingredients into the pig’s blood, then stirring with a wooden stick.

As the materials dissolved into the blood, its color deepened from bright red to a dark crimson-black; the scent of blood vanished, replaced by an overwhelming stench.

The three evil spirits in the corner could no longer restrain themselves, tearing at each other like caged beasts.

“It’s working,” the Daoist Hou affirmed, then splashed the bucket of pig’s blood toward the ghosts, a dozen meters away.

The dark red blood splattered and flowed across the floor. With shrill screams, the ghosts pounced, clawing at the blood and stuffing it into their mouths.

“Now it’s simple. These little ghosts won’t bother us. Here, take a hoe.”

Zhou Bai took the hoe, frowning. “What’s this for?”

“To dig. We need to find their anchor before we can proceed.” Hou Daoist led the way to the spot where the ghosts had lingered, swinging his hoe at the ground.

Zhou Bai refused without hesitation. “I paid you thirty taels—not to help you dig.”

“Now you’re being clever. The pig’s blood lasts just about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. Hurry up, finish, and let’s get the formation set up—that’s the real priority.”

Hou Daoist energetically dug at the ground, removing the layer of stone tiles to reveal the ashen soil beneath.

Zhou Bai glanced at the ghosts; most of the blood was already swallowed, and the spirits seemed even hungrier.

“For the sake of your self-funded formation,” he said.

He slung the knife behind him and joined Hou Daoist in digging.

What struck Zhou Bai as odd was that, through his yin-yang vision, the grayish soil seemed to carry faint traces of yin energy.

Before he could react, Hou Daoist had already made a discovery.

He unearthed a yellow, battered earthen jar, its mouth tightly sealed with layers of oiled paper.

“This must be it—the anchor for these little ghosts. We’ll destroy it in sunlight and they’ll be freed.”

Hou Daoist hoisted the jar with effort, exclaiming in surprise at its unexpected weight, nearly straining his back.