Chapter Eight: The Daoist of the Monkey and Horse

By the time the sun stood high at noon, Zhou Bai finally arrived at the foot of the small hill where the Breeze Temple stood. Along the way, his mind was occupied with thoughts of the woman he had encountered at Willow Riverbank, wondering who she was and whether she had noticed the Yin-Yang Eyes he possessed, prompting her to warn him.

Yet Zhou Bai could discern that the black-clad woman bore him no malice; her intentions, however, remained unclear. The mountain path was not difficult to traverse, and the unnamed hill's altitude was modest; walking from the base to the summit and back would take, at most, half an hour.

Before long, he caught sight of the distant Breeze Temple. Though he had been in this world for more than a year, he had never visited this place before, and now he found the temple's buildings dilapidated, bereft of incense offerings, wholly incomparable to the Buddhist temples on the outskirts south of the city.

As he drew nearer, the aroma of roasting meat wafted to him, reminding Zhou Bai that he had not eaten all day, and hunger surged within him. Following the scent, he quickly found its source: in the courtyard of Breeze Temple, a chicken was roasting over an open flame.

Instinctively, Zhou Bai stepped closer, but suddenly a chill crept up his neck, and his eyes darted warily toward the temple. A Daoist emerged, sword in hand.

The Daoist's long hair was half turned grey and tied up haphazardly, giving him a disheveled appearance. His face was covered in beard, furrowed by deep lines that made him look like a monkey grown wise with age; he must be nearing fifty. His robe was patched and torn, his feet clad in straw sandals, more vagrant than priest.

"Where did this little thief come from? Are you here to steal my chicken?"

"Uh..." Zhou Bai was momentarily speechless. Breeze Temple rarely received visitors, and its distance from the city made theft improbable.

If not trouble, then surely business. The old Daoist's stern face softened, blossoming into a smile like a chrysanthemum in full bloom. "I am Daoist Hou. What brings you here? The price is negotiable."

"I've recently come across some unclean things..."

Daoist Hou's smile grew wider, and he hurried Zhou Bai to sit beside the fire. "Come, come, don’t rush to speak. It's midday—you haven't had lunch, have you? Don't be shy, eat to your heart’s content."

He then broke off a drumstick from the chicken and handed it to Zhou Bai, tearing off a piece for himself. Zhou Bai’s impression of Daoist Hou improved markedly; despite his slovenly appearance, perhaps he was some hidden master.

He recounted in detail the incident with the little ghosts outside his butcher shop, though he concealed the Yin-Yang Eyes and the sighting of the giant. Daoist Hou listened as he ate, appearing quite at ease. At one point, he pulled a gourd from his robes and drank.

"Small matter, small matter. Those little ghosts are not yet dangerous, mere wandering spirits bound to the land, unable to move."

"Bound spirits?" Zhou Bai’s curiosity was piqued, as this was his first encounter with the supernatural.

"A ghost remains in this world only if it has a lingering attachment—usually an object. Hic!"

Daoist Hou’s hearty burp nearly made Zhou Bai gag; how long since this man had cleaned his mouth? Even ancient people used willow twigs to clean their teeth.

Daoist Hou, slightly embarrassed, explained, "Apologies, apologies. I’m in the fasting period—impurities are expelled, so the smell is normal."

Zhou Bai thought skeptically, surely the Daoist nuns don’t become like this during fasting; otherwise, the whole temple would be engulfed in foul air.

Daoist Hou continued, "If the attachment is an object, it’s easy—either perform a rite or destroy the object, and the matter is settled."

"What if it’s not an object?" Zhou Bai asked, intrigued.

Daoist Hou’s expression shifted. "If the attachment is malice, it becomes an evil spirit—kills as it pleases, devours as it wishes, demands silence, and will not tolerate a single living soul in its domain."

He quickly resumed his carefree demeanor. "But don’t worry, the little ghosts outside your shop are the easiest to handle. You don’t even need me—find their attachment in broad daylight and destroy it."

As soon as he finished, Daoist Hou regretted his words, cursing himself for letting drink loosen his tongue. "Ahem... Of course, even small ghosts are dangerous; mishandling them can cost lives. It’s best to let me deal with it."

Zhou Bai rolled his eyes—he hardly believed him. Still, he was curious about Daoist Hou’s methods; if he could learn a trick or two, it would be worthwhile.

"How much silver do you require for the exorcism?"

Daoist Hou’s face brightened, and he wiped his hands on his robe, leaving a large, greasy stain.

"At least this much," he said, gesturing a three with his fingers.

"Thirty taels?" Zhou Bai asked uncertainly. His family's savings, accumulated over generations of butchers, amounted to only seventy or eighty taels, all stored safely in the silver bank, requiring official procedures to withdraw—a precaution against thieves, which nearly led to him starving when he first arrived in this world.

"Thir—thirty taels!" Daoist Hou burst out. For mere wandering spirits, he had intended to quote three taels, but Zhou Bai had offered thirty.

Clutching his chest, joy suffused his face. "I’ll be damned, this is the right place! Xuzhou was poor enough, earning barely a tael per exorcism, but now in Yangzhou, I’ve struck gold on my first job!"

"Is that sufficient?" Zhou Bai watched Daoist Hou’s shifting expressions—now pale, now flushed—and felt uncertain.

"More than enough..." Daoist Hou nodded repeatedly, then adopted a solemn tone. "Of course, the subsequent rites may incur additional costs."

Zhou Bai was not overly concerned with money; his interest lay in the martial arts and mystical techniques of this world. "That’s fine, as long as the matter is settled once and for all. By the way, your accent isn’t local, is it?"

"From Xuzhou, just arrived a few days ago."

"I’ve heard Daoist Hou and Master Qingfeng are old friends?"

"Yes... many years. We’ve known each other since childhood."

Zhou Bai raised his brows. "But isn’t Master Qingfeng only in his early thirties?"

He mentally chastised himself. Daoist Hou gave a sheepish smile. "Don’t be fooled by my appearance—I’m only in my early thirties myself."