Chapter 67:
Two-Legged Ghosts – They Were Speaking
As darkness fell, the courtyard was plunged into an inky blackness, no candles or electric lights, the sky suggesting it was around seven o’clock. The inhabitants gathered outside a building, each receiving a bowl of noodles and a few slices of white meat, then retreated to the edges of the courtyard, squatting on the ground, their food untouched.
Chen Henian noticed there were no chopsticks.
They waited for the food to cool, then ate with their hands, shoveling large handfuls into their mouths, the sound of their chewing and swallowing a rhythmic chorus, even the children mimicking their actions, no one teaching them, instinct guiding them.
No voices, only the wind, louder than their movements, the nests huddled in the corners, their children beside them, like silent, shifting shadows.
Chen Henian saw empty husks, cold and lifeless.
Jiang Wan had said, when she was young, only the sky was bright at night.
She hadn’t known those tiny lights were called stars.
Surrounded by darkness, she had looked up, seeking something different, those tiny white dots shifting each night, one larger and brighter than the others, sometimes round, sometimes a crescent, like the bellies of the women around her, sometimes swollen, sometimes flat.
The largest was her mother, the two smaller ones beside her, her sister and herself.
She would search for herself in the sky each night, her mother and sister beside her, but she had forgotten her mother’s face, having left this place at five, twelve years ago, never seeing her again.
Children here had a chance to leave at five, on one condition: they had to be boys.
Jiang Wan had been a boy.
Because her mother had made her a boy.
Boys had short hair, girls had long hair, a rule ingrained in their minds.
Five years old, the age of exploration.
Boys walked through the gate, someone waiting for them on the other side.
Girls donned black veils, remaining here, their individuality erased, becoming nests.
Jiang Wan hadn’t known mouths could make sounds, only the cries of newborns, their voices silenced at one.
She had watched her sister don the black veil, her face hidden, her identity erased, and she had seen the boys walk through the gate, never to return.
Her sister was still with her, and she had been happy, her sister’s presence a comfort, a shield against fear.
She had seen it, a monster beside her mother.
She had later heard the whispers, her mother, a prized yet feared nest.
When her sister reached the age of veiling, she had defied the unspoken rule, her mother still braiding her hair, her appearance a silent rebellion.
When the tall figures had arrived from outside, her mother had shielded her sister, her rage directed at those towering shadows, tearing off her veil, her face exposed, her mouth open in a silent scream, a guttural roar, a primal sound, devoid of words, just the expulsion of air from her lungs.
The scene had been chaotic, the women here accustomed only to the eyes beneath the veils, unaware of beauty or ugliness, the sound of her mother’s voice, a sound unlike any they had heard before, terrifying.
The nests had prostrated themselves, their hands covering their heads, seeking protection, their instincts guiding them.
Her mother had raged like a wild animal, her strength immense, two tall men unable to restrain her, finally resorting to ghostly chains.
Her mother’s body had bled, her struggles continuing, the men frustrated, not wanting to lose such a valuable nest, the mother of a Tai Yin body, capable of bearing more children.
Finally, her sister had donned the veil, her face hidden, only her eyes visible.
She had stood before the ghosts, her fear masked by a strange courage.
She hadn’t known much, couldn’t speak.
But she had understood, this was the only way to appease them.
As the veil covered her face, her mother’s struggles had ceased, her body collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, her punishment swift and brutal, a black thread piercing her lips, a constant reminder of pain, a warning.
After Jiang Wan’s birth, she only remembered the black thread on her mother’s lips, like a centipede, and her silent gaze.
The men outside the walls had placed a watcher, a ghost, its eyes always on her mother, who had kept Jiang Wan by her side, her hair short, until she could walk.
Jiang Wan had always thought of herself as a boy, but she couldn’t urinate against the tree like the other boys. When she had tried, her mother had twisted her arm, teaching her the meaning of pain.
Pain, a deterrent.
Her mother had shown her the difference, taught her to hide, to pretend. She had stayed close to her sister, their hands clasped, digging holes in the dirt with sticks, arranging fallen leaves in neat rows, giggling when the wind scattered them, then rearranging them, a simple game.
Until she turned five, and she hadn’t donned the veil.
One night, her mother had woken her, taking her to a corner of the room, her eyes bright, a strange intensity in her gaze. She had taken a stone, scratching it against the wall, leaving yellow marks, drawing a picture.
Jiang Wan hadn’t understood then.
Until one day, a sudden realization—
Her mother had been writing, creating her own language.
Escape.
Her mother had been telling her to escape.
The next day, she had left the nest, finding herself surrounded by two-legged ghosts, their forms human, their movements unnatural.
They had taught her to speak, her voice at first raspy and awkward.
The first word she learned was “no.”
She knew the difference between herself and the boys, and when one of them had tried to pull down her pants, she had yelled “no,” pushing him away, her fear turning to anger.
But the fear remained.
Outside the walls, she had felt alone, surrounded by ghosts, two-legged ghosts.
She had been afraid they would discover her secret.
Her strangeness hadn’t aroused suspicion. Strange children were common here.
She had been the brightest, the most talented in decades.
The ghosts the two-legged ghosts controlled were drawn to her, and she had sensed a kinship, a shared darkness.
The two-legged ghosts had favored her, treating her with a strange kindness, even patting her head, like her mother used to, but their touch was repulsive, her body recoiling from it.
As she grew older, her misery deepened. She would shoot arrows at the wooden dummy, her aim precise, hitting the neck every time, earning their praise, but she didn’t want their approval. To be hated by ghosts, that was a sign of heroism! Her arrows should have been aimed at them, at the ones who had destroyed the Jiang Dynasty.
They had blamed a woman, Jiang Wan, for the dynasty’s fall, for the Crown Prince’s death.
But she had been a brave warrior, a skilled general! They had ignored her accomplishments, turning her into a symbol of female treachery, using her as an excuse to imprison women, to silence them, to control them, their fear of powerful women masked by tradition.
Ghost control was a woman’s art.
Women, the yin of the Bagua, the foundation of yin magic, they commanded ghosts, not through force, but through understanding, through empathy, forging bonds of loyalty, their ghosts willing to sacrifice themselves for their masters.
These two-legged ghosts, lacking the foundation, the true understanding of yin energy, could only use Princess Zhaoping’s Hegemon Sword to bind and enslave the ghosts, trapping their souls in the Liany Mountains.
Jiang Wan knew there were no gods, no heavens, no justice, only these ghosts, defiling Princess Zhaoping’s memory, exploiting her power.
She was separated from her family, from the women she loved, by a wall of ghosts, unable to reach them, to save them.
At fourteen, she could control any ghost in the village, earning the two-legged ghosts’ praise, told that when she turned fifteen, she could choose a nest, to bear her children.
Evil begets evil. The two-legged ghosts talked about the nests constantly, even those born of women, their enjoyment of power and control evident, the older ones boasting of their conquests, comparing notes, counting their offspring.
Even the ghosts around her, choosing nests at fourteen, like picking dishes from a menu.
They spoke often of a special nest.
A Tai Yin body, her essence a potent catalyst for their cultivation, a shared breeding vessel.
They told her they would teach her how to breed.
She had earned this opportunity, a privilege granted to her at fourteen.
She returned to the courtyard, to the gate she had walked through as a child, but she wasn’t taken to the breeding chamber, but to a separate room, a special place, for breeding.
The two-legged ghosts, their laughter echoing, pushed her inside.
She saw a woman in a black veil, only her eyes visible.
She didn’t recognize the eyes, but she recognized the longevity lock around her neck.
The woman looked at her.
She saw the two-legged ghosts reaching for the woman, their touch like knives, violating her, violating them both.
Tears, like stars, fell from the woman’s eyes.
Her head lolled to the side, her gaze fixed on Jiang Wan.
Her sister recognized her, and she recognized her sister.
Her sister was crying, but she couldn’t cry.
She couldn’t shed a single tear here, standing among these ghosts, watching them devour a human.
They were eating a human!
She was too weak, unable to stop them, watching her sister’s lifeless eyes, her soul extinguished.
She had died too, in that moment, amidst the two-legged ghosts’ laughter, realizing she could escape, but she wouldn’t leave them behind.
Her purpose, her mother’s sacrifice, wasn’t for her own freedom.
If the heavens wouldn’t intervene, she would!
But she wasn’t strong enough yet, unable to defy the entire village, those ghosts, also victims, enslaved by the two-legged ghosts.
She had only one thought: to take her sister away.
So she endured, for seven years, earning a single night.
She entered the room alone.
She had planned to take her sister away, to become stronger, then return, to kill the ghosts, to free her people.
She had never been so brave, so afraid of failure.
But she hadn’t expected to find a cold, lifeless body.
Her sister had bitten her own tongue, a silent act of defiance, waiting for death, for the blood to drain from her body.
Jiang Wan’s blood ran cold, the memory of that night forever etched in her mind.
Her sister hadn’t simply given up.
Her mother had two intelligent daughters. Her sister had understood the rules, her spirit unbroken, but she couldn’t bear to see the ones she loved become monsters, so she had chosen death.
Jiang Wan carried her sister’s body, escaping from that prison.
She had run, her grief a burning fire, controlling the guardian ghosts, her path towards freedom.
But she had failed. Her unusual behavior had alerted them, the two-legged ghosts pursuing her relentlessly.
She had fled to the treacherous Liany Mountains, a place even the ghosts feared.
She had climbed the mountain, its air different, its energy unfamiliar, her screams echoing through the valley, her tears a torrent.
The weight on her back had lessened, her sister’s body gone, only her own form running, her escape desperate and futile.
She had turned, her footsteps halting.
She was dead.
She had fallen from the mountain, her body broken, only her will to escape remaining.
She had cried, her grief and frustration overwhelming, her failure a bitter pill.
Then she had heard a voice, a shadow appearing before her.
Her sister, standing by her lifeless body, her touch gentle, soothing her pain.
She finally understood why the mountain’s ghosts hadn’t harmed her.
Her sister had become a ghost, her spirit always with her, protecting her.
Her sister’s face faded, and Jiang Wan felt a sharp pain, her consciousness returning to her body, like a rebirth.
Her sister had loved her, sacrificing her body and soul, merging with her, becoming the ghost she controlled.
They were together now, forever.
She smiled, her body whole, her spirit renewed, walking towards her destiny.
Her name, Jiang Wan, a name cursed by ghosts, was her badge of honor.
She had wandered for two years, waiting for this moment.
And the Liany Mountains would be her final resting place.
She was excited, her smile unwavering, and as Chen Henian looked at her, his eyes filled with questions, she took his hand, leading him to a corner of the room, the place where she and her mother had once huddled together.
It was cold outside, the villagers huddled inside their houses, and Chen Henian and Jiang Wan stood among the women, their bodies a silent presence. Jiang Wan found a stone, hidden in a crack in the wall, the same stone her mother had used, still there after all these years.
She gestured, wanting to write something for him.
She was certain he wouldn’t understand.
She drew a circle, like a small person, then hesitated, unsure how to continue, the image in her mind clear, but her hand faltering.
Chen Henian waited, watching her erase and rewrite, her hand and the ground covered in dirt, her frustration growing.
The women surrounded them, their faces unreadable, their eyes wide and dark.
He touched Jiang Wan’s shoulder, and she stopped, turning to him, just as one of the women took the stone from her hand, drawing on the ground.
He watched her draw, the image similar to Jiang Wan’s.
He didn’t understand, but Jiang Wan did, her eyes widening in recognition, her body stiffening.
It wasn’t just a drawing, the lines forming characters, a message, and when she finished, she pointed in a direction.
The other women followed, their movements synchronized, their fingers pointing in the same direction.
Chen Henian, confused, turned to Jiang Wan. What do they mean?
She didn’t answer immediately, her breathing slowing, her eyes wide, like the other women’s, understanding dawning on her. It was the gate, the gate she had walked through as a child, the path to freedom.
They’re speaking, she wrote, her hand trembling.
This is their voice.
Her body shook, her blood singing with theirs, a shared heritage.
They were saying, run, escape.
Once you don the veil, there’s no escape.
Tears welled in her eyes, their faces cold and emotionless, their voices silent, but she heard them, their hearts crying out.
She wasn’t alone.
She wasn’t the only one who remembered.
The ghosts had stolen their voices, but they had created a new language, their message transcending the walls of their prison.
They weren’t empty shells, their souls still flickering beneath the veils.
But she wouldn’t run anymore.
She stood up, her lips moving silently.
I will set you free.
