Chapter 30:
School Specter (Part 4):
A Tai Yin Body, Little Child, You…
Blood seeped from the concrete, viscous and flowing. Chen Henian saw their translucent forms, like pale jellyfish drifting in a dark sea, their tattered robes trailing like tentacles, their faces bloated and decaying. These were the ghosts trapped on this land, held back by an unseen barrier.
Chen Henian walked to the edge of the ghostly throng, stopping at the boundary marked by a large, dense locust tree.
“Quiet,” he warned the ghosts, their mournful whispers like wind through a crack, an irritating cacophony.
He walked to the base of the tree, his gaze tracing its trunk, leaves falling like rain. His hand brushed against the soil, loose and yielding, except for one hard, dry patch. Someone had dug here. He brushed away the top layer of soil, revealing a black stone, beneath which lay a yellow talisman.
Yellow earth covers, mountain stone suppresses.
Restrain demons, block all ghosts.
This was the work of a Daoist practitioner, creating a barrier of yang energy, impassable to ghosts. The trapped ghosts and the location of the stone indicated the array’s focal point was within the school.
The mirror ghost’s excited voice emerged from the suitcase. “Just some wandering souls. Can I eat them?”
Chen Henian tapped the suitcase. “Control yourself, not yet.”
The mirror ghost grumbled. “Then when?”
“Da Huang,” Chen Henian said slowly, “what does a master do with a disobedient dog?”
The mirror ghost remained silent, and Chen Henian continued, a faint smile playing on his lips. “To train a vicious dog, you break its teeth with a stick, so it can’t eat, starving it until it stops barking, then feeding it just enough to survive, so it knows who holds the stick, who’s the master.”
“Da Huang, are you my dog?”
“You—” The mirror ghost ground its teeth, a flicker of fear in its eyes. Submitting to Chen Henian was one thing, a necessary evil, but this was humiliating. It was a two-hundred-year-old ghost, not some lowly spirit, a mirror spirit!
“I will never—”
Chen Henian’s voice cut it off. “You’re either my dog or my obedient ghost, understand?”
“Fine, fine, I won’t eat them.” The mirror ghost, sensing his displeasure, backed down, falling silent.
Chen Henian’s face was calm, his focus undisturbed.
“Save me…”
“Save me…”
The ghosts continued to claw at the barrier, their mouths open in silent screams, desperate to escape.
Qingping No. 2 High School hadn’t requested an exorcism. This array was a private undertaking. The oppressive yin energy wasn’t from the ghosts themselves, but from their fear, a fear of annihilation.
Even ghosts could die.
But a strict rule governed their world: do not disrupt the balance of yin and yang without cause. Only malevolent spirits, vengeful ghosts, could be destroyed.
This was wrong. Chen Henian wouldn’t tolerate it. He ripped the talisman from the stone, crushing it in his hand.
The ghosts shrieked as a strange wind swept through the area, pulling them away.
The focal point was absorbing them. Chen Henian followed quickly.
“Where are you going?” Wang Min called after him. “Did you see something? Is Li Qinqin there?”
Chen Henian glanced back at her, his gaze unfriendly. “Stay put. We’ll settle our score later.”
Wang Min was hiding something. His blood, the ritual, everything was correct. The problem was the pen. It wasn’t Li Qinqin’s. The summoning ritual had become a general call to all spirits, his blood drawing them in. He didn’t care whether it was intentional or not. He left Wang Min behind, following the flow of energy to an abandoned, unfinished building.
The same building he had seen from the corridor last night.
It stood at the western edge of the school grounds, surrounded by barricades. He knew about it. The school had planned to build a gymnasium, but the funding had fallen through, the construction halted, the concrete shell abandoned for two years, a desolate, foul-smelling place, the ground floor damp and deserted, avoided by the students.
As he stepped inside, his feet felt heavy. This was the source of the yin energy. He knew instantly that someone had set up the focal point here, using the locust tree as the center, creating a cage for the ghosts.
The school had likely been built on a burial ground, the ghosts emerging during Ghost Festival to receive offerings. But now, they had been forcibly dragged out and imprisoned. No wonder they were so resentful. The longer they were trapped, the stronger their resentment would become.
He didn’t try to be quiet. If the person was still in the school, ripping the talisman would have alerted them.
His footsteps echoed through the empty building. He covered his nose, walking past abandoned carts and a large pile of firewood covered with a tarp, water seeping from beneath it, darker than the surrounding ground. He couldn’t see clearly, but he saw a flicker of light behind the woodpile, candles burning on the floor.
He approached cautiously.
It was blood on the floor, human blood.
No, ghost blood.
He understood the ghosts’ fear now. He saw dismembered body parts scattered on the ground, turning to dust at his touch.
Someone was slaughtering ghosts here, dismembering them. A crimson array was drawn on the floor, a refining array, like a cauldron, the ghost parts fried in oil, turning into black granules, consumed by humans, by folk practitioners, by rogue cultivators. His master had told him about this, claiming it prolonged life, a convenient, albeit wicked, method, turning those who consumed it into something less than human.
The other talisman must be at the center of the array. As he approached, he heard a faint sound, and a cold glint flashed past his eyes. He raised his suitcase just in time, blocking a large cleaver. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backward, landing against the woodpile.
Pinned beneath the attacker, he twisted his body, the blade scraping against his suitcase, embedding itself in the wood. He pulled away, examining the small cut on his suitcase.
The person behind the array was here.
“Who are you?”
The man, his skin tanned, his dark eyebrows highlighted by the candlelight, wore a dark yellow robe. “I am of the Huang Ling sect. Little child, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
He swung the cleaver again.
Chen Henian threw his suitcase aside, reacting instinctively, treating the Huang Ling Daoist like a ghost, flicking a red string, which snapped against the blade. The cleaver fell, and he ducked, narrowly avoiding it.
The Daoist swung again, and Chen Henian dodged, the blade striking the floor, shattering the concrete. The Daoist snorted, swinging low, aiming for his legs.
Chen Henian jumped back, his heel catching the blade, pinning it to the ground.
“Not bad footwork, little child,” the Daoist said, a malicious glint in his eyes.
“Not a bad blade either,” Chen Henian replied. “Sharp blade, dull mind.”
He chuckled. “What a pity, what a pity.”
The Daoist, angered, kicked at him.
Chen Henian had trained extensively in martial arts. His master had said that dealing with spirits required technique, but dealing with humans required brute force. Humans were flesh and blood, vulnerable to pain and death.
Chen Henian dodged the kick, mocking him. “If the orthodox sects find out about this, you’re finished.”
“Don’t worry about me, you’ll be dead long before that,” the Daoist retorted.
Chen Henian didn’t bother making a fist, striking with his open palm, stepping back, creating distance, his stance firm, his palm pushing against the Daoist’s jaw. The Daoist lunged, the blade grazing Chen Henian’s nose, a close call.
Without hesitation, Chen Henian struck again, his palm hitting the Daoist’s abdomen.
The Daoist spat at him, the air filling with the smell of alcohol. Chen Henian dodged, but some of it splashed on his clothes, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue.
“Ash wine, ghost-slaying blade,” the Daoist grinned. “Let me show you something, little child.”
He swung the cleaver, sparks flying.
The candles were extinguished.
Chen Henian couldn’t see him. The Daoist was good at concealing his presence. He didn’t like fighting blind. “Da Huang!” he called out.
“Help me.”
“This one’s for you.”
The mirror ghost’s laughter echoed through the darkness. It appeared beside him, its hair swirling.
The cleaver, descending from the darkness, was caught by the mirror ghost.
“So hot!” it shrieked. Chen Henian, seeing the Daoist’s position, struck, his palm hitting three pressure points on his abdomen.
The Daoist coughed, stumbling backward.
The mirror ghost recoiled, its hand burning from touching the blade. “You handle this yourself,” it said, blowing on the candles, relighting them.
The Daoist turned the blade, scoffing. “You can control ghosts? A truly wicked person, a menace.”
“Not as wicked as you,” Chen Henian retorted.
“Oh, but I know who you are,” the Daoist smiled. “A Tai Yin body, little child, you’re a delicacy.”
