Volume One: The Journey of the Useless—Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Seventeen: Soul Shattered, Danger Averted

As the saying goes, ill luck at the outset. Chen Wan’er had barely engaged the ghoul before attempting to close in, intending to pierce it with the unique spiritual energy of a ghost, but just as the thought crossed her mind and she moved forward, the ghoul’s claw seized her shoulder, tearing away a chunk of her soul. With a swift pull, the ghoul swallowed the fragment. Though this blow was not enough to scatter her soul to oblivion, the agony of having her soul torn apart was more than most could bear, and Chen Wan’er was no exception; the spiritual energy erupting from her body dissipated instantly.

After consuming that piece of soul, the ghoul lunged at Chen Wan’er again. It was clear she was no match for it; after just two exchanges, further struggle would only result in complete annihilation. Without hesitation, she transformed into a dim blue light and fled into Chen San’s consciousness.

Chen San was dumbfounded. Before he could react, the ghoul fixed its hollow black eyes on him—this spelled doom. His mind went blank, with only one thought: he couldn’t win, so why did she flee to him instead of elsewhere?

He didn’t care that his legs felt weak; he sprang up, trying to escape.

The ghoul was ferocious, closing the distance in just a couple of steps. Chen San was about to be caught, with nowhere left to run, when a silver-white light shot over from not far away—it was the Spirit Tiger.

The Spirit Tiger hadn’t leapt over by itself but had been struck and flung by the black-robed man’s staff, landing squarely at Chen San’s feet. The collision sent both man and tiger flying. Chen San sprawled on the ground, dizzy and disoriented, his consciousness beginning to blur. The Spirit Tiger was much larger than an ordinary tiger, and the impact was not light.

As Chen San struggled to rise, a voice echoed in his mind—Chen Wan’er’s.

“We can’t handle what’s in front of us; you must use the Invocation now. We’ll buy you time. If you wait, we’ll all perish. Hurry!”

With those words, a dim blue glow burst from Chen San’s consciousness, surging with spiritual energy as it charged at the ghoul. The Spirit Tiger, understanding Chen San’s intentions, gathered its strength, facing the black-robed man, ready for a desperate strike.

The black-robed man didn’t advance, merely watching the Spirit Tiger. Chen San saw Chen Wan’er rush out and reached to grab her, but he couldn’t touch her. He watched as she swept past the ghoul, who failed to catch her, and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Recalling Chen Wan’er’s words, he took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He rose, closed his eyes, and silently recited the calming incantation. Gradually, his senses faded; there was no movement around him, and his soul’s perception expanded, seeking the old man’s spirit.

Suddenly, a powerful and domineering spiritual presence appeared—not the old man’s, but that of a Daoist ancestor. Of course, Chen San didn’t know this, but he sensed the presence was far stronger than the old man’s.

He didn’t recall the old man’s warning and hesitated not at all, rapidly forming hand seals.

Ox, Monkey, Rat, Pig, Rooster, Rabbit, Goat. He chanted, “Wind steps silently, I summon the God. Across ten thousand miles, the soul leads the way.” He stepped forward, stamping the ground to invoke the spirit.

This time, Chen San risked his life; the Invocation flowed seamlessly. A golden light streaked from afar, rushing straight to his crown. The moment it struck with its formidable spiritual force, he lost consciousness. When the spirit entered his mind, Chen San slowly opened his eyes.

His gaze was fierce and domineering, full of murderous intent. He swept over the Spirit Tiger and black-robed man, then turned to Chen Wan’er and the ghoul.

A deep, powerful voice rang out.

“Ghoul of resentment—unexpected to see such a creature after a hundred years. Since you’re here, you shall be destroyed.”

The sorcerer was shocked. How could the man who had just been lying on the ground now possess such a commanding voice? At this moment, the Spirit Tiger lunged.

The sorcerer quickly formed a hand seal and flicked his staff forward. A ghoul, two heads taller and far bulkier than Chen San, leapt from the staff, kneeling on one knee before the Spirit Tiger. As the tiger pounced, the ghoul grabbed it and flung it aside with ease.

“A ghoul servant? Let both die together. None shall escape.” The domineering voice echoed for miles, murderous intent in his eyes.

The black-robed man and Chen San faced each other across the path. Chen Wan’er and the resentful spirit fought as they retreated, barely holding on. The Spirit Tiger was utterly suppressed by the ghoul servant, unable to break free.

The Daoist ancestor began to cast spells—the first was the Thunder Incantation. If one bolt couldn’t kill, then two would strike.

Chen San formed hand seals, stepping the Seven-Star formation. As he began, thunder rumbled overhead. The Spirit Tiger, terrified, hurriedly retreated.

“Heavenly thunder, descend.”

A flash split the sky; with a boom, a silver-white lightning bolt struck down, hitting the ghoul servant directly. It didn’t have time to dodge and was instantly annihilated.

The black-robed man, astonished, hadn’t realized that such a young man could summon thunder so swiftly—it must be the work of a Daoist Invocation.

He retreated a few steps into the air, slung his staff behind him, drew a long dagger from his waist, and charged forward.

The Daoist ancestor, seeing the dagger’s pattern, muttered, “That’s the Soul-Slaying blade’s mark—not good.”

He retreated, biting his finger as he drew a palm thunder sigil in his hand and hurled it at the black-robed man, who dodged deftly, evading several palm thunders.

Meanwhile, the Spirit Tiger lunged toward Chen Wan’er. Against minor spirits or demons, it was formidable, but it couldn’t even touch the resentful ghoul. Chen Wan’er, already torn apart by several soul fragments, was fading, her entire spirit growing ethereal.

Seeing the Spirit Tiger arrive, Chen Wan’er transformed into a blue glow and hid within the tiger’s consciousness. No sooner had she entered than she lost consciousness. The Spirit Tiger couldn’t defeat the ghoul, but it could outrun anything. Without hesitation, it abandoned Chen San, vanishing into the distance as a silver-white streak.

Chen San’s consciousness had not yet returned; it was the Daoist ancestor’s spirit fighting the black-robed man. With Chen Wan’er and the Spirit Tiger gone, the Daoist ancestor, retreating while fighting, muttered, “That beast truly can’t be trusted!”

He, too, turned and ran toward the Spirit Tiger—but not to flee. The dagger the black-robed man wielded was a fragment of the Soul-Slaying blade, a weapon far more dangerous than simply cutting flesh—it could destroy the Daoist ancestor’s spirit and damage Chen San’s soul.

Chen San possessed no powerful talismans or artifacts, only a peachwood sword. As the spirit turned, it saw the sword’s hilt; running, it closed its eyes, sensing something.

Soon, he drew the peachwood sword from his back, formed a single-hand seal, and his entire body radiated golden light. He smeared his blood on the sword’s hilt, then swung it skyward, running quickly toward the sword. A commanding voice thundered across the heavens.

“Sword, come!”

No sooner had he spoken than, from some barren land, a silver-white light burst from the earth, soaring skyward and racing toward the peachwood sword. In the blink of an eye, it fused with the blade.

Chen San leapt up, grabbed the sword, and upon landing, turned to strike at the black-robed man. As they clashed, the peachwood sword began to transform.

With each strike and parry, the peachwood sword grew more battered; its tip was broken, but the blade became razor-sharp, gleaming coldly in the moonlight.

This broken sword was the Daoist ancestor’s final weapon, forged in battle against demonic forces—the “Clear Wind Taiyi Sword.”

The white light that had just streaked over was the shattered sword’s soul. Though broken and incomplete, the Clear Wind Taiyi Sword was now the equal of the Soul-Slaying dagger—neither party would prevail easily.

With his century-old sword, Chen San fought with renewed vigor. At that moment, the resentful ghoul arrived, its dark red form transforming into a mist and charging at Chen San.

Chen San raised the sword, slashing at the black-robed man and forcing him back several steps. Without pause, he gripped the blade with his left hand, slicing it so blood poured forth, staining the broken sword crimson. He leapt and stabbed at the oncoming red-black mist. In that instant, the mist dissipated, and the ghoul’s true form appeared, thrown back as if struck heavily, sprawling on the ground without movement. The aura of evil spirits seemed to fade.

Chen San didn’t spare a glance, thrusting his broken sword at the black-robed man, embedding it in his chest and sending him sliding backward.

Then, forming hand seals, Chen San summoned heavenly thunder. With a thunderous crash, the resentful spirit was obliterated.

Turning to the struggling black-robed man, his murderous gaze fixed on the Soul-Slaying dagger at the man’s side, pondering something.

“How did you come by the Soul-Slaying blade?”

The black-robed man laughed painfully, “You damned Daoist, meddling in the affairs of the living even after death. Today, even if I perish, I won’t let this boy have peace—a life for a life!”

With those words, he grabbed the Soul-Slaying dagger and stabbed it into his heart. His face contorted in pain, muttering something, and with a loud bang, his body exploded, clothing fragments drifting down as Chen San was splattered with blood.

The Daoist ancestor was alarmed, staring at the blood and muttering in frustration, “This blood is saturated with the sorcerer’s soul fragments. He would rather perish than drag others down with him. Well, it’s up to fate now.” With that, Chen San collapsed, losing consciousness.

The surroundings fell silent; the moon hung high, and the night returned to stillness.

Dawn broke, and the villagers rose to begin their day’s work. On the way to the fields, someone found Chen San still unconscious. It was a middle-aged man named Niu Dali.

True to his name, he was burly. Seeing Chen San lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by dark blood and torn clothes, he checked and found Chen San still breathing. Judging he wasn’t a bad man, he tried to wake him, but Chen San remained unresponsive.

His mind wounded by the powerful spirit of the Daoist ancestor, Chen San showed no signs of waking. Niu Dali hoisted him onto his ox’s back and carried him home.

Niu Dali’s household included two elderly parents and a married sister. The family was poor; he had yet to find a matchmaker for himself. Leading the ox and Chen San home, he placed the stranger on his own bed, explained to his parents what happened, and went out to work in the fields.

The old couple were honest folk. Seeing Chen San unconscious and covered in blood, they washed and cleaned him, and the old man went to fetch the village head.

The village had a young apprentice physician named Niu Qiyuan, learning from a town doctor. He happened to be home these days, so the village head brought him along. When they arrived, Chen San was still unconscious. The village head urged Niu Qiyuan to examine him.

Niu Qiyuan sat by the bed, took Chen San’s wrist, checked his pulse, examined the wound on his palm, wrapped it in cloth, checked his breathing, and lifted his eyelids to inspect.

The village head grew anxious at Niu Qiyuan’s calm demeanor.

“Qiyuan, how is he? He’s not going to die, is he?”

Niu Qiyuan stood, emulating the old doctor, shaking his head dramatically.

“His pulse is steady, breathing smooth, no internal injuries. Other than his palm, he’s unhurt. He should wake after some rest. If you’re anxious, splash some cold water on him—he should wake up then.”

The village head raised his hand to smack him, annoyed at the apprentice’s airs. Niu Qiyuan dodged and ran outside.

“No worries, I’ll be off. Have to help my mother in the fields.” Without turning, he ran off.

The village head called after him, “Slow down, don’t fall!” Then turned to the old man, “If he’s fine, let him rest. I’ll bring some food; when he wakes, feed him. Probably got mauled by some wild beast.”

The old man waved him off, “We have some food, don’t trouble yourself. We can feed him—we know you have a family to care for.”

“It’s just a bit of food; I’ll get it. Take care of him. He seems a decent lad; we can’t let anything happen to him here.”

After seeing the village head off, the old couple returned inside. The old woman sat sewing clothes and shoes, while the old man drank some tea before going out to chop wood.

Two days passed in a flash. In the middle of the night, Chen San sat up, saw Niu Dali sleeping beside him, and nearly kicked him off the bed.

His movement woke Niu Dali, who got up, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re finally awake. If you’d slept another day, I’d have buried you myself. Two days, you must be starving. Want me to get you something to eat?”

Chen San, his mind muddled from the spiritual injury, was confused but his hunger was real. He nodded eagerly.

“Yes, bring plenty.”

Niu Dali, seeing him so unreserved, was momentarily taken aback, then grinned. “Alright, wait here.”

When Niu Dali left, Chen San got off the bed, walked around, saw his palm bandaged and aching, but didn’t dwell on it. He sat and waited.

Soon Niu Dali returned with several cakes and a big bowl of sweet potato porridge.

Seeing the food, Chen San’s eyes lit up. He jumped up, took the food, and devoured it ravenously. It couldn’t rival roast chicken or duck at the tavern, but after two days without food, anything tasted delicious. The porridge was gone in moments.

“You eat like you’re blessed against scalding!” Niu Dali muttered, watching Chen San eat like a starving ghost.

Chen San finished the porridge and grabbed the cakes.

“Where am I? How did I get here?”

As he ate, fragments of memory returned—black-robed man and ghoul—but nothing after that. He awoke in Niu Dali’s home.

Niu Dali was puzzled too. “Two days ago I was out plowing, saw you on the road, amidst torn clothes and blood. You were still breathing, so I brought you back. That’s all I know.”

Chen San tried to recall, suddenly jolted. He jumped up, shouting, “Wan’er!”

He called out while turning, hoping to see Chen Wan’er behind him. No sign of her; he sat down, closed his eyes, and sensed the Spirit Tiger. A white glow appeared in his mind. Chen San opened his eyes and thought silently.

The Spirit Tiger survived, and so did he, but Wan’er was missing. She should have stayed with him. In the end, she drew the ghoul away… He dared not continue the thought. The cake in his hand suddenly lost its appeal.

“Thank you for saving me. I’m on my way to Mount Mao to find someone, just passing through when I encountered a beast. Sorry to trouble you these days. I’ve rested enough—must set out now.”

Niu Dali wanted to persuade him to rest till morning, but Chen San politely declined. Unable to insist, Niu Dali fetched a few more cakes for the journey.

As soon as Chen San stepped outside, he saw many wandering ghosts drifting through the village. Though scared, he wanted to know what happened to Chen Wan’er. Some of the spirits seemed to be closing in, so he fled, soon leaving the village behind.

Back on the main road, Chen San came upon a small stream. He washed his face, but his mind was consumed with worry for Chen Wan’er, unable to focus on his journey. He sat cross-legged, sensing the Spirit Tiger, hoping it might know what happened. A silver-white glow leapt forth, and before him appeared a snowy-white tiger’s rump.