Volume One: The Journey of the Useless—Blazing Demon-Slaying Chapter Twenty-One: Earning a Living, Entangled by Demonic Aura

Yang Chengzi had no way to wake Chen San. He could only carry him out of the forest and figure things out later. After walking a few steps, he remembered the Spirit Tiger and looked back at it lying there, shaking his head helplessly. This big fellow was beyond his ability; once it woke up, it would probably find its own way back.

Elsewhere, the woman in the black robe, grinding her teeth, sensed that the ghosts she had summoned had all been obliterated. She stopped, blood surging up and spilling from her lips.

“You won’t escape. I’ll make sure you die with no grave to your name,” she said, clutching her chest and leaning on a tree as she headed deeper into the woods.

When she came for Chen San, she hadn’t known there was a powerful Daoist with him. That was why, upon seeing Yang Chengzi, she followed quietly and didn’t act immediately, uncertain of his true capabilities. Without Yang Chengzi, Chen San would surely have met his end. She sensed that both of them had called upon their ancestral spirits, facing her with the forbidden arts and secret techniques of two Daoist ancestors, leaving her with no chance of victory.

Even a mere divine thought was enough to make her abandon all hope and force her to sacrifice her pawns to protect herself.

The last thing she summoned was a corpse spirit not yet fully refined. Once it achieves completion, such a corpse spirit’s body becomes indestructible, impossible to kill—only to be sealed away. Its soul can devour ghosts and spiritual beings, and except for the purification from the Eight Great Daoist Mantras and the sealing spells of Shaolin, there’s no other way to deal with it. It’s a most troublesome adversary.

Yang Chengzi carried Chen San for about half the time it takes to burn an incense stick, finally emerging from the nightmare woods. Outside the forest, he walked for nearly half an hour before coming to a river, where he drank and washed away the grime. Seeing that Chen San still showed no signs of waking, he found a tree and sat beneath it, leaning back and gazing at the Shangqing Sword in his hand, lost in memories of his master and their days together on the mountain. A hint of melancholy appeared in his eyes.

His master was the person Yang Chengzi was closest to. He had grown up under his master’s tutelage. Though there were many fellow disciples on Mount Mao, Yang Chengzi always felt somewhat distant from them, and even after more than twenty years, it remained so.

Drawing the Shangqing Sword, he noticed the Great Dipper Mantra inscribed on the blade and suddenly shivered. His master had not only passed down the sword but also the Eight Great Daoist Mantras. Closing his eyes, he sensed within his soul sea and found, indeed, the supreme Daoist spells: the Eight Great Mantras and the Heavenly Gang Exorcism Mantra.

He recalled his master saying that among the Eight Great Mantras, the Calm Soul Mantra could stabilize and restore a damaged soul. Thinking of this, Yang Chengzi opened his eyes and began to recite:

“Calm the heart, breathe into the heavenly spirit; amidst myriad changes, serenity prevails; falling flowers and drifting leaves, pure and tranquil; the mind like still water, the spiritual platform clear…”

Soon, Yang Chengzi felt his soul’s depletion ease, the exhaustion from a sleepless night lifting, and his soul sea becoming clear.

Lifting his hand, he saw the sword scar on his left hand. Tearing a strip from his clothes, he wrapped it up.

At that moment, Chen San sprang up as if possessed.

“I’m here, I’m here!”

Seeing Yang Chengzi bandaging himself, Chen San asked, “Did I take care of those ghost things?”

Yang Chengzi paused, guessing the Calm Soul Mantra had restored Chen San’s soul, allowing him to wake so quickly. He teased, “You slept all night. Did you deal with them in your dreams?”

Chen San blinked in confusion. “I—I remember sensing the old man. He should have come, right? Why wasn’t it resolved?”

“That female sorcerer isn’t someone we can handle. The spirit you summoned was badly injured. Try to sense it, see if you can still connect.”

Hearing that the old man’s spirit was hurt, Chen San grew anxious and hurried to sit cross-legged, concentrating. After a long while, he failed to sense the old man.

“Could he be dead?”

“A wounded spirit won’t die, but might not awaken for days. I also suffered internal injuries. Let’s hope we don’t run into any more ghosts for now.”

Relieved that the old man hadn’t died, Chen San glanced at the Shangqing Sword by Yang Chengzi’s side and cried out.

“This—this sword, where did it come from? I remember you, like me, only brought a bundle when you left the mountain. Did you dig up someone’s grave for it?”

Yang Chengzi frowned, tempted to thrash Chen San on the spot, answering gloomily, “When I called upon the gods, I summoned my master, who passed the sword to me.”

Chen San’s face was full of surprise. “So you know the spirit invocation too! How is the sword passed on? Tell me, tell me…”

With Chen San’s relentless questioning, the two set off again, heading toward Hanshan Temple.

…

After a long journey, they reached a small town called Miaoji, and from there, another day’s walk through a village would bring them to Hanshan Temple.

After their life-and-death struggle with the sorceress in the woods, both were exhausted. Having walked a day and a night, they decided to stay in Miaoji for the night, continuing their journey at dawn.

But there was a pressing problem—neither had any silver. Without silver, there was nothing to eat and nowhere to stay. They were stunned.

In the villages, as long as Yang Chengzi was present, they never lacked food or drink. Every village treated Mount Mao Daoists as honored guests, fearing to offend them. Whenever Yang Chengzi descended the mountain, it was always to subdue demons, so he never thought to bring money.

Chen San’s silver had been stolen even before he reached Mount Mao. Towns were different from villages; most residents were merchants who valued business—cash for goods, transaction complete, little friendship involved.

As they walked, they discussed how to earn some silver first, since only with money could they secure food and lodging.

Dragging their weary bodies, Chen San suggested an idea to Yang Chengzi.

“I say, you look pretty good—though not as handsome as me—but since we entered town, plenty of girls have glanced back at you. Why not read their fortunes? You’re a Daoist, this should be easy. Read for three or five girls, and we’ll have a place to stay tonight.”

Yang Chengzi’s eyes lit up. He nodded, but soon frowned in difficulty.

“But we don’t have a fortune-telling stall. We can’t just squat and wait for girls to come, can we?”

Chen San waved his hand. “Leave it to me. Just now at the corner, I saw a fortune-telling stall. I’ll go negotiate, and it’ll be fine.”

Yang Chengzi looked at him skeptically. Chen San raised his brows and ran off, soon returning with the little fortune-telling table and a banner that read: ‘Time, luck, fate; know life and death, know cause and effect.’

He scampered back, followed by the fortune-teller.

Yang Chengzi was wide-eyed, unsure what was happening. Chen San set up the table before him with a triumphant look, then motioned the fortune-teller toward the tavern. The fortune-teller nodded at Yang Chengzi and went inside.

Yang Chengzi hurriedly asked, “What’s going on? How did you borrow this? Doesn’t the fortune-teller need his tools?”

Chen San laughed. “It’s almost mealtime. I invited him to eat at the tavern and asked to borrow his stall for half an hour. He’s off drinking tea. We’ll set up here. You sit down and get ready—I’ll go call people over. Quick, quick, quick.”

Yang Chengzi sat down, incredulous, while Chen San went out into the street and began gathering girls, pointing them to Yang Chengzi.

Yang Chengzi was bewildered, not knowing what Chen San was saying, but the girls came one after another. Whatever the situation, earning silver came first, so he put on a serious face and began reading.

As the master of the Daoist Wang, Yang Chengzi was naturally skilled in fortune-telling and physiognomy. With a glance, he could discern much about each girl, recounting their histories with uncanny accuracy.

The girls already found the fortune-teller pleasing, and with his skill, they were generous with their silver. They’d thought to serve three or five customers, just enough for the night, but ended up reading for over an hour.

The girls queued along half the street, their eyes full of affection and gentle smiles. Some whispered among themselves, no doubt about Yang Chengzi.

As the sun began to set and darkness crept in, Chen San finally called it a day and packed up the stall.

The original fortune-teller was nearly asleep in the tavern, having drunk tea all afternoon. Chen San ordered a feast, and the three dined together. Though Yang Chengzi ate only vegetarian dishes, hunger prevailed, and they ate to their hearts’ content before parting.

Yang Chengzi and Chen San booked a room at the tavern, while the fortune-teller returned home.

Once inside, Yang Chengzi set up two arrays and placed the Soul Alarm Bell by his pillow before extinguishing the lamp. He looked back at Chen San, who was already sprawled on the bed fast asleep.

…

“Knock, knock, knock!”

“Daoist, Daoist, help me, Daoist!”

Early the next morning, Yang Chengzi and Chen San were awakened by urgent knocking and shouting outside the door.

Yang Chengzi opened the door to find two men—one was a tavern attendant, the other a plump, richly dressed middle-aged man, whose face was drawn with worry. He was the one calling for the Daoist.

The portly man was Chang Qingsong, a well-known merchant in Miaoji, running a pawnshop and two rice shops with thriving business.

Upon seeing Yang Chengzi, Chang Qingsong grabbed his hands and nearly knelt. Yang Chengzi hurriedly protested and helped him up, inviting them inside.

After introductions, Yang Chengzi asked, “Master Chang, what brings you here?”

Chang Qingsong replied, voice trembling, “Oh, Daoist Yang, early this morning I heard from my servants that a skilled Mount Mao Daoist had arrived, whose fortune-telling was astonishingly accurate. I rushed here. Please help me, save my daughter—she’s dying!”

Yang Chengzi spoke gravely, “Don’t panic. Please tell me the whole story.”

Half a year ago, Chang Qingsong had dealings with a manager named Wang Rong. One day, Wang Rong came to the pawnshop with something valuable to pawn. Chang Qingsong, always eager for business, was keen to make the deal.

Wang Rong produced an object resembling jade, about the length of two fingers, pure white and excellent in quality, but surprisingly light. Chang Qingsong knew it wasn’t jade but couldn’t identify it. He asked Wang Rong, who said he’d simply found it and thought it might fetch a price.

Chang Qingsong, shrewd in such matters, recognized it as something special. Fearing Wang would price it too high, Chang Qingsong feigned indifference and bargained. Unexpectedly, Wang Rong sold it for just fifteen taels of silver.

Yang Chengzi frowned at this point.

Chang Qingsong was pleased with his treasure, playing with it daily. Its pure white sheen and lightness made him feel it wasn’t suited for himself, but perfect as a pendant for his daughter. He had it fashioned into a pendant and gave it to her.

His daughter, delighted with the pendant and her father’s advice, wore it faithfully. Yet soon disaster struck.

At first, nothing happened. Within a month, whenever she slept, she had nightmares of someone strangling her, making it hard to breathe—every night the same dream.

Chang Qingsong suspected the house was unclean and brought in a Daoist from a neighboring village for a ritual, which lasted three hours. That night, his daughter had the same nightmare, worse than before, and her neck bore faint strangulation marks, leaving her terrified to sleep.

The household was anxious, fearing the trouble would spread. Several servants left, and Lady Chang wept daily.

Chang Qingsong, unconvinced, thought someone was playing tricks and had his wife and daughter sleep together, while his two young nephews waited in the room with sticks to catch the culprit.

The boys stayed up all night but saw nothing. Yet his daughter was again awakened by the nightmare, with another mark on her neck.

Chang Qingsong examined the marks and found their thickness matched the pendant’s cord. Alarmed, he removed the pendant immediately.

He thought removing it would solve everything, but the next day the pendant reappeared around his daughter’s neck, and each day brought a new mark. She grew weaker and unable to eat, lying in bed for two days.

Finishing his account, Chang Qingsong pleaded, “Daoist Yang, please save my daughter. She’s my only child—I can’t bear to bury her before myself.”

Yang Chengzi asked with a frown, “Do you have the object? Let me see it.”

Chang Qingsong searched his pockets, then slapped his thigh. “Oh, Daoist, it’s probably back on my daughter’s neck. Please come home and see.”

Saving a life was urgent. Thus, Yang Chengzi and Chen San followed Chang Qingsong to his home in the center of town, not far from the tavern. Chang Qingsong, in his haste, arrived in no time.

Before entering, Chen San noticed mist drifting from the Chang residence, and Yang Chengzi also sensed something amiss. Without pausing, they headed straight for Chang Qingsong’s daughter, Chang Yu’s, room.

Opening the door, sunlight flooded the room. Lady Chang sat by the bed, staring blankly at her daughter. Hearing the door, she turned and shielded her eyes. Chang Yu lay with eyes closed, unmoving.

Yang Chengzi entered and reached into his robes. Chen San followed, but as he crossed the threshold, he stumbled, nearly falling.

It wasn’t clumsiness, but his ghost eyes saw a furry shadow entwined tightly around Chang Yu’s neck, her soul already dim and lifeless.

He was about to tell Yang Chengzi when Yang Chengzi strode forward, producing a talisman and affixing it to Chang Yu’s forehead. Instantly, the shadow retreated into her clothing.

Yang Chengzi bit his finger and drew a spell, chanting as he closed his eyes, sensing with his palm above Chang Yu’s body from head to toe, lingering especially at her neck.

After a thorough examination, he opened his eyes and addressed Chang Qingsong. “It’s definitely that object. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s entwined with her soul. If we don’t remove it completely, her life is at risk.”

Chang Qingsong and his wife wept, about to kneel before Yang Chengzi.

Yang Chengzi quickly stopped them. “Don’t panic. Since I’m here, I’ll deal with it. I just sensed carefully—this object radiates death, not much demonic energy, so it’s something that’s about to become a demon. With death aura, it must be made from bone. Help me retrieve it so I can examine it.”

Upon hearing it was bone, Chang Qingsong hurriedly lifted the covers and removed the pendant from Chang Yu’s neck. Sure enough, red and black marks were visible—the object always left a new mark.

He handed it to Yang Chengzi, who found it as white and translucent as mutton-fat jade, seemingly precious to ordinary eyes.

Yang Chengzi’s hand, still stained with blood from the talisman, made the object hiss with white vapor, writhing in his grasp. He held it tightly.

Chang Qingsong and his family withdrew, frightened. Suddenly, Chang Yu writhed in agony on the bed, drenched in sweat and pale, crying out in pain.

Seeing this, Yang Chengzi released the object, which turned into white mist and drifted toward Chang Yu. She fell silent, only heavy breathing audible.

Yang Chengzi frowned and motioned Chen San to approach the bed. Chen San, reluctant, hesitated—his ghost eyes had seen the furry shadow was a demon, and he was terrified. How could he approach?

Yang Chengzi shot him a cool glance. “Go on, once this is resolved, we can continue our journey. Check what it is. With me here, nothing will happen. Save me from using the Heavenly Eye and shortening my life.”

Reluctantly, Chen San rolled his eyes, gulped, and edged toward the bed. Yang Chengzi, exasperated, gave him a shove. At the bedside, the furry thing was still tightly wrapped around Chang Yu’s neck.

Rubbing his backside, Chen San looked closely and said, “It looks like a tail—white, furry, big, wrapped around her neck.” He gestured with his hand.