Chapter Sixteen: Essence of the Spirit

Once again, Zuo Panlong led us up the mountain with urgency. When we arrived at the old village chief’s grave, we found the coffin lid open. A pair of withered, blackened hands stretched out from inside the coffin, clutching Third Uncle’s arm with a death grip, dragging him inward with terrifying strength.

Everyone nearby was seized by terror; several women had already fainted, foaming at the mouth. A few braver souls hurriedly grabbed Third Uncle’s legs, trying desperately to pull him back.

Caught between two forces, Third Uncle looked just like the rope in a tug-of-war, his eyes rolling back, his face twisted in agony, on the verge of losing consciousness.

The old village chief’s strength was beyond belief.

Strangely, though, he dared not leave the coffin—I guessed it must be because of the ring of copper coins Zuo Panlong had placed around it.

With a leap, Zuo Panlong landed atop the coffin and delivered a fierce kick to the old chief’s hands.

The withered hands recoiled at once, instantly letting go of Third Uncle.

Everyone tumbled backward in relief.

Zuo Panlong bit the tip of his tongue, spat a mouthful of blood into the coffin, targeting the old chief within.

The coffin, which had been shaking violently, immediately stilled.

Zuo Panlong quickly shut the lid, bound the entire coffin with a red cord, and plastered it all over with talismanic papers, then ordered everyone to start shoveling earth.

In a panicked scramble, the villagers buried the coffin completely.

Only then did Zuo Panlong let out a long sigh, sweat streaming down his brow.

With the matter settled, everyone descended the mountain, still full of nervous dread.

Back at our lodgings, Zuo Panlong pulled me into a room and shut the door behind us.

His beady green eyes stared at me, fierce and grave. He said, “Just now, Junjun’s mother went mad again—I suspect Ping’s wife is behind it. Her real target is you. The old chief is dealt with, but if we don’t get rid of Ping’s wife, the whole village remains in danger. Xie Xiaopi, if you’re hiding anything, now’s the time to tell me the truth about you and Ping’s wife. Otherwise, not even the immortals can save you.”

The whole village in danger?

I was stunned for a moment, then gathered my thoughts and recounted everything that had happened to me in childhood, without holding anything back.

After hearing me out, Fatty Zuo’s face was full of doubt: “You really don’t know who destroyed your family back then, or the identity of that Jiu’er who saved you?”

“How the hell would I know? If I knew who killed my family, I’d have taken a knife for revenge long ago!” I felt both aggrieved and angry.

“We have to catch Ping’s wife first if we want to find the one behind all this,” Zuo Panlong said, frowning.

Seeing that he was willing to help, I immediately flattered him: “Master Zuo, your Daoist arts are boundless, your heart is pure, you rid the world of evil—surely you must be a celestial being come to save us mortals!”

Zuo Panlong grinned, showing his teeth. “Finished?”

I asked what was wrong.

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Flatter me all you want, but a Daoist master still charges for his work! Since it’s you, I won’t overcharge—let’s call it a hundred thousand.”

I wilted at once.

After spending these days together, I knew what kind of man he was—he’d eat the meat and crunch the bones. Where was I supposed to find that kind of money?

Zuo Panlong leered. “No cash? Your pharmacy’s got plenty of rare ingredients. Give me a couple to settle the debt.”

At that moment, a sudden knock sounded at the door. “Is Master Zuo in?”

Opening the door, Uncle Changeng slipped inside, nervously pulling out a grease-stained bundle from his coat. He said his father’s matter was settled, and this was the promised payment.

I peeked and saw the bundle was full of small bills.

Uncle Changeng might have some family means, but fifty thousand wasn’t a small sum—it must have emptied his pockets.

Fatty Zuo licked his lips and carefully counted the money twice. “No mistake. Next time you need help, we’ll work together again.”

A Daoist exorcist wishing repeat business—how was that any different from a doctor hoping for more patients?

Uncle Changeng looked as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of dung, hurriedly declaring there’d never be a next time, and bolted.

I told Fatty Zuo his prices were too steep, that Uncle Changeng was just a rural farmer—couldn’t he give him a discount?

Fatty Zuo snorted. “Exorcising evil spirits isn’t like hosting a dinner—there’s risk and burden. And it’s not all for me; more than half will be given away!”

“Given away? What a waste. If you don’t want to carry it, why not give it to me?”

“You think I’ll toss it in the river? I’m donating it—to help children who can’t go to school, or disaster victims. It’s for accumulating merit!”

I didn’t believe for a second he was so altruistic, so I changed the subject and asked what rare ingredient he wanted.

He thought for a moment. “Aside from your dog-treasure, let’s settle this matter first—then I’ll pick something from your shop.”

The things in my medicine chest were valuable, yes, but they weren’t worth dying over. If Ping’s wife wasn’t dealt with and I had no descendants, who knew whose hands the pharmacy would fall into after my death?

With that in mind, I agreed.

Fatty Zuo speculated that corpse puppets were usually mindless, but in Ping’s wife’s case, when she first became a corpse puppet, the treasure hunter must have fished her out of the river while her consciousness lingered, then used a mysterious method to extract her “spirit essence” and store it somewhere secret. That would explain why she retained her memories and had special abilities, able to survive underwater like a normal corpse puppet. To truly deal with her, we’d have to find her “spirit essence” first.

“What’s spirit essence?” I asked, baffled.

Fatty Zuo’s beady eyes glinted. “Her brain.”

A wave of revulsion washed over me.

How twisted could the world get?

But what kept her spirit essence connected to her body—was it some form of remote control?

“Don’t look at me. I don’t know the principle either,” Fatty Zuo said, guessing my thoughts.

I asked, “Why would the treasure hunter do this to her?”

Fatty Zuo looked at me with disdain. “You’re a descendant of the southern river treasure hunters, and you know nothing? You lot wander rivers and mountains seeking lost treasures—danger’s everywhere, your life always at risk. If you turn someone like Ping’s wife into a conscious corpse puppet, you could send her into the Yellow River to search for ancient relics—dig up a few bronze night pots from the Zhou Dynasty, and you’d be set for life! Besides, I hear you treasure hunters have your own factions, and fight over treasures all the time. With someone like Ping’s wife to do your dirty work—revenge, murder—you could sit back and enjoy the show, couldn’t you?”

A thought occurred to me, so I asked, “Once the spirit essence is sealed, is that it?”

Fatty Zuo shook his head. “No such luck. Even a dog needs the occasional bone. The spirit essence needs to be regularly reinforced with secret arts, or the consciousness inside will fade.”

Huangyan Pa, Uncle Mingda, and Ping’s wife all appeared to belong to the Western Mule Sect, but if the sect controlled Ping’s wife, then after Huangyan Pa and Uncle Mingda died, her spirit essence should have lost its reinforcement and her mind would have faded.

But so much time had passed—even lying low for more than a decade after being subdued by Jiu’er’s Whirling Whip, Ping’s wife’s mind showed no signs of weakening. This could only mean the one controlling her wasn’t from the Western Mule Sect—someone else was behind it.

Could her true master be the black-clad figure who cursed me with the river parasite?

If so, things were dire.

Judging by how even Jiu’er was terrified of the man in black, his power must be monstrous.

Could Fatty Zuo handle it?

“Let’s go,” Fatty Zuo interrupted my thoughts, tightening his coat.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Since I’ve made some money, I’ll treat you to dinner.”

There were no restaurants in the village, so Fatty Zuo took me to Aunt Liu’s place, handed her five hundred, and told her to cook up something good.

Aunt Liu was delighted—she slaughtered a chicken, butchered a duck, poured wine, and soon the savory aroma of her dishes filled the air.

Watching Fatty Zuo eat, lips glistening with grease, I asked how a Daoist could indulge in meat and wine.

He replied that only the Quanzhen sect was as strict as monks, abstaining from meat and alcohol; as a talisman Daoist, he not only didn’t abstain, but could even marry if he wished—it was all in keeping with the natural order.

During the meal, Fatty Zuo asked Aunt Liu if there was a City God Temple nearby.

She said the old temple was by the cattle shed at the end of the village, but during the anti-superstition campaigns it was demolished, leaving only a few mud walls and some rotting beams. Now it was home to rats and coiled green snakes—no one worshipped there anymore.

After dinner, darkness had fallen.

But Fatty Zuo didn’t go home—instead, he swaggered straight toward the end of the village.

I asked where he was off to.

He said he was going to the City God Temple to consult the City God himself—having been in the village so long, the deity should know better than anyone about Ping’s wife.

I wondered what nonsense Fatty Zuo was spouting—even if the City God existed, why would he bother with a lowly Daoist? Still, I was curious to see him make a fool of himself.

When we reached the cattle shed, Fatty Zuo suddenly spread his arms, stopping me.

I was puzzled, so I looked up—besides a few big yellow cows sleeping in the straw, I could vaguely make out a figure among them, back turned, rummaging through the herd.

A cattle thief?!

I was about to pick up a stone and hurl it at the man.

But Fatty Zuo pressed down my hand, signaling me to stay silent.