The faceless ghost from the bridal sedan was dragged out, and the others swarmed forward, shoving Xue Cuo inside.
Dizzy, he dropped onto the chair and quickly felt about. This sedan… was a fine magic artefact. If he forced his way out, it would cause quite a stir and surely alarm the whole lot.
His fingers brushed something damp. Xue Cuo hissed. Scarlet stained his fingertips.
This red… was it blood?
What lay hidden in this Broken Head Mountain, to draw such a crowd of formidable things?
The sedan shivered, a faint red sheen flickering over it.
Xue Cuo’s face darkened. From his sleeve he drew the incense burner, tried again to light it, but the talisman stayed dark, the incense refused to burn.
Here the crooked flourished and the upright waned, ghosts prospered and gods were feeble. Strange veins of feng shui were almost certainly tied to that Daoist of Yinliu Village. The evil here soared skyward; how many innocents had already perished? What on earth was that priest attempting?
And was what he sought truly in this mountain?
Xue Cuo lifted the sedan curtain. A pair of bloodshot eyes, steeped in venom, glared at him.
On closer look, it was that squat Daoist who had been boiling broth. His cauldron had vanished; the creature clung to the window, bursting into curses at the sight of him.
Xue Cuo arched a brow. Such a filthy tongue?
He covered his face and said cheerfully, “Friend, where’s your pot? Weren’t you offering me soup?”
The short Daoist’s ghost-face turned ashen with rage. His stubby legs flailed. “You’re truly shameless!”
He nearly scrambled inside, but some fear held him back. He drew his hand away and glowered hatefully.
Kind-hearted, Xue Cuo lowered the curtain, drumming his fingers lightly upon his knee.
So, the sedan itself had a problem.
But what problem? Was it built to slay ghosts?
He ran a hand along its frame. It was spotless, and free of yin taint.
This Broken head Mountain truly was peculiar.
He thought it over. The beings here did not ally, but lived by dominance. Like the strong enslaving the weak, like the soup-pot ghost and the hatchet ghost, who dared not approach the sedan bearers.
Had it not been for Xue Cuo’s kindly directions, they might never have “invited” those two.
A glimmer flickered in his eyes. If that priest could indeed twist Broken Head Mountain into such a place, single-handedly shifting the very order of the Dao here, then his own odds were slim indeed.
The suona blared.
They seemed to circle endlessly. The sedan grew darker, the procession quieter, the last of daylight fading away.
Xue Cuo’s heart raced. He drew out a talisman, pressed a seal. The paper’s yellow shade slowly blackened. The yin energy here was so thick it could be seen with the naked eye.
His face grew graver. He lay against the sedan wall, listening hard.
The sounds of the suona, the drums, the gongs were all muddled, all increasingly eerie. And from somewhere close, other sounds.
Sedan, bride, faceless ghosts.
Who was the one in the sedan meant to marry? Weeping drew nearer, the music tangled joy with grief… so uncanny it made one’s scalp prickle.
Xue Cuo eased the curtain aside. It was a flood of crimson: faceless ghosts in red, giggling, singing, dancing, turning a bend.
Through the snow-fog, another procession emerged. Stern, clad in white, bearing a heavy black coffin. Faces numb, features blurred. With each step they scattered paper money skywards.
Red flowers across the ground, white paper adrift in the air.
Neither side slowed, both marching straight towards each other.
Xue Cuo shut the curtain. He had glimpsed the terrain: no stars, no moon, trees choking the sky, jagged rocks, a place steeped in killing aura, fertile ground for evil.
Red and white rites, joy and grief at their extremes. Should the two collide, something fearsome might be born.
He thought: good thing I’m in the bridal sedan. I’m a lad, not some maiden. When yang meets yang, I’ll blast him to kingdom come!
The two processions drew closer, the malice grew heavier. The drum ghost tilted his ear, waiting. Suddenly he shrieked, “The hour is come! Wed the bride!”
The others cackled, hefting the black coffin, flinging paper money as they sang: “Wed the bride, marry the bride, rouge her face, red and bright.”
“Wed the groom, marry the groom, by dawn, all will die.”
Singing, dancing, the ghosts set the bridal sedan atop the black coffin. Suddenly the drum ghost froze, his ears twitching. “It’s done!”
Xue Cuo, muddled, longed to peek out, yet instinct warned it was safer within.
He gathered his strength, crouched upon the chair, one hand on the frame, one foot on the ground ready to burst free.
Suddenly.
The sedan lurched.
A rumble thundered outside. Off balance, Xue Cuo was pitched forward, tumbling out. He rolled deftly, lotus Dao-rhythms blossoming one by one to shield him. Yet before he could rise, an iron arm clamped about him.
A veil of scarlet fell before his eyes, shrouding his face. He strained an arm but couldn’t budge.
He looked down. A vast green-grey hand locked his wrist, dragging hard.
Around him was clearly a courtyard, paper money strewn across the ground, rustling as the wind swept by.
“Time to go.”
The voice was strangely distorted, as if the tongue inside were stiff. With a sudden yank, even the sturdy Xue Cuo nearly stumbled.
He stayed quiet and docile, stepping forward of his own accord.
The suona blared again. This time a shrill cry pierced through. Though veiled, Xue Cuo faintly recognised the voices of the short Daoist and the hatchet ghost.
Paper money rustled. The room grew heavy, its baleful air making the head spin. Footsteps, laughter, sobs… these fragmented sounds pressed into the silence, noisy and funereal all at once.
The thing dragged him into the wedding hall. Hands pressed at his back, ready to force down his head.
His face shifted. In a flash he leaned close to the corpse-or-ghost and lodged a complaint: “They’re taking liberties with me.”
The lively mourning hall fell eerily still.
Ak—
The short Daoist, choking on his breath.
Hiss—
Whispers, suddenly louder. What they said was unclear, but surely not kind.
Even the one holding Xue Cuo seemed surprised. After a pause, it snorted heavily.
A gust lifted the veil. Xue Cuo glimpsed an immense figure, murderous energy rolling off it. The whispers ebbed, the cold clutch at his back slowly receded.
He exhaled, looked about. A great table stood before the hall, laden with dishes that were bloody, mangled, full of poisons, unfit to look at.
A green-grey hand hauled him forward, stiffly urging the bow.
Xue Cuo quickly clapped a hand on its shoulder, smiling: “Friend, on such a joyous day, shouldn’t we drink a few cups with my family?”
No reply.
Only the drift of paper money.
The host stood still, killing aura surging sky-high. After a moment, it gripped his arm and shoved him to the table.
Two ghosts sat by him: one in Daoist robes, trembling; the other burly, hatchet at his waist, arms folded in grief.
Xue Cuo rose, swept a glance across the table, hesitated, then lifted the wine jug. A stream of black liquid poured into cups for the two ghosts and the one at the head.
“Come, don’t stand on ceremony. Eat, eat.”
The Daoist’s eyes bulged, fixed on Xue Cuo. At last, stifled and trembling, he raised the cup and drank.
Black vapour leaked from him, his form withering. The hatchet ghost fared the same.
Baleful energy works on ghosts?
Xue Cuo arched a brow, filled a large bowl, and offered it to the head seat: “My toast to you.”
The figure gave a slight nudge, lifted a delicate cup in its great hand, poured, and passed it to him.
Cross-cup wine.
Xue Cuo: …
When he refused, the figure prised open his fingers one by one and pressed the cup into his palm. Knowing there was no escape, he accepted. Just as he raised his hand to spill it, the grip tightened, locking their arms together. Forced into a struggle, he overturned the table.
The whispers swelled. Realising danger, Xue Cuo hurriedly said: “Wine’s drunk. Time for the wedding ceremony.”
The thing dragged him forward. Xue Cuo, heartfelt: “Wait, let’s light a stick of incense first.”
It stood unmoving. His fingers touched a talisman. Just then it exhaled, stepping back.
He swiftly drew out an incense burner, setting it upright, and seized the short Daoist, whispering: “If you want to live, tell me where you got that fire for your soup.”
Shaken limp, the Daoist wavered, then, trusting the warrior, fumbled out a piece of black jade, sheathed in a faint glow. Closer, the glow proved a pale green flame.
Yin fire?
Xue Cuo took it, coughed lightly. The figure handed him a stick of incense. He examined it, pinched it in his palm, and lit it.
The pale flame caught.
His eyes flickered.
From his sleeves emerged a pair of slender, even hands, placing the burning stick respectfully in the censer.
The smoke rose thin and straight. Around them came sharp intakes of breath… though no one smelled a thing.
Meanwhile.
Beneath the great loch, deep in the waters, a vast goddess statue stood, eyes lowered, face without joy or sorrow, anger or grief.
Suddenly she sensed her lineage disciple offering incense. Casually she glanced over.
Hm…… hm?
What was her disciple doing?
