“Young Master Lin, the pillar will be replaced with a new one. We’ll return shortly.”
One of the scourge-slayers spoke. Lin Shijin turned his head, gave a brief reply, his ears twitching before he looked away again.
He could have sworn he’d misheard. Someone seemed to have called him an idiot.
People had been calling him an idiot rather often these days. He touched his ears, deciding he must have imagined it. He glanced at the mirror again, then silently turned it round.
With the mirror now facing away, it no longer reflected him.
He did not remain in the hall for long. Soon enough, the baby-faced youth stepped inside.
“Lin-shidi, Sheng-shixiong asked us to take you to the altar.”
Lin Shijin shot to his feet. He needed nothing but his veiled hat.
He put it on, still faintly uneasy.
“The city lord barred me from taking even half a step outside. What if someone recognises me at the altar…”
“Don’t worry.” The baby-faced youth hesitated, but said nothing further. “Once today’s task is done, it’ll all be over. Come along.”
Lin Shijin lifted his veiled hat. Hearing “today’s task will be over”, he asked, “Have you received word?”
“Only a guess,” the youth replied. “It may not truly end today.”
The three of them set off together, a quiet girl following in their wake, silent as a shadow.
The altar wasn’t far. Yixiu City was ring-shaped, with a mountain at its centre, carved into a vast altar crowned by a Ghost King Temple.
The market and streets lay beyond the mountain, and still further out were the four city gates.
They reached the foot of the mountain. The peak loomed, towering into the night, its summit lost from sight, only the faint outline of the altar visible.
Yixiu City worshipped the Ghost King. Legends said the city was once just a small settlement. When a drought demon brought three unbroken years of famine, the people prayed to the Ghost King day and night. The Ghost King descended to slay the demon, and rain fell for three days and nights, ending the drought.
From that time on, Yixiu City held yearly rites to honour the Ghost King. It was a custom etched into every generation’s bones.
Now the mountainside was bright with lamplight. The silhouettes of scourge-slayers blended into the night. There was no moon; the sky was heavy, dark clouds smothering all light.
A damp chill filled the air. Lin Shijin stepped onto muddy ground. The mountain path was steep, carved with countless murals, though the carvings were little more than indistinct shadows in the gloom.
He spotted Sheng Rufei not far away, holding a green lantern painted with a Ghost King mask.
Several scourge-slayers guarded the grounds, and the altar lay just ahead. Many offerings had been prepared upon it, with a colossal statue of the Yixiu Ghost King at the centre.
He glanced in its direction. Candles burned upon the table; the stone steps rose endlessly upward.
“Shixiong—”
The slayers, all dressed in black, merged with the night and were rather alarming at first glance. Clutching his sword, he went to Sheng Rufei’s side.
Through the veil, Sheng Rufei tapped his head. “Stay just behind me. Don’t be afraid.”
He answered with a soft “Mm,” glancing again towards the altar. A cold unease prickled at his heart, a vague sense that something was terribly wrong.
They were early. Soon, the stone steps lit one by one as people ascended with lanterns.
Footsteps approached; it seemed to be drizzling. The people from the city lord’s manor had also arrived.
Lin Shijin looked over. The slayers parted, and the attendant lord stepped into view beside the city lord.
The city lord looked to be in his early thirties, wearing a gold belt and jade coronet, gold embroidery glinting faintly on his cuffs. His features were upright, but his complexion was poor. His face faintly greenish, his whole bearing frail, as though walking even a few steps left him breathless.
Lin Shijin had heard him speak at the banquet; the city lord seldom spoke, usually having his attendant relay his words.
Recalling this, Lin Shijin’s gaze drifted towards him. As if sensing it, the city lord coughed twice and looked in their direction.
Lin Shijin immediately lowered his head, but once that gaze moved on, he instinctively looked up again. The city lord’s steps were unsteady, his gait top-heavy, his robes hanging so loosely that it gave the illusion of emptiness beneath.
As the city lord passed, Lin Shijin heard a hoarse murmur.
“It’s too late.”
“No matter how many times… the result is the same.”
The city lord’s voice was like a cracked drum, the wind hissing through the fissure and scraping at one’s ears.
Lin Shijin, hearing this, looked where the city lord had been staring. Before them towered the immense statue of the Ghost King, wearing a Yama mask, its robes embroidered with the Eight Immortals’ Descent to the Underworld. Its features vanished into the dark, its feet upon mountains of corpses and seas of blood, countless glaring spirits writhing behind.
Below, the crowd bustled. Only the city lord could ascend; the townsfolk waited at the foot of the steps, their retainers holding lanterns whose tassels swayed in the wind with a faint, ghostly glow.
Incense was lit. Lin Shijin stared at the enormous statue. All these statues looked much the same, and an odd feeling stirred in his chest. His gaze fixed on the Ghost King’s mask, trying to pierce the night and see the hidden face.
Smoke curled in the air. The slayer stepped forward to hand incense to the city lord.
This task should have been Sheng Rufei’s, but Lin Shijin remained at a standstill, when he heard a rasping voice:
“Let him come.”
Though veiled, he could feel the weight of many stares upon him. The attendant repeated the summons.
“Don’t be frightened. Go.”
Sheng Rufei’s familiar voice brushed past his ear, as though whispered directly through the veil.
His nerves eased. With Sheng Rufei nearby, he feared little. He stepped forward, looking at the incense on the tray and the purified handkerchief beside it.
He used the handkerchief to pick up the black incense, lit it with the attendant’s flame, and presented it to the city lord.
Through the veil he saw the rising thread of smoke. Yet the city lord still did not take it.
The smoke flickered. The city lord suddenly spoke.
“Do you… regret it?”
Lin Shijin’s fingers paused. He didn’t know who the city lord was addressing. Only he stood before him. Was it meant for him?
The feeling was strange. He instinctively sought Sheng Rufei in his peripheral vision, unsure if he should respond.
But the city lord soon accepted the incense, never waiting for an answer.
Tree shadows swayed; the banner bearing the great characters Yixiu fluttered; lanterns shivered in unison. Lin Shijin watched the city lord bow slightly, eyes lowered, posture devout and solemn.
He held the pose. A gust blew, lifting the hem of his robe. And in that moment, Lin Shijin saw clearly.
Terror surged. His mind reeled, a dreadful foreboding rising from deep within, cold sweat blossoming down his spine.
A heavy thud split the air, like the herald of everything to come. Still half-bowed, the city lord toppled forward, his forehead striking the stone step. Black blood spurted at once.
His expression remained one of serene devotion. The incense still burned within the cauldron, its smoke blurring the deity’s visage.
Lin Shijin had yet to recover. He had seen, unmistakably, the emptiness within the city lord’s sleeves and hem. There was nothing inside at all.
A scream tore through the crowd. With the city lord’s collapse, pandemonium erupted.
Light flashed before Lin Shijin’s eyes. In the distance, flames engulfed the city, smoke rolling skywards, dyeing half the sky red like a great fire dragon rising into the heavens.
“City Lord—!”
“An evil curse—it’s an evil curse…!”
Every scourge-slayer unsheathed their sword. Dense curse-marks crawled across the city lord’s face; his complexion was ashen and shrivelled, as though he had been dead for days.
At the same moment, black curse-marks writhed up the bodies of many in the crowd, creeping across their faces like living worms, squirming into every crevice.
“Ahhhhh—!”
“My face, my face—!”
Some clutched their eyes, screaming in agony. Others twisted in an instant into human-faced demons of black mist, the miasma surging through the crowd. The curse consumed their flesh, blood splattering into the fiery air, the scene like a living purgatory.
Some slayers rushed to the fallen city lord; others charged forward to cut down the demons. Black mist billowed; wails and sobs merged; sword-light flashed coldly.
Lin Shijin stared, stunned. In less than half a quarter-hour, everything had spiralled beyond control. He recalled Xue Ning’s words, looked at the crawling curse-marks, and pain lanced inexplicably through his heart.
In his daze, a hand seized his wrist. Sheng Rufei gripped him, pushing him back two steps.
“Stay here. If anything happens, crush the token and leave the secret realm immediately.”
Drawing the Yinbing Sword, Sheng Rufei released him, set a barrier around him, and turned away.
“Shixiong—!”
Lin Shijin called after him, but the screams drowned everything. Sheng Rufei had vanished.
Moments ago, those demons were human. Now they were monstrous.
Within the barrier, Lin Shijin stood frozen as blood splattered before him, his robes whipping in the wind, the envelope against his side still pressed firmly against his chest.
Many wisps of black mist swirled around the barrier, lurking and waiting for an opening. Lin Shijin drew the envelope from his chest, a tangle of questions stirring in his mind, as if some unseen thread were pulling him onward.
A decision crystallised within him. His fingertips touched the envelope, he peeled back the sealing wax, and extracted the thin sheet of paper within.
The letter was blank except for a single motif: a crane among feathers.
The crane immortal in the design wore a half-smile, strange and enigmatic, its face seemingly composed of countless runes. The moment Lin Shijin gazed at it, the motif flared to life, flames dancing across his fingertips before vanishing entirely.
The paper turned to ash in an instant.
Before he could react, a tremendous force sucked at him. His vision splintered into countless points of light. His cry of “Shixiong—” never left his lips; in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
His mind spun. Somewhere in the chaos he thought he heard a bang. The shattering of his token.
The token had broken on its own. The mission had reached its end.
He landed unsteadily, the world spinning, before he found himself back in familiar surroundings. Just as he feared he might collapse, he caught the edge of a familiar cloak and tumbled into a warm, lightly scented embrace.
A face long unseen came into view. Feng Rugao held him firmly, his eyes calm, though a careful observer might detect a trace of cold anger lurking beneath.
Lin Shijin, still woozy, felt a wave of nausea; leaving the secret realm had been like being flung through the air a dozen times. Slowly, he realised whose arms he was in.
“Shizun…?”
Before he could finish the word, his complexion drained, and he fainted entirely into Feng Rugao’s embrace.
“Look… is that Lord Changming?”
“Seeing is believing! Lord Changming has emerged from Changming Hall. What brings him here?”
Disciples who had followed from the secret realm noticed him and murmured in a mixture of curiosity and reverence, whispering excitedly amongst themselves.
Normally, Sheng Rufei drew all attention. But now it was Feng Rugao, who was rarely seen in public, holding every gaze effortlessly.
Su Lian also emerged from the secret realm. He cast a thoughtful glance towards Feng Rugao, then shifted his attention to the young man nearby.
Sheng Rufei had just stepped out as well, searching for someone. His eyes quickly found the young man in his shizun’s arms. He froze in place, fingers tightening around the hilt of his longsword, his figure melting into the shadows.
