The rooster's crow heralded dawn, splitting night from day.
As village chickens clucked, a faint line of light crept over the horizon, yin sinking, yang rising. The village stirred with human voices.
"You lazy kid, what's wrong with you?"
"Feed the pigs quick, we've got fields to work soon…"
Li Yan hadn't slept a wink, standing guard in the courtyard with his blade. Only when he heard neighbors scolding their kids did he ease the creaky wooden gate open.
*Creak.*
The old bolt screeched, setting teeth on edge.
Stepping out, Li Yan glanced up, and his eyes widened in shock.
The "Hundred Battles Mighty" plaque above the gate was a mess—paint chipped, edges rotting, a crack splitting its right side.
Li Yan didn't know how this treasure warded off evil—maybe it was tied to imperial power. But one thing was clear: after last night's ordeal, the plaque had taken a beating. Another night like that, and it might fail entirely.
And *Blind Third*? That thing was only driven back, not destroyed.
What now?
As Li Yan mulled over his options, Grandpa Li Gui hobbled out on his crutches.
The old man, puffing on his long pipe, spotted Li Yan disheveled, blade in hand, standing by the gate. "You fool boy, practicing your knife work instead of eating? And why're your clothes a mess?"
"Don't just stand there scaring folks at dawn. I'll fix you some food."
With that, he shuffled toward the kitchen, leaning on his crutches.
Old age had dulled his senses—he hadn't heard a thing last night.
Li Yan opened his mouth to stop him but thought better of it. Food was the last thing on his mind. He hurried inside, threw on proper clothes, and headed out.
Farmers' garb wasn't fancy—coarse black cloth, mostly. With summer's heat, it was just a single layer. The pants, baggy and shapeless, hung straight down. Without leg bindings, moving was a hassle.
Dressed, he made a beeline for the village entrance.
He knew *Blind Third*'s corpse hung from the big locust tree there. He hadn't bothered to look before, but after last night's weirdness, he couldn't ignore it.
Glancing back at the smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, he clenched his fist.
Grandpa was still home. He couldn't leave.
Whatever that thing was, he had to deal with it.
The morning sun warmed the yellow earth and wheat fields, blue skies dotted with white clouds. Villagers trudged past with hoes, a picture of idyllic rural life.
Compared to last night's eeriness, it was another world.
*Blind Third*'s body dangled from the locust tree, battered by kids' stones yesterday, now taking stray whacks from passing loafers' hoes, who chuckled as they swung.
Li Yan didn't rush up. Standing upwind, some fifty meters away, he sniffed the air.
Nothing. No trace of *Blind Third*'s rank, icy stench.
It was just… a dead wolf.
Frowning, he approached and inspected it. Nothing odd stood out.
Just then, a man passed by, clicking his tongue. "Shame, I tell ya. Shoulda eaten it. Hanging here a few days, it's gonna stink."
Li Yan bit back a retort, unsure what to say.
The man, Li Shuanzhu, was a shiftless bachelor, a greedy loudmouth nobody liked.
Eat that thing? He'd probably be the one haunted last night.
Oblivious to his own unpopularity, Li Shuanzhu rambled on. "Widow Wang said it's bad luck, needs burning and rituals. Doesn't look like much to me…"
Li Yan's ears pricked up. "What else did she say?"
"What's she got to say that's worth hearing?" Li Shuanzhu shook his head. "Her place stinks worse than a latrine, always muttering nonsense. Shame, really…"
He sauntered off, hoe over his shoulder.
Li Yan barely noticed, his mind turning. Without another word, he headed for Widow Wang's house.
Soon, he reached her place—an old, rundown courtyard, gate shut tight. Weeds choked the mud-brick walls, piled with dusty junk.
Most villagers were in the fields by now, leaving the area deserted, like an abandoned ruin.
As Li Yan approached, his nose wrinkled.
The village had two strange spots: the Earth Temple and Widow Wang's house. The mix of *Blind Third*'s stench and the foul odor here was torture for his sharp senses.
Gossip about widows ran rampant, so despite his curiosity, he rarely came this way.
But now, he had no choice. *Blind Third* had to be dealt with, and Widow Wang might know something.
*Creak.*
Just as he raised a foot to step forward, the gate cracked open. Widow Wang, pale and disheveled, peeked out.
She glanced warily behind him, then said in a trembling voice, "Come in. The immortal wants to see you."
Li Yan froze, caught off guard.
She *knew* he was coming.
And… an *immortal*?
Suspicion flared, but his face stayed blank. He lightly gripped his knife handle and strode into the courtyard.
The moment he entered, a rancid stench hit him.
His keen nose suffered, and he held his breath, scanning the yard with a scowl.
Rotten wood and pickling jars lined the walls, filled with some putrid liquid, frothy with white foam and swarming with flies.
It reeked like an outhouse.
Unable to stand it, Li Yan covered his nose, about to speak, when his eyes narrowed.
The jars, though scattered, were placed with intent—aligned with the eight gates: *Open, Rest, Life, Harm, Block, Scene, Death, Shock*. As a martial artist, he knew a bit about such patterns.
Was there more to this setup?
Before he could ponder, Widow Wang gently opened the house door, motioning him to follow.
Her method was odd—she slid the door open sideways, hanging a cloth curtain to block light, as if guarding against a draft.
Hell, even a woman in confinement wasn't this cautious.
Li Yan's suspicions deepened as he stepped inside.
Surprisingly, the house smelled less foul than the yard, though it was dim and stiflingly hot. That incense-tinged, rank odor grew stronger.
His eyes locked onto the room's setup.
A square altar table stood against the wall, laden with four plates of steamed buns, three of fruit, a roast chicken, fatty pork, and a wine jug. An incense burner held three sticks, flanked by dim candles.
Behind the offerings sat a wooden tablet with red paper, inscribed: *Position of Third Aunt Hu*. A small couplet flanked it: *Cultivating truth in deep mountains, gaining fame across the four seas.*
An *outgoing immortal*?
Li Yan blinked, old memories stirring.
In his past life, he'd dabbled in folklore alongside antiques. This setup came from ancient shamanic traditions, common in the Northeast, with *house-protecting* and *outgoing immortals*. In Guanzhong, it was rare.
Now that he thought about it, he'd heard Widow Wang was bought from a human trafficker, likely from the Northeast.
But what caught his eye was in front of the altar.
A circle of red wooden stakes, tied with red rope, surrounded a neatly dressed young girl lying on the floor.
Her eyes were shut, as if unconscious, eyelids twitching. Stranger still, the skin over her acupuncture points—head, shoulders, arms—quivered faintly, like a drumskin.
What was this?
The scene felt absurd, yet since last night, Li Yan's view of the world had shifted. This wasn't simple—there was another kind of power at play.
Widow Wang offered no explanation. Instead, she lifted a red cloth from a rack beside the altar, revealing a drum.
Its skin bore the eight trigrams, with eight strings—four north, four south—strung with dangling copper coins that jingled when moved. The drumstick's handle was tied with multicolored cloth strips.
*King Wen's drum, King Wu's whip*?
Li Yan's eyes narrowed, intrigued.
This world might be more than just folklore…
Widow Wang picked up the drum and whip, and it was like she became someone else. Shoulders swaying, head shaking, she struck the drum and circled the roped area.
*Thump! Thump! Thump-thump!*
The drum's rhythm boomed. Widow Wang's demeanor shifted from timid to solemn, her voice rising in a chant: "Sun sets, the west hills darken, every house bolts its door. Travelers seek inns, birds flee to forests, tigers return to mountains. Birds find shelter in the woods, tigers rest safe in their lairs…"
Her accent changed with the song.
Li Yan had seen this in his past life.
The scene was familiar, but his strange sense of smell picked up something new.
As the drumbeats echoed, the incense-laced stench in the room seemed to *belong*. With each rhythmic thump, it gathered, drawn toward the center…
(End of Chapter)