Chapter 1 The Beginning
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In the year fourteen of Tianqi, on the western frontier of the Great Xia Dynasty, the two hundred and forty-ninth Ghost Night descended upon the land of Eastern Europe.
It was a spectacle of immense grandeur—darkness like ink poured from the distant vault of the sky, spreading downward like a vast net cast upon the earth, soaking every valley and hollow.
Everything touched by this darkness began to undergo grotesque transformations. Beautiful lotus flowers opened their mouths, revealing jagged teeth; golden fish in the water had scales soaked in ink, sharp as blades; trees awoke with eyes, their branches stretching out to seize any innocent prey.
Beneath the ground, corpses long buried stirred from their graves, ancient beyond reckoning. Their bones resembled rotten wood, their noses sprouted grotesque flesh, their eye sockets stretched wide, driven by insatiable hunger toward a distant village.
At that moment, inside a house in Fengqing Village, a cloaked figure rose slowly from a bamboo chair.
"Rice straw raincoat, lantern, copper bell... oh, and this knife," the cloaked man murmured, raising an eyebrow as he tucked the hunting blade into his waistband and donned the rest of his gear. He then smiled at his youthful face reflected in the mirror.
His name was Xu Mu. He was a night sentinel appointed by the imperial court to protect Fengqing Village. Every time the spectral invaders came, he would carry his copper bell and lantern to safeguard the entire village.
Now, from the surrounding mountains, a horde of terrifying specters crept closer. So Xu Mu gently pushed open the door and stepped into the rainy night, unafraid before the monstrous beings that fed on human blood and spirit.
He even hummed a tune.
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"Blessed Buddha, bless me, bless me..."
In one household of Fengqing Village, a peasant farmer trembled in the corner, legs shaking uncontrollably.
His name was Zhao Dayong, a simple farmer from the village. Now, a swarm of specters pressed against his front door, eager to devour him alive. All he could do was whisper prayers.
But even though the exorcist bell at the gate had been struck so hard it sparked, they still wouldn’t leave. What good could the Buddha possibly do?
"Little Xu! Help me!"
As the door groaned under the assault, Zhao Dayong screamed desperately. The specters erupted into frenzy, crashing through the door without hesitation, ignoring the ringing bell, their eyes glowing with eerie green light.
Zhao Dayong’s lips turned pale. There was no hope now. The fastest of them had already slammed its dry hand onto the wall outside the window.
"Clang!"
A thunderous sound rang out, as if a great gong had been struck. The spectral horde froze, their souls trembling in terror.
They all collapsed to their knees, lifeless.
Zhao Dayong didn’t know what had happened. All he could do was instinctively cover his ears and scream.
At that moment, Xu Mu arrived at the doorway, just as he had left the house—wearing a straw raincoat over black robes, holding a red lantern in one hand and a copper bell in the other.
"Command!" Xu Mu shouted into the courtyard.
"Boom!" His voice roared like thunder. On each skeletal face, fear flickered for the first time.
"Eastern Green Plague Spirits, Northern Black Plague Spirits, rotting stumps in the swamp, your wandering souls—"
"Be seized immediately, do not linger!"
Xu Mu chanted the ancient incantation, clear and resonant, his voice deep as a drum. As the bell swung, every bell in the village synchronized perfectly, like war drums beating across the battlefield, echoing into the heavens.
"Screech!"
The sound of the demon-restraining bell grew immeasurably louder, drowning out the haunting melody. The spirits shuddered in their very cores, as if on the verge of being cast into hell itself. They no longer dared think of the man inside. Panic broke out. They scattered into the streets, desperate to regroup and fight back.
But Xu Mu had anticipated this. With a flick of his wrist, the red lantern in his right hand burst forth a blinding golden light—like the sun itself. The dark mist trailing behind the specters was pierced apart, and moonlight once again bathed Fengqing Village.
Instantly, the outermost ghosts began to smoke, their bodies turning crimson and igniting, burning like dry wood under the fierce southern sun. Some collapsed instantly, lifeless. Others fled in terror, racing away from the inferno, leaving only screams echoing through the streets.
The golden light faded. The bells quieted. The battle seemed over.
Far off on the mountain, a man who had watched silently from afar lost all interest. Furious, he smashed his flute and stormed away.
...
"I'm alive?"
After what felt like an eternity, Zhao Dayong slowly opened his eyes, trembling as he pulled himself up to the window. The door stood wide open. The courtyard was empty.
"I'm not dead!"
Outside, the golden light dimmed. A black-robed figure walked past, familiar in silhouette. The farmer stopped sobbing.
"It's Little Xu! He saved me!"
...
The specters were gone. The rain softened. The wind died down. The oppressive aura above Fengqing Village gradually dissipated.
Safety returned—but no one dared speak. The streets were silent, save for one lone figure: the black-robed night sentinel, carrying a large red lantern.
Xu Mu thought the night was over. He gathered the bell, pulled out a small copper gong from his robe, and struck it four times—first fast, then slow.
"Rain and wind ease, demons retreat. Peace tonight."
One final drop of rain slid off the brim of his straw hat, falling into a puddle at his feet. With that, he completed the ritual, declaring the end of the night.
Then he slowly set down the gong. A weary expression crossed his delicate face, mixed with quiet confusion.
Tonight’s specters had been far more ferocious than usual. Their movements had followed a strange pattern. Even the exorcist bell seemed powerless?
"Strange, isn't it, Charles?"
Xu Mu yawned, bent down, placed the lantern and bell on the ground, then looked up at the moon with hopeful eyes—his face showed no trace of doubt.
He wasn’t truly curious about the specters. He just wanted someone to talk to.
*Hiss.*
A shadow appeared behind him—silent, motionless.
"I said, Charles, you won’t see me again for another day. Won’t you answer me?"
"Nine… eight… seven… six…"
Seconds passed. The shadow remained silent.
Something was wrong.
Xu Mu narrowed his eyes, glancing back through the translucent form of Charles.
And there, beneath the veil, was a specter—its seven orifices bleeding, its face twisted in agony.
At that instant, the countdown ended.
In Xu Mu’s dark pupils, a wave of cold, ancient white spread—slow, heavy, eternal.
Even though this specter was familiar, even intimate, he remained expressionless. His hand drifted to his waist.
There, a knife rested.
*Clang!*
Steel met steel. The hunting knife flashed free.
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