He recalled the days when he once worked in the Heavenly Court.

Amidst the billowing, smoke-like mist, two venerable old men suddenly appeared, once again engaged in a game of chess. The scene was laden with symbolism, perhaps even blatant foreshadowing.

Chen Sheng couldn’t help but stop and rub his chin, a thoughtful look on his face.

Sensing Chen Sheng’s approach, the two old men immediately looked up and smiled at him. One of them asked, “Young man, where do you come from?”

“From Upper Sanjiang City,” Chen Sheng replied, still lost in contemplation.

“Oh? From Upper Sanjiang City?” The two old men exchanged glances, surprise flickering in their eyes.

Upper Sanjiang—a road fraught with peril, where travelers often become butchers themselves. It was a cursed path.

“What a coincidence. The old abbot of Skull Monastery also hails from Upper Sanjiang City. Perhaps you might catch his eye,” one of the old men said with a chuckle. He expected Chen Sheng to respond, but Chen Sheng only stood there, deep in thought.

This piqued the old men’s curiosity. “Young man, what are you thinking about so intently?” they asked.

“Oh, nothing much. The scene here just stirred some old memories,” Chen Sheng replied.

“Memories? Ha! You’re still young—what could you possibly have to reminisce about?” The old men burst out laughing at this.

“Memories, I’m embarrassed to say, have been with me since childhood. Every weekend and month’s end, my teachers would assign me to write about my insights,” Chen Sheng said, his face reminiscent.

The school forbade lying, but ironically, the first thing he learned was how to lie. Otherwise, how could he have handed in those hundred-word essays on life’s reflections every time?

“Then tell us, what do you think of this place?” the old men pressed, eager for his answer.

“Nothing special. It just reminded me of my days working odd jobs in the Celestial Court,” Chen Sheng said expressionlessly.

Old Man A: “…”
Old Man B: “…”

Old Man A couldn’t help but point to himself in disbelief. “Young man, do you think our age makes us easy to trick?”

“I’m serious. If you don’t believe me, point me in the direction of Skull Monastery and I’ll show you a little of my miraculous footwork,” Chen Sheng replied with complete sincerity.

“Truly?”

Chen Sheng’s composure made the two old men exchange a wary glance and begin to waver between belief and doubt.

They were uneasy—after all, they were nothing more than the gatekeepers of Skull Monastery.

At that moment, a handsome young monk with a lotus mark upon his brow emerged from the mist. His eyes quickly found Chen Sheng, and he pressed his palms together. “Amitabha, the abbot is aware of your purpose here and wished me to deliver this to you.”

With that, the young monk handed over a black wooden box.

“Thank you. Please thank the abbot on behalf of Chief Inspector Yan Shidong and myself, and thank you too,” Chen Sheng said, slipping the box into his pocket without a glance.

The young monk nodded and turned to leave.

Chen Sheng immediately began his descent down the mountain.

Watching his figure disappear into the mist, the two old men bulged their eyes, and as though they were lizards, their tongues shot out, whirling in the air before all four eyeballs snapped back into place.

They both scowled. One of them muttered irritably, “People say ghosts are full of lies, but that fellow is no better! He’s only managed to break free from the shackles of mortal flesh, yet he claims to have worked in the Celestial Court and knows miraculous footwork! If there were a police office here, I’d haunt his dreams tonight and report him for swindling old ghosts!”

The other old man, though also displeased, feigned nonchalance since his companion had voiced his own thoughts. “Enough of that. We won’t get a chance to deal with him now. Why not guess what the abbot gave him?”

“How do we guess that?”

“There’s no need to guess—it’s a False Painting,” came a voice. The young monk had returned.

“False Painting?” The two old men looked shocked, but then asked in surprise, “Weren’t you gone already?”

“That was just for show,” the young monk replied, gesturing down the mountain, clearly indicating Chen Sheng. He paused, uncertainty clouding his features. “Yes, he should be human… but honestly, I’m not sure he is.”

The two old ghosts grew even more curious. “What do you mean by that?”

“Why do you two ask so many questions?” the young monk frowned.

“Because curiosity killed me,” one old man said.

“Same here,” chimed the other, both looking smug.

The young monk could only sigh and point down the mountain. “He carries an execution artifact, taken from a notorious spirit. That’s what the abbot told me. As for details, I don’t know.”

“Can a living person even touch an execution artifact? Wait, it was stolen? Are you joking? Or did that spirit have some scheme, so it allowed the artifact to be taken?”

The old men stared in disbelief. Once an execution artifact recognizes a master, it can never be taken by force. If it’s stolen, it means the owner allowed it—and that’s rarely a good thing. Usually, whoever takes it will doom their entire family, even implicating friends.

“I don’t know. The abbot only said: the artifact changes hands, and evil will be aided.”

The two old men sucked in sharp breaths of cold air, contributing their share to global warming, then solemnly promised, “Don’t worry, we won’t breathe a word of this.”

The young monk merely nodded, at a loss for words, then turned and made his way back.

This time, he truly returned to the monastery. As soon as he entered the gate, all composure left his face; anxiety overcame him and he broke into a run.

At last, he stopped before a monk so emaciated he looked like a skeleton. Pressing his palms together, the young monk anxiously asked, “Abbot, is the noose still around my neck?”

It turned out he really had returned to the monastery earlier, but as soon as he entered, he’d heard the abbot’s voice: an execution artifact had its eye on him, and a noose that could strangle him at any moment was already around his neck.

His earlier words and mannerisms had all been instructions from the abbot.

“If it were still there, I’d have prepared your coffin by now,” the abbot of Skull Monastery replied. Though his body was gaunt as a skeleton, his voice was powerful.

The young monk breathed a sigh of relief. Execution artifacts—truthfully—were even more sinister than the silent, deadly False Painting.

But then the abbot added, “But for that execution artifact to have gained such sentience, able to hide and reveal itself at will, even to deceive ghostly eyes… That man who just went down the mountain…”

But at that, the abbot abruptly fell silent and said no more.