Chapter Thirty-Four: Defiance Against Authority

The black dog kept snorting at its spot, its nostrils issuing low, warning growls. Animals can sense unclean things—so it was far more attuned to the approaching danger than any human. Zha Wenbin signaled to Fatty, and the two began to retreat. As he had arranged in advance, both were fully prepared: their nostrils and ears stuffed with cotton dampened in water. They drew deep breaths and backed up to the side of the house.

Ghosts and spirits, in truth, have no sight. They perceive humans by the scent of “human qi.” The greatest difference between the living and the dead is that we breathe. The chilling, eerie feeling in a morgue is deathly qi, as the old saying goes, “deathly stillness.” The living possess yang energy; ghosts can see humans by perceiving this yang. Likewise, if a person could see resentment or deathly qi, they could glimpse ghosts as well. Of course, most people cannot see ghosts unless the ghost allows itself to be seen.

The dog began to bark, straining its voice as it retreated, reaching the furthest length of its chain. Its barks weakened, and when its tail tucked between its legs and it lowered its head, whimpering, Zha Wenbin murmured to himself, “It’s here.”

Fatty saw nothing. The twilight outside was neither fully dark nor light, the glow elusive. Slowly, the outline of a woman emerged—as if she stepped out of the air itself. She wore a floral blouse, deep blue trousers, and black cloth shoes with buckles, moving soundlessly toward them.

Fatty stared wide-eyed at the courtyard gate, unable to discern where the woman came from. He noticed, however, that she was not walking—she was gliding. Yet she wasn’t floating above the ground; her toes were pointed, heels barely off the earth, moving effortlessly with each step. After a few paces, she paused and swept her gaze across both sides of the house. Fatty quickly ducked back, held his breath, and covered his mouth, terrified of making any sound. This was his first time seeing a “ghost.” He studied her carefully, thinking: If only she weren’t a ghost—what a pretty girl she would be…

The door was marked with ink lines and talismans. When the woman approached, she frowned, but soon shifted to the left, where there was another “door.” This door wasn’t real—it was a wall drawn with lime powder by Zha Wenbin. For him, it was a barrier, but to the woman, it appeared as a door. She didn’t know that behind it, Zha Wenbin had set a trap meant for her.

Just as Old Master Qiu had described, the woman went straight into the room. Moments later, a sharp and piercing scream rang out from inside.

“Ah!”—it thundered like a bolt from a clear sky. Yuan Xiaobai and I heard it distinctly, the sound right within the room, beside us. I quickly scooted farther away, hoping to evade whatever was coming. Then came a creaking sound, followed by a thud. Not far from me, a mirror hung on the wall—the old kind, set into wood for combing hair. The glass suddenly cracked and shattered to pieces on the floor. That was the last sound I heard inside.

The door drawn by Zha Wenbin, upon entry, faced the mirror directly—ghosts cannot view their own reflections. In ancient times, mirrors were known as “jian” or “zhaozhi.” They reveal the truth of all things, even ghosts. Imagine: a female ghost, believing she still looks as she did in life, confronted by a mirror that exposes her ghastly reality—rotting flesh, maggots and ants crawling over her body, ruptured eyes, a distended tongue oozing corpse fluids, hair falling out, and a face riddled with holes. Is that still the woman she once was?

But this is her true self, and she must flee from it. If she accepts, in her heart, the fact that she is dead, the breath sustaining her restless soul will dissipate. The greatest distinction between a ghost and a soul is that the ghost is driven by resentment, wandering between the worlds of yin and yang, refusing to accept her fate in the underworld. Otherwise, the underworld’s guards would promptly appear to escort her.

Thus, the mirror has always been a powerful tool against evil. Zha Wenbin exploited this, dealing her a fierce blow.

The woman fell for the trap. Fatty saw a shadow in the shape of a woman fly backward from the room, followed by a corporeal figure appearing again. This time, her expression was livid, far from the calm of before. As she stepped across the inverted gourd diagram on the ground, Zha Wenbin yanked the hemp rope, tightening the pattern and sealing the bottle’s mouth.

At that moment, he leapt out from behind the house, brandishing a peachwood sword, and shouted—a flash, and the woman vanished from the courtyard. Seeing Zha Wenbin emerge, Fatty followed, pulling out the cotton from his nose and exhaling, “Hey, where’s that girl?”

Zha Wenbin nodded toward the ground, “She’s still there.”

Fatty scratched his head, staring at the empty courtyard, “She’s gone—like magic. There’s no ghost here.”

“She’s in the circle. Don’t go near. Bring me some lime,” Zha Wenbin ordered.

Fatty trotted over with a bag of lime, scattering two handfuls into the circle as instructed. Instantly, footprints appeared on the ground—human footprints, multiplying, endlessly circling within the ring, as if someone trapped inside was desperately searching for an escape.

Fatty gaped in astonishment, muttering, “Good heavens, Zha, you really caught a ghost. I’ve seen it all now.”

Zha Wenbin had no time for his rambling. The gourd array was something he learned from Ma Sufeng, and this was his first time using it, unsure how effective it would be or how long it could hold the ghost. He barked, “Bring incense and candles, quickly!” Then he sat cross-legged on the spot, laying the peachwood sword across his lap, raising his left hand—index finger upright, thumb and the other three fingers interlaced in a lotus shape. This was the famous “Xuantian Emperor's Finger Seal” of the Celestial Dao.

This Emperor is not the Western God, but the Great Martial Emperor of the Daoist sect, lord of sword immortals, second only to the ancestral sword immortal Guangcheng. This hand seal is used with sword techniques; Zha Wenbin’s mastery was shallow, and if his master Ma Sufeng were here, he wouldn’t even need the peachwood sword—the seal alone could summon sword energy to drive out demons.

With one hand forming the seal, Fatty had already prepared the incense and candles. Zha Wenbin reached into his robe and drew out a talisman—the “General’s Talisman,” summoning General Baiyi, using a charm from the Jade Radiance Bureau. The Daoist teachings say: “Golden Lotus is the ancestor of gods; Jade Radiance is the source of qi.” Jade Radiance is the primal, upright energy of heaven and earth, capable of dispelling resentment, foulness, filth, and all forms of evil.

Zha Wenbin touched the talisman with his left hand, affixing it to the candle. With a flash, the talisman caught fire. After igniting it, he swept his left hand across his chest, then suddenly struck the peachwood sword resting on his legs. The sword bounced up as he gripped the hilt with his right hand—a smooth, practiced motion that could only be achieved after years of training.

Holding the wooden sword, he wiped the talisman along his body, from tail to head, then released it, letting it stick to the sword. The blade was already stained with black dog blood, now coagulated; when heated, the blood would liquefy, sticking the talisman firmly to the sword. Zha Wenbin rose and approached the edge of the inverted gourd array, the footprints within retreating, clearly wary of what he held.

He raised the sword, half-crouched, his steps different from usual—seemingly taking less than a step, yet his whole body shifting countless times, stillness within motion, motion within stillness. This was the Daoist Taiji posture, the Seven-Star Heavenly Gang Step. Each step required aligning head to toe with the divine position. Stepping forward, he called into the circle, “The Supreme Lord has taught me to slay ghosts; grant me the power of the gods. I summon the Jade Maiden to dispel misfortune!”

With this incantation, the wooden sword trembled, power coursing from arm to wrist and into the blade. The burning talisman soared through the air. With a puff, it flew more than a meter, as if striking something invisible, then dropped to the ground.

Zha Wenbin ignored it, spun, and drew another talisman from his robe, bending to ignite and affix it to the sword. Stepping to the right, he chanted, “Mountains split as I ascend, bearing the seal; crowned with glory, feet on the stars; left with the Six Jia, right with the Six Ding; Yellow God before, Yuezhang behind. Divine Master slays without fear, first evil ghosts, then night wanderers. What god does not yield, what ghost dares oppose? By law, swiftly!”

With another puff, the second fireball shot out.

After the second talisman, Zha Wenbin began to sway, a trace of blood at his lips. He wiped it away and stubbornly kept going. Why was this happening?

He had no official seal.

Talismans are not drawn or used at will. Without a Daoist seal, drawing a talisman is receiving a mandate, which is like assuming an official post. Without the seal, one has no rank, yet dares to summon divine generals and masters—such recklessness invokes backlash, a crime of insubordination.

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