Chapter Fifty-Two: The Duel of Magic

Such things are not something I witness every day. It’s not as if every night my eyes see nothing but unclean spirits; rather, it happens only on certain special days—such as the first and fifteenth of every lunar month—especially if I’m walking alone at night, or alone in some unusual place, like a hospital or before an old building. The chances of encountering them are much higher then.

They have never harmed me, nor have I ever thought to disturb them. Seeing them or not seeing them is essentially the same; whether you perceive them or not, they are always there, never having left. Over time, they become much like the occasional flicker of phosphorescence by the roadside: terrifying at first glance, but after seeing them often enough, they become merely part of the scenery.

As I was lost in thought, Fatty suddenly grabbed my sleeve. His face twisted in alarm, his mouth opening and closing rapidly, gesturing frantically.

“Are you nuts?” I thought to myself. “I told you not to look, but you insisted—and now you’ve scared yourself silly.”

Seeing that I remained calm, still leaning against the haystack, he slid over to my side and whispered, “He’s gone!”

“Who’s gone?” I asked.

Fatty pointed fiercely behind me. I turned to look and, to my dismay, realized that Wenbin Cha had vanished without a trace!

“Where’d he go?” At that moment, there was no time for hesitation. Fatty dragged me by the collar, pulling me onto the haystack. From a distance, I saw someone running toward the procession.

I asked Fatty in a low voice, “What’s he doing?”

“How should I know? I was just watching the spectacle when Old Cha headed over. Wait, hold on, Little Yi, now I see why that woman on the sedan looks so familiar—it’s Xiaobai Yuan! So the guy’s not trying to break into prison, is he?”

“What? Xiaobai?” I stared intently. Heaven help me—it really was Xiaobai Yuan, at least as far as I could tell, for she was still wearing the dark red plaid jacket we’d made for her from new fabric before the New Year, after we’d killed the tiger. It was unmistakable; I couldn’t possibly be wrong.

Fatty stood up, wanting to go over as well, but I grabbed him and said, “Don’t move. That’s not a place for us.”

Just then, Wenbin Cha walked to the front of the procession, approaching the foremost carriage. He didn’t linger. There was now a bell in his hand. He shook it and scattered a handful of paper money into the air. The spectral soldiers and horses behind gave no reaction, simply continued their march.

Curiously, I noticed a change: the followers now began to move in step with Wenbin Cha. Wherever he directed, the carriage followed.

I watched Wenbin Cha walk at the head of the procession as it passed us. I believe he saw me, for he winked as he went by, then continued shaking the bell, leading the entire group around us, while Xiaobai Yuan sat in the sedan, her eyes empty, seeing nothing.

He had made himself a guide, a psychopomp. There’s a saying that some people can traverse the boundary between the living and the dead—not sorcerers or cultivators, but those chosen by the underworld as intermediaries, tasked with deeds the spirits themselves cannot accomplish. Many claim such status, pretending to be possessed by gods or bodhisattvas to swindle others, but the true guides never reveal their identity.

At the time, I didn’t understand, nor did I dare move. The scene was real—a spectral procession, not the kind seen in Hong Kong films. They were about ten meters away, but you could feel the air solidify, the temperature plummet, coldness seeping from skin to bone, colder than river water in the dead of winter, cold enough to suffocate.

I watched Wenbin Cha lead the long procession toward the pond, stopping before the water’s surface, which reflected no moonlight. The procession halted as well.

He looked back at her, but her face was expressionless.

“I will take this person away,” he said. It was a unique tongue, incomprehensible to us, known as ‘ghost’ language—every true Taoist learns it from their master.

The leader of the spectral envoys replied, “Do not interfere with official business; violators will be punished.”

“She has not reached the end of her life; she is alive, only her soul is here. She is not a ghost; you cannot assign her a host. I will take her away—she is still living, still in the human world. Hand her to me, and you do not break the rules.”

The figure on the carriage scoffed, refusing to look at Wenbin Cha. “Third Palace Yama, Sixth Court Judge’s own hand. I act by order of the underworld. You, mortal, are ignorant, using a soul-summoning bell to impersonate a guide. Beware breaking heavenly laws—your punishment will ruin your life.”

Wenbin Cha was undaunted, his hand resting on his back, his tone steadfast. “Heaven has its laws, the nation its statutes; all actions must adhere to the three principles and five constants. This person is not dead, yet you insist on sending her to reincarnation. As a disciple of Mount Mao, my duty is to save lives, invoking the mandates of the Three Realms for the benefit of mankind. While you, as underworld escorts, ignore the wild ghosts harming people everywhere, but insist on taking a solitary soul—what is your purpose? Can a judge casually decide life and death? Then what use is the Book of Life and Death?”

The leader of the spectral soldiers was truly angered by Wenbin Cha’s words. He raised his hand, and suddenly a mourning staff appeared out of thin air. This instrument is formidable: a living person struck by it will have their soul knocked out; a ghost struck by it will be annihilated.

“You impudent youth! This woman’s fate is decreed. Interfere again, and I will not spare you!”

“I am a disciple of Mount Mao, protected above by the Three Pure Ones, below by the sect’s seal. I am entitled to communicate with you—this is an ancient agreement. If you insist on force, I will summon the heavenly soldiers, generals, wind, fire, and thunder gods to negotiate!”

In Wenbin Cha’s hand were five small flags: red, black, white, blue, and yellow. These were the Five Elements Heavenly Thunder Flags, created by his sect’s founder, Ling Zhengyang. To forge a flag required ten years—reciting the corresponding incantations every morning and evening at six o’clock for ten years. His master, Ma Sufeng, had entrusted him with these treasured flags. Yet each flag could only be used once, after which it was rendered useless.

The head of the spectral envoys gently tugged the reins, turning the horse team toward the village. Wenbin Cha darted forward, blocking their path, demanding, “Let her go!”

With a gust of wind, the mourning staff swept past Wenbin Cha’s scalp, disheveling his hair—a severe warning.

Wenbin Cha did not flinch, even as the spectral soldier prepared to leap from the carriage and attack. He repeated, “Let me take her.”

This time, the mourning staff swung at his shoulder, the envoy intent on killing Wenbin Cha.

At the moment the staff struck, a cold flash gleamed, and with a metallic clang, Wenbin Cha felt his hand go numb, followed by blood. He had met the underworld envoy’s blow with mortal strength, resisting the staff that harvested souls as easily as grass. For the first time, it met an earthly opponent.

The spectral envoy was stunned; he had never imagined this slender, twenty-year-old man could withstand his attack.

“Let her go!” Wenbin Cha repeated, his hand slowly raising a small flag.

The mourning staff did not hesitate, swinging for the third time—this time, a solid strike aimed at Wenbin Cha’s forehead. The envoy held nothing back, for the gate of reincarnation was closing, and he could not afford further delay.

Fatty and I watched from the haystack. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning tore across the sky, zigzagging like a blue dragon leaping from the west, crashing toward the earth with blinding speed. In an instant, half the sky was illuminated, countless smaller bolts swirling and flashing.

Ten years—this flag embodied the essence of Ma Sufeng, the sect leader, ten years of devotion and recitation. At that moment, far away in the mountains of northwest Zhejiang, Ma Sufeng, locked in battle with a one-eyed dragon, paused, muttering, “We’ll leave it here for today, Ye Huan. I will return to find you!”

His opponent, dressed in tattered rags, wearing black sunglasses at night, laughed with a heavy, sinister air. “Ha, one of your five life talismans is broken. Little brother, tonight you won’t escape!”