Chapter 137

The time was around seven o’clock at night.

Had it not been for the snow disaster, the city would still be lively, with pedestrians coming and going.

Even with the harsh climate and other inconveniences, people at this hour had not yet gone to sleep; nearly every household had lights on.

In places with poor sound insulation, the sound of televisions from inside homes could often be heard.

A young girl, about eighteen or nineteen, sat slumped on a wooden sofa, clutching a plastic bag of dried sweet potatoes, watching TV, when suddenly her phone lit up several times in succession.

She opened it and saw a mass text from school—three messages in a row.

【Evil spirits are stirring tonight—stay calm! Calm! Calm!】

The Dantian massage routine taught at school, performed with precise pressure, reversing the massage on all acupoints, can stimulate essence and blood.

Under this state, cutting your palm enhances its exorcism effect; if you encounter a loved one possessed by an evil spirit, strike their forehead with your bloodied palm.

But do not engage in prolonged combat—flee, send a message, or call for help!】

The girl’s mouth hung open, dried sweet potato still unchewed inside, her face blank with confusion.

What the hell? A prank?

【This is not a prank. Don’t reply with useless messages—we’re busy too!】

Seeing another message flash on her phone, the girl jolted upright.

Right—there had long been rumors that the most skilled martial arts teachers at the school sometimes dealt with supernatural phenomena when on duty.

Even the vice principal could sculpt ice with bare hands; it wouldn’t be strange if real evil spirits existed!

The girl sprang to her feet, snatched a stool from beside her, crept to the window, and peered outside, shouting: “Mom and Dad, don’t go out tonight!”

From the kitchen came her parents’ indifferent voices.

“On a night this cold, only you would think of going out.”

Her father added: “Huh? Today isn’t any holiday or anniversary—why is the city sending us text messages… What’s this?!”

His voice turned alarmed, suddenly serious.

The girl picked up her phone and looked.

【EMERGENCY ALERT: Armed thugs have infiltrated our city and smuggled in large quantities of dangerous biological agents carrying unknown pathogens. All citizens must close and lock doors and windows. Do not approach any unusual sights outside. Turn on all electrical devices and lighting, including candles. If in danger, immediately exit and call for help.】

The emergency alert messages flooded in faster than the school’s had.

Unlike the vague, dubious rumors about evil spirits—some even foolish enough to go out seeking them—the danger of armed thugs and pathogenic organisms was obvious to anyone.

Most students at the martial arts school, except those boarding, were natives of Guangling, living scattered across the city.

They now stood at their windows and doors, alert, their postures unnervingly uniform—one hand gripping a weapon, the other performing the massage routine in reverse.

“The city’s response is surprisingly fast!”

The electric tricycle had stopped by the roadside; Uncle Nan panted, glancing at his phone.

Electrical devices and candles, though vulnerable to yin and demonic influences,

could also, conversely, drain the strength of evil spirits by their abnormal behavior.

Uncle Nan had just read those messages when his phone screen flashed again and went dark.

Around him, the snow bore traces of cinnabar, and several melted pools of water from internal force.

He had chosen the internal energy path shortly after opening his meridians; just now, he had destroyed three evil spirits, but his internal energy was heavily depleted.

Whether trained in internal energy or external force, martial artists face a natural disadvantage against evil spirits.

Many techniques effective against physical beings are useless against ethereal forms.

Even if a martial artist strikes an evil spirit, no matter where, it’s never a vital point.

Thus, to exorcise with internal energy, one must rely on sheer volume—dissolving and neutralizing the spirit entirely.

In contrast, sorcerers, targeting evil spirits, can identify and match their spiritual signatures with talismans and incantations.

A single precise strike can achieve the effect of hitting a vital point, without needing to overpower them with one’s own spiritual force.

Had it not been for the cinnabar, Uncle Nan might have bled out trying to eliminate the three pursuing spirits.

His phone had been affected at the same time.

Uncle Nan pressed the power button on the side of his phone twice more—no response.

On the black screen, his own aged face was reflected.

Beside his face, another face—older, pale—loomed.

Uncle Nan froze in terror!!

Behind him, a figure clad in tattered rags, bloated and waterlogged, merged into his body.

Behind him, a figure clad in tattered rags, its body swollen and waterlogged, pressed into his body.

A muffled laugh, accompanied by the sound of countless bubbles rising from water, echoed in Uncle Nan’s ears.

His pupils rolled upward, as if staring into his own brain.

Only pale white remained in his eye sockets.

Yet in the instant his pupils vanished, his eyes strained downward, barely turning back.

His eyes were misaligned—one pupil turned up-left, the other right; his face sagged, beads of water oozing out.

Uncle Nan felt his internal energy suppressed by a chilling, damp, swelling force; every meridian grew cold and swollen.

To resist this force, the faint red internal energy within his meridians receded at a visible rate.

It was a water ghost!

This evil spirit carried no stench of decay, only the odor of filthy water—identical to snow trampled into slush on the street.

Uncle Nan had been careless, giving this thing the chance to possess him.

He still retained some clarity, but his body was severely affected—pores on his head and face rapidly secreted droplets.

Water dripped continuously from his chin.

“Lin! Bing!”

Uncle Nan heard two syllables, shuddered, then felt two searing, agonizing marks appear on his chest.

One horizontal, one vertical—a large cross.

The water ghost shrieked inside him, violently ripped out by the cross-shaped mark.

Uncle Nan blinked, his pupils slowly returning to place; only then did he see a man standing before him.

Chu Tianshu’s right hand gripped a clump of water vapor.

Within it, a ghostly face stretched and flattened, still howling.

“Impossible—even a water ghost’s yin-demonic aura is this agitated.”

Chu Tianshu frowned, opened his mouth, and slapped the ghostly vapor directly into it.

Chu Tianshu furrowed his brow, opened his mouth, and slapped the cluster of ghostly energy straight into it.

But as the ghostly vapor neared his mouth, Chu Tianshu’s Adam’s apple vibrated.

A single syllable—“Dou”—erupted, blasting a gaping hole through the ghostly mass; the thin aura at its edges shattered.

He wasn’t trying to swallow it—he simply trained the Nine Character Mantra, and his body was naturally strong and pure.

For a newly captured evil spirit, bringing it near the mouth and unleashing a mantra mixed with yang breath from nose and mouth was the most efficient way to destroy it.

For a newly captured malevolent spirit, the most efficient way to destroy it is to bring it near the mouth, then unleash a true mantra mixed with yang energy from nose and mouth.

Uncle Nan snapped back to himself and asked, “Are you searching for a specific evil spirit?”

“These spirits just arrived from the Spirit Realm—we must find the portal connecting to it.”

Chu Tianshu spoke rapidly, “If a spirit’s aura is stable enough, we can perform a ritual to trace its origin.”

He had already observed from high ground: these spirits did not spread evenly from a single point, but flew erratically—sometimes piercing the ground, sometimes drifting through air.

Their movement patterns offered no clue to their source; only magical tracing could work.

Most evil spirits, once severely damaged or slain, left behind stable residual auras usable for such rituals.

But tonight’s spirits, even after death, retained agitated residual auras.

Yet, because of their different origins, each spirit was inherently distinct.

Even when agitated, a few—perhaps one or two—would calm faster than others.

Before setting out, Chu Tianshu had used his own aura to simulate a standard: spirits with aura stability near that level were usable.

If you could capture one, do so; if not, notify others as quickly as possible.

“It’ll feel roughly like this—if you encounter one, and your phone doesn’t work, whether you blow a whistle or set off fireworks, spread the message as far as you can—we’ll send someone to investigate.”

Chu Tianshu released his spiritual force to give Uncle Nan a reference, then leapt away without further delay.

He ran and leapt across rooftops one or two stories high, scaling apartment terraces five or six stories up.

He darted diagonally between districts, moving as if walking on flat ground.

Only here and there, on walls, might a claw mark or shoe print remain.

“Lin! Bing! Dou! Zhe! Jie! Zhen! Lie! Qian! Xing!!”

On the apartment terrace, he roared into the air, pointing a finger.

A disembodied spirit—green-faced, fanged, hair like seaweed—suddenly exploded under a telekinetic strike.

The Golden Knife Martial Arts School’s stronger members operated separately; the weaker ones moved in pairs.

They spread like a slowly blooming firework, expanding toward the urban district.

Any evil spirit they encountered was either obliterated or wounded and fleeing.

Guangling had modernized districts, but also areas preserving old-city aesthetics.

Along the way, every demonic spirit they encountered was either blasted to dust or wounded and fled.

Guangling has modern urban districts, as well as some areas preserving the old city’s character.

Pishi Street was a mixed product, its houses mostly built of blue bricks with tightly packed walls.

The rooftops were nearly as high as utility poles.

Originally, the street was only three meters wide; a few years ago, it was expanded and paved with granite cobblestones, widening the surface to eleven meters.

Snow in the center had been shoveled repeatedly, but piled to the sides, it had grown higher and higher—some places nearly reaching adult thigh-height.

Every household, when stepping out, had to walk a short stretch between these “snow walls” before reaching the street.

This area lay nearly at opposite ends of the city from the Golden Knife Martial School, yet a fierce battle was unfolding here too.

Doors and windows of several homes were shattered; elderly corpses lay on thresholds, children sat dazed inside their houses.

Some clutched kitchen knives, teeth gritted, weeping and raging, staring at the green shadows drifting in midair.

These things were meant to be seen.

The green shadows all had long hair obscuring their faces, bare torsos, grotesquely swollen bellies, and limbs as thin as bamboo poles, their skin bluish, gender indistinguishable.

Belly-Stone Ghosts!

These malevolent spirits were mostly those who, in life, had starved and eaten dirt to survive, swelling until they died; after death, if they encountered others like themselves, they traveled together.

They preferred to kill humans who had just tasted food and felt joy.

From within their blue bellies came a faint, giggling laugh.

“I’ll fight you to the death!”

A middle-aged man in thermal pajamas, eyes bloodshot, roared and charged forward.

Suddenly, a dark shadow knocked the knife from his hand, seized him around the waist, and shoved him back inside.

Bang! Bang! Bang!!!

Neighbors hiding indoors, terrified and furious, heard a continuous barrage of gunfire.

The Belly-Stone Ghosts’ giggles ceased, replaced by piercing screams.

Over twenty warriors, wearing peculiar goggles, advanced down the street, wielding weapons resembling shotguns.

What spewed from these shotguns was not iron pellets or steel beads, but vast clouds of Zhu Sha.

They operated in groups of three or five: some loaded thumb-sized cartridges, others kept firing.

The Belly-Stone Ghosts floated midair, their bloated bellies light as balloons.

In truth, it was the yin energy within their bellies that was exceptionally resilient—hence the name “Belly-Stone.”

The first wave of Zhu Sha bounced off their bellies; having just claimed lives, their ferocity surged, and they attempted to counterattack.

Three warriors immediately drew needle syringes from their belts and jabbed them into their necks.

The first few Belly-Stone Ghosts charging forward were tackled by these three, who sacrificed themselves—each ghost shrieked and shattered.

The three warriors rose, their lips not red, but glowing golden.

That was the injection—and also the talisman water.

Within ten minutes, their blood boiled, their bodies filled with exorcistic power.

With these three blocking the first counterattack and charging forward, the spirits were forced into disarray.

The other warriors seized the chance, launching a tight assault—boom, boom—Zhu Sha splattered, staining the snowy street red.

Belly-Stone Ghosts were steadily destroyed.

The warrior who had shoved the knife-wielding man back inside turned and glanced back.

“Condolences. Don’t act rashly—you still have children at home.”

He had only time to say that before pressing forward.

The knife-wielding man watched the warriors’ backs, then looked at his wife hugging their child in the corner; he opened his mouth, tears streaming.

The Special Capture Bureau was divided into multiple action teams and squads.

Action team members normally handled investigations, each having achieved considerable cultivation, but their numbers were limited.

Action squads were elite troops equipped with special gear: armor, firearms, and syringes—all fully armed against malevolent spirits.

This time, Chang’an had instructed Huaijiang to fully cooperate, even deploying entire action squads here.

If one looked down from above the city, one would see:

Including Pishi Street, multiple nearby streets had such warriors advancing.

Dozens of households nearby had people peeking out.

Longtime neighbors, seeing deaths before their eyes, were terrified yet unable to suppress grief, wanting to comfort the bereaved.

Yet an old grandmother stepped out with a bamboo sieve, hastily sweeping up Zhu Sha and carrying it into the knife-wielding man’s home.

“What are you standing around for?”

The old woman shouted loudly to the street, “This isn’t over—everyone, sweep some up! It might help!”

Yes! Yes!

Once someone spoke up, action overcame fear.

Or rather, fear remained—but they could still act.

Some recalled messages on their phones: electronics and candles might help; they still had fish-electrifying gear at home.

He rushed back, dug out a bamboo pole wrapped in wires.

Like gripping a rifle.

At this moment, the fastest-moving action team had reached Wenchang Middle Road.

Several fist masters, their prayer beads cracked on their arms, were rolling and tumbling desperately at the intersection ahead.

One fist master lay beneath a streetlamp, limbs trembling uncontrollably.

He had been possessed; his comrades had immediately dislocated his limbs—now, even possessed, he couldn’t stand.

“Calm your mind, cut off water; water cut, mind calms!”

A silver needle flew in, piercing his left temple.

No one behind him chanted; yet the faint hum of the needle itself sounded like a rising and falling incantation, naturally flowing into the fist master’s mind.

Mind serene, undisturbed, reaching water’s end, sitting to watch clouds rise, heaven bright and pure, rosy light shielding the body!

The dislocated fist master relaxed, a purplish-red glow spreading across his face; a thin white mist escaped from his crown.

Another silver needle flew in, pinning the mist to the lamp post like a live snake nailed down.

“Damn it, so painful! You bastards!”

The fist master, barely conscious, screamed in pain.

At that moment, a boot kicked him four times—each strike hitting his elbows and knees.

The force was no more than an ordinary person could deliver, yet it precisely struck his joints, reducing his pain and leaving him numb and limp.

The young man wearing the boots had pale skin, slightly curled hair, dark circles under his eyes, a black earbud in his right ear, and fingers clasped with silver needles.

“Group leader, three meters off the ground, at four o’clock.”

No sooner had the youth spoken than ten bronze rings flew from his back.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!!!

The rings flew in different directions, bouncing off streetlamps, walls, ground, and traffic lights.

The fist masters dodging spirits were startled—but none were struck by the whistling rings.

Only from midair came a sudden scream.

The encircling bronze rings collided, revealing a translucent bridal ghost.

At the instant the rings sparked fire, silver needles flew in—rosy flames ignited instantly, burning the bridal spirit into a swirling mass of purple fire.

A stout but short man leapt forward, swinging his arms to catch five bronze rings each.

Liu Suran, Group Leader of Huaijiang One.

“It’s still more reliable to train strength and mental power.”

Liu Suran exhaled. “Ru Yu and the others who train internal energy haven’t even reached here yet—their internal power is already less than half.”

Lin Baishui looked up: “Ru Yu’s group has killed plenty, but they’re just too eager.”

“They can’t help but be eager.”

Lin Baishui frowned. “Tonight’s spirits are far too numerous. This isn’t just about scale of offerings—it’s the spirits themselves striving.”

If spirits were exchanged for offerings, everyone had a rough sense of how much the Ghost Market could accumulate in a year.

But if offerings merely maintained the passage, and the spirit-god, to expand its influence and fuel the mindless hatreds already present, actively pushed its possessed spirits into the mortal world…

How many could be sent over? Impossible to say.

A spirit-god, after all, carries the word “god.”

Why are you trying so hard?

Lin Baishui said: “We must find the altar as soon as possible.”

Liu Suran nodded, glancing toward the street’s end: “Ru Yu’s group is coming—let’s continue…”

Gaaah!!

A sound like a saw tearing through a skull made everyone’s ears ache and stomachs churn.

Liu Suran’s bronze rings snapped taut; his gaze burned as he turned toward the traffic light.

Perched atop the tall traffic light bar sat a blind man in round sunglasses, a classical qin resting across his knees.

The eerie sound had come from his fingernails dragging sideways across the strings.

His figure wasn’t solid; one could almost see the moon through his chest.

Yet the chill he brought froze the nearby fist masters, the action team members dozens of meters away,

and even those hundreds of meters distant—each felt as if bound with lead, unable to move.

This is a malevolent spirit.

A malevolent spirit that has lingered in the Spirit Realm for so many years, yet still plays the qin, gradually cultivating to a level no longer inferior to its living, flesh-and-blood state.

“Heaven has lost its order, Earth its law—Spirit of Vengeance, grant me return to my homeland!”

The blind man’s voice was harsh; his black glasses turned toward Liu Suran. “You don’t seem to be my enemies, but your aura…”

“Hehehe, none of those who fired at me back then ever touched me—but I cut them all in half.”

Liu Suran’s face darkened with anger, yet he did not advance; instead, he leapt sharply to his right rear.

The snowflakes in the air, unnoticed, had turned black, transforming into skull-shaped wisps the size of car headlights, crashing toward Lin Baishui.

Liu Suran intercepted them, his bronze rings ringing as his fists surged like twin dragons rising from the sea, slamming into the skulls.

He shattered the skulls, but his legs throbbed with pain.

The legs of his pants were shredded by blade-like black snowflakes, revealing his skin—thick and tough, yet already scored with red cuts.

Lin Baishui’s incantation finally ended; he thrust a needle into the back of Liu Suran’s neck.

Liu Suran’s vision shifted, briefly overlaying his spirit-perceiving state.

He now saw countless tiny blades, entirely formed of yin energy, floating in the air.

Flying blades like dust—hundreds, thousands—drifted across the entire intersection.

Hidden in the snow, hidden in the wind.

The blind man plucked the strings; the qin’s zheng-zheng-zheng notes triggered every attack.

The spell’s effect was concealed within the melody, making the yin-energy snowflakes impossible to guard against.

And the qin’s sound itself was overwhelmingly present, with astonishing penetration.

Even people five kilometers away could hear its piercing, rigid tone.

Yuan Chongxiao stood at the entrance of a hospital, his internal energy enveloping a skinned monkey-like malevolent spirit.

The dark-blue internal energy contracted, freezing the skinned monkey into a palm-sized ice sculpture, which he crushed with one palm.

When the qin’s music reached him, his expression changed instantly; he instinctively reached for his waist.

This sound—it was too familiar.

Long ago, a similar invisible qin note had nearly cut him in half; the grotesque scar still showed clearly.

“Ghost Owl, so you really turned into a ghost?!”

Yuan Chongxiao shot forward.

In the blink of an eye, his figure became like a kite caught in a rushing stream, leaping sideways across buildings toward the source of the music.

Several streets away.

Feng Jianhua stood before the entrance of a fireworks specialty shop, one palm extended forward.

The rolling shutter had long been shattered into pieces.

Inside, several balls of flame drifted—faces like fire, tongues like red candles.

Yet every firework and firecracker was covered in a pale blue glow.

These violent fire spirits could not ignite the gunpowder; instead, they were trapped by the blue light.

Feng Jianhua swept his palm horizontally, as if erasing a brushstroke from a canvas.

The fire spirits vanished instantly; the shop was left with nothing but pure blue.

His internal energy then rippled like mist, flowing back into his body.

Just then, the qin music arrived; Feng Jianhua recognized its familiar timbre, and as he turned his head, his vision suddenly brightened.

Mo Laoer’s swordlight, like water shattered by a gale, silver and free, swept over Feng Jianhua’s face.

(End of Chapter)