Chapter 80: The Ghost God, That Year

Ching!!

Nie Longding, enraged yet unnaturally still, his furious pupils sharply contracting, twisted his wrist—the blade veered off the sword’s edge, scraping along its length.

The curved blade suddenly snapped straight.

At the last possible instant, Chu Tianshu sidestepped the whip-like thrust, parried the blade outward with his longsword, then raised his left hand and stabbed directly at Nie Longding’s eyeball.

For him now, in close quarters, the speed of a direct left-hand thrust was nearly equal to that of silver needles—and far deadlier.

But the moment he struck.

The enemy suddenly split in two.

Another figure appeared to Nie Longding’s right, a blade like a startled heron over autumn waters—phantomlike, soundless.

The blade pierced straight toward Chu Tianshu’s left armpit.

Chu Tianshu’s body hairs bristled; his hips snapped backward, his torso sinking lower, yet pulling his entire upper body a significant distance back.

Taiji Quan: Backward Riding the Black Dragon!

The human buttocks are among the most muscular parts of the body—this technique uses the buttocks to initiate force, driving the waist and back backward.

This move, usually a mediocre, short-range retreat, exploded with speed like thunder at this moment.

His feet, still lodged in the tiles, had not yet moved—but his upper body had already gained enough distance.

Chu Tianshu’s left arm flicked sharply, striking the phantom blade with the copper rope wrapped around his forearm.

Ding!

His whip-strike deflected the blade.

The sound was metallic, yet strangely hollow and resonant.

Nie Longding changed tactics, slashing at Chu Tianshu’s foot.

Chu Tianshu yanked his foot back swiftly.

Two figures. Two blades.

Chu Tianshu’s sword, like fire spitting its tongue, darted left and right, flaring and retracting in rapid bursts.

Though his feet could not stop retreating, and he had fully left the altar, he blocked every single one of their sword and knife strikes.

After surviving that first terrifying onslaught, he realized:

Nie Longding still had abundant stamina, but his blade technique was no longer as refined as before.

And the figure that had split from him wore the attire of a Japanese samurai, his body faintly translucent.

His face was handsome, but his left arm was missing—a ghost born of a severed limb that refused to dissipate after death.

He was Ito Hachiro, a Japanese swordmaster from over a century ago.

In life, he was called the One-Armed Beautiful Swordsman, the Tengu of Ito—his blade art was exceptional.

Now, his hair was gray, his eyes white, his skin pale and corpse-like—utterly spectral.

Only around his neck was a pattern, resembling a miniature playing card.

A standard deck has fifty-four cards: thirteen each of four suits, plus two jokers.

The pattern on Ito Hachiro’s neck was the Big Joker.

Nie Longding also carried a “Little Joker” bound to him.

He was a serial killer from a small North American town decades ago—a butcher who, over several years, murdered over sixty tourists, cutting and selling their flesh.

When cornered and hunted, this butcher—who knew no refined martial arts—revealed a naturally brute physique and astonishing regenerative ability.

Even after soldiers arrived, he killed five with a meat cleaver before finally being gunned down by automatic fire.

Many in the gambling underworld knew how to cultivate ghosts; as an internationally renowned gambling king, Nie Longding had unique expertise in this path.

After carefully collecting these two spirits, he did not feed them blood offerings, nor did he send them out alone to increase their malevolence.

Leveraging his gambling king status, he forged a custom deck of playing cards, amplifying the symbolic power of the cards, and using the ancient idol-worship associations tied to each card’s image to bind and purify these two malevolent souls.

Ito Hachiro’s sword art grew purer; the butcher’s spirit retained only its ability to enhance physical strength and regeneration while possessing a host.

In the Overflow Zone, ordinary ghosts usually solidify into physical forms and can no longer revert to spirit state at will.

But under Nie Longding’s control, his two ghosts could still choose to remain in spirit form.

They treated environmental enhancements as medicinal supplements.

“Retreat!”

After their dual-blade assault failed, Nie Longding did not hesitate—he instantly pulled the swordmaster’s spirit back into himself.

The split-form technique was a surprise tactic; as a surprise, it could not be maintained indefinitely.

Otherwise, Chu Tianshu would adapt and launch a furious assault on Nie Longding’s weakened blade art.

That was precisely why Nie Longding had not used this move earlier.

Ghost possession is already a heavy burden; summoning them out and then repossessing them is pure torment.

Nie Longding did not know if his old bones could endure it.

Now, though he seemed to gain the upper hand, forcing Chu Tianshu into constant retreat, he was in fact cornered—forced into a desperate, teeth-gritting battle.

Indeed, the instant the swordmaster returned, Nie Longding’s face turned momentarily ashen; his left fingers twitched, curling like a chicken’s claw.

Chu Tianshu raised his left hand and fired a handful of silver needles.

Yet Nie Longding’s right-hand blade remained unaffected, its light crisscrossing wildly, slicing every needle to pieces.

But at the same moment, Chu Tianshu had already generated a flood of hidden weapons.

His supply of silver needles had been entirely expended moments ago.

With one sweep of the Three Seven Divine Sword, he smashed the potted plant beside the load-bearing pillar.

Shattered ceramic shards flew like shrapnel from a grenade.

The ground to the left, the ground to the right, the surfaces of nearby load-bearing pillars.

Tiles struck by the sword shattered and exploded forward.

Boom! Boom! Boom!! Boom! Boom! Boom!!

Chu Tianshu wielded his sword like a madman—now, the longsword in his hand felt like a heavy iron whip, unleashing every brutal, whip-cracking force from fist techniques.

Facing this onslaught of “hidden weapons,” Nie Longding had to guard not only against the shards.

He also had to anticipate when Chu Tianshu would charge in behind them with a thrust.

He had to divide his attention.

But even a momentary lapse meant a flaw in his blade motion.

Shards sliced his cheek, tore his pant leg, even embedded in his left forearm.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the floor’s hole, six black-clad men had leapt up.

By now, Chu Tianshu’s battlefield had become a straight line—moving from the hole to the altar, then farther out.

Now, the two of them stood near the very edge of the floor.

Beyond the load-bearing pillars, only vast floor-to-ceiling windows remained.

The window glass was of excellent quality.

Occasionally, shards from Chu Tianshu’s attacks struck the glass—leaving only scratches and cracks, never shattering it.

The six black-clad men, upon arriving, gazed beyond the great windows—into a boundless white fog.

Two figures—one with sword, one with knife—fought before the wide-open windows.

Shards flew everywhere; the knife-wielder lunged left and right, even attempting to advance.

Even when he closed the distance momentarily, the swordsman would only allow three or four blade clashes before retreating.

At the slightest opening, the swordsman shifted position—and another volley of shattered tiles shot forward.

“Brilliant tactic!”

The young black-clad men’s eyes lit up—they rushed to assist, crouching low and sprinting, their long staves dragging behind them.

But as they sprinted forward, they saw movement near the altar.

Dozens of black jade fragments, scattered everywhere, suddenly accelerated and collided precisely at the altar’s center.

Lang!!

All fragments aligned perfectly—not striking the same point, but fitting together into the shape of a great tree.

Dark ink shimmered with green, like an engraved relief.

A strange green light, like a vine suddenly descending, fell directly upon the tree.

The ritual had barely begun, already disrupted—Kiu Tianxu, the key figure, had even been shattered.

Yet now, the Ghost God, using only this small portion of the offering as a link, granted power prematurely.

Around the altar, those half-dead people suddenly stood up.

The crude sutures on their wrists, previously too weak to restore hand movement, now pulsed like leaf veins, flowing with murky vitality.

Nearly twenty people turned their heads in unison toward the six black-clad men approaching the altar.

Their eyeballs rolled upward—wet, tearing sounds of stretched nerves could almost be heard.

Until their pupils vanished entirely, leaving only pure white sockets.

“Hahahaha!”

From the floor-to-ceiling windows came a wild, rising and falling laugh.

“Indeed, the Ghost God is active—they crave this age too.”

“The Longhua Tree is actively sustaining this ritual!!”

First floor of the convention center building.

The two cars blocking the corridor had been pushed out by the collective effort of the crowd.

Outside the building, beyond the mist bordering the overflow zone, lay a vast open area.

Due to the overlap of the two realms, it looked like a chaotic patchwork of concrete and rust-red sand.

More than five hundred people stumbled out, their faces still half-dazed, filled with fear.

“All things are but clouds and smoke that pass in haste; my body, like willow and reed, decays too soon. What suits me best now? To drink, to wander, to sleep…”

Shen Yuntai followed at the rear of the crowd, with Fang Jun guarding her side.

This division chief was not skilled in direct combat, but her defensive and self-preservation abilities were excellent—and most astonishing of all, her auxiliary power.

She awakened over five hundred people, nearly unconscious and powerless, with just one poem.

“All things are but clouds and smoke that pass in haste; my body, like willow and reed, decays too soon.”

“What suits me best now? To drink, to wander, to sleep!”

The poem echoed through the ears of the five hundred, but it was not meant for them.

It was recited to the boiling, surging resentment.

Shen Yuntai cultivated the Dao lineage known as the “Thousand-Year Song,” once called “Imperial Chant.”

Some traveled mountains, frontiers, and towns, performing before the imperial court, using poem after poem to reveal the spirit and scenery of each land.

A thousand years of poetry captured the essence of past and present; the present’s appearance could be painted by ancient verses, drawing power from the well-known, enduring songs.

Shen Yuntai recited the “West River Moon” repeatedly, halting the resentment from being rapidly siphoned upward.

Otherwise, if Liu Tianxu had still been alive, he would have served as a conduit for the rapid flow of resentment.

Chu Tianshu’s sword could at most crack or shatter the jade statue, but to smash it outright was truly difficult.

“I don’t think their consciousness is fully awake yet.”

Fang Jun said, “Chief, what else can we do to help those above?”

Shen Yuntai smiled: “The power of the resentment just dropped sharply—the core of the ritual must already be destroyed.”

“You’re all clear of the ritual’s inner space now. If you want to help, go straight up.”

As she spoke, she pointed at Fang Jun’s legs: “Silver saddle gleams on white horse, swift as a falling star.”

Fang Jun’s pant legs crackled once; ten transparent, drifting characters flashed across his legs.

He felt his legs brim with power—this springing strength should let him climb straight through the holes in the floors to the third level.

But as he turned to run inside, Shen Yuntai’s expression suddenly changed, her gaze snapping to the third floor.

The crowd around them stirred in panic, all turning to look upward.

“What is that thing?!” “What’s happening? My head’s dizzy again!”

Pale gray, translucent resentment surged up from the crowd and rushed toward the third floor.

Some of the resentment seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows; others remained outside, piling into countless agonized faces.

Like someone had playfully drawn with mist on glass.

But these faces were too lifelike.

And they were densely packed, nearly filling the entire third-floor window.

The agonized faces surged and ebbed, their expressions shifting, each gulping down something voraciously.

The resentment below was drawn to them even faster.

“All things are but clouds and smoke that pass in haste; my body, like willow and reed, decays too soon… No, this won’t work anymore!”

Shen Yuntai pulled out a white jade pendant shaped like a lion’s head, pressed it against her throat, then suddenly turned to the crowd: “Don’t panic!”

The voice echoed in every ear like a deep lion’s roar, silencing the crowd.

All five hundred pairs of eyes turned to Shen Yuntai; their fear was unmistakable, their surface calm ready to shatter at any moment.

“Sing the poem. Sing with me.”

Shen Yuntai’s mind raced, sensing the situation before her.

These five hundred people were themselves vessels of resentment.

Every bit of resentment had been painstakingly drawn and gathered by them.

In the process, they had naturally gained some measure of control over it.

But they were mere ordinary people, utterly unaware of this ability—and unable to wield it.

There was no other option now. She could only try to guide them to suppress the resentment themselves, severing the siphoning process.

But which poem to choose? It had to be long—and easy to remember.

Could these people, even with her leading them, grasp the meaning, pour their hearts into it, and sing in unison?

Some elders could no longer stand; they collapsed like bent wheat, falling to the ground in groups.

But fear made them understand: if they fell asleep here, they might never wake. Their will to live kept them propped up, half-sitting.

“Just sing?!”

People clung to this last straw: “What poem?”

Fang Jun, face tense, suddenly shouted: “What about a modern song?!”

Shen Yuntai’s eyes darted: “It must be widely known—and carry a heroic spirit…”

“Yes!”

Fang Jun shouted to all: “You all know this song. Sing it!”

Even after hearing him, everyone remained uncertain—doubting whether they truly remembered it.

But when they heard the first line, just five words in, their doubts vanished—they burst into song, excited and eager.

They all knew it.

Wan, li, chang, cheng, yong…

“The Great Wall stands forever!”

They didn’t truly believe singing could fight such a haunting event—but in their fear, they had to trust the authorities and do the only thing left.

From the uneven, staggered first line, by the second they roared as one.

“The Yellow River’s waters surge!”

“Our land is beautiful, peaks layered in color—how could our nation be sick?!”

Shen Yuntai joined in.

As she sang, she added melody, all the proper music, bringing the song to life.

“Open your eyes! Look closely! Who would willingly submit as a slave?”

“Because of cowardice and submission, the enemy grows bolder!”

This was not the song of a thousand years—but the song of the masses.

It was the song that once drew crowds to the streets in the 1980s, never fading, still sung today.

It was the song every person here had heard in youth, and still heard often in old age.

Originally just the theme of a TV drama, its spirit had long transcended the show.

Even if the entire TV industry decayed and no one wanted to watch old, low-quality classics,

this song would still be heard, familiar, stirring emotion without reason.

No need for a poet of brilliant literary skill or master of ancient music.

Even these unlucky, penniless, impoverished, deceived elders shared a common identity—and could all sing this song.

“Shout! Shout loudly! This land is a nation of soldiers!”

“Bandits who dare invade will always meet their end!”

The singing grew louder, driving away the force that had been fixed upon them, draining their strength.

Invisible layers of mist seemed to shatter in midair.

In an instant, Shen Yuntai’s hands formed twelve seals, her singing never ceasing.

“The Great Wall stands forever! The Yellow River’s waters surge!”

The resentment being siphoned from the five hundred was severed completely from the ritual.

The shock of this rupture, guided by Shen Yuntai, surged straight to the ritual’s apex.

BOOM!

The jade mosaic relief on the altar trembled violently, crumbling to dust.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

All the floor-to-ceiling windows on the third floor exploded, glass powder spraying outward.

Two figures flew out from the third floor, falling to the ground amid the loud singing.

(End of Chapter)