Chapter 34: Netherworld

Shen Siyuan stood up, redressed himself; since this was his uncle’s friend, proper respect was due.

His uncle soon led an old Daoist into the room.

Shen Siyuan was startled upon seeing him.

Given his understanding of ghosts, he could tell the old Daoist was in a state of exceptionally full soul energy.

Ghosts vary in strength; their power depends not only on their vital essence and spirit in life but also on innate talent.

Those with exceptional talent are born with souls stronger than ordinary people, making them smarter, even gifted in certain ways—ordinary people cannot even hope to match them.

The old Daoist was one such person, born extraordinary.

Thus, even after death, he remained unlike others.

The old Daoist, upon seeing Shen Siyuan, first showed surprise, then immediately bowed deeply and said respectfully, “I am Qingyun; I pay my respects to you, fellow Daoist.”

“Oh, why call me fellow Daoist? Shouldn’t you call me lay follower?” Shen Siyuan asked with a smile.

“I observe you mastering yin and yang, breathing in true qi, guarding your spirit alone, your muscles as one—deserving the title True Person; naturally, I address you as fellow Daoist.”

These words came from the Emperor Neijing: Suwen; Shen Siyuan did not understand them and said nothing, merely politely inviting both to sit and speak further.

“Your lay follower worried about you, fearing your body had failed, so he sent me to check—yet I found you merely accomplished in cultivation.”

The old Daoist gazed at Shen Siyuan’s radiant eyes and inwardly marveled: in this age of declining Daoist arts and absent deities, to reach such a state, his talent must be extraordinary—yet he also felt sorrow, for Shen Siyuan was born in the wrong era.

Beside him, his uncle stared at Shen Siyuan in surprise, never having suspected his nephew was also a Daoist practitioner.

Shen Siyuan was deeply curious about the old Daoist’s talk of cultivation; he knew this world had no spiritual energy, its qi turbid and unfit for cultivation—yet he recalled the heavenly virtue bestowed upon him, and wondered if it might not be absolute.

So he asked: “How many like you are there? I mean, how many cultivators?”

“Few in the past, but many who achieved success; now many exist, yet none who truly succeed—all are fakes, using cultivation as an excuse to gather wealth,” the old Daoist sighed, filled with sorrow.

“Why were there few cultivators in the past, yet many who succeeded?”

“Because back then, heaven and earth had not changed, all things possessed spirit, the world was ordered, deities dwelled above, humans in the middle, the dead below—all things followed reincarnation…”

“You mean there used to be a Netherworld?” Shen Siyuan pressed.

“Of course. How else could so many myths and legends have arisen? Were they all invented out of thin air?”

“Then why is it gone now? I’ve seen many souls, after letting go of attachments, simply vanish.”

“Ah~”

The old Daoist shook his head. “I don’t fully understand.”

“Long ago, deities ceased descending to earth; the path to immortality was severed, no one could become a god anymore—but the Netherworld and reincarnation still existed. After death, one merely needed to release attachments to enter the Netherworld and be reborn. Yet a century ago, for reasons unknown, the Netherworld vanished suddenly; souls now dissolve, becoming the final end…”

Perhaps the old Daoist’s lingering attachment to immortality was tied to this.

“A century ago—any specific year?” Shen Siyuan asked.

The old Daoist frowned in thought. “Around the year foreign invaders breached our Huaxia lands.”

He said “foreigners,” not “Japanese,” and a century ago—Shen Siyuan instantly understood.

“1900? The Eight-Nation Invasion?”

“Yes, that sounds right.” The old Daoist had lived long; though over a hundred and twenty years had passed, he was already over sixty then and remembered clearly.

“You don’t know why?” The old Daoist shook his head.

“Back then, I and several fellow Daoists traveled mountains and rivers, sought immortals, visited fox spirits—all for an answer, yet found none,” the old Daoist sighed.

But the old Daoist had long made peace with it. He continued: “Heaven and earth have their own rules; though ghosts no longer enter reincarnation, human society suffers little impact.”

“No, there is impact,” Shen Siyuan said.

“Oh? What impact?” The old Daoist showed curiosity.

“When ghosts enter reincarnation, it’s not just about cosmic balance—each rebirth nourishes the soul, making it more sentient. A century ago, countless brilliant talents emerged. Are there any now?”

“And without the Six Realms of Reincarnation, what difference does good or evil make? All dissolve into heaven and earth.”

“Indeed,” the old Daoist said, impressed.

Then he asked: “Do you have time tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

Shen Siyuan thought a moment, then slowly nodded; he had a blind date in the morning, but the afternoon was free.

“Then come to my temple tomorrow. I have something for you.”

“Something? What?” Shen Siyuan asked curiously.

“My fellow Daoists and I traveled mountains and rivers—we didn’t return empty-handed. But our cultivation is shallow; we couldn’t discern their nature. You’ve achieved something in this world, proving not only extraordinary talent but deep fortune. Perhaps you can uncover their secrets…”

Hearing this, Shen Siyuan understood at once—and grew even more curious about those things.

At that moment, his uncle, who had remained silent, suddenly spoke.

“Your temple’s already collapsed, overgrown with weeds, crawling with rats and ants. And it’s been so many years—how could anything still be hidden?”

The old Daoist glanced sideways at him.

Then said: “When I died, human civilization was flourishing, determined to crush all demons and spirits. I feared those items would be lost, so I buried them deep underground long ago. My temple has seen few visitors since—those items remain untouched.”

“Then thank you, Daoist. I’ll come tomorrow afternoon. Where is your temple?”

“At Xiao Feng Ridge. It’s called Tingfeng Temple. I’ll wait for you at the mountain’s foot tomorrow afternoon and guide you there,” the old Daoist said.

“Alright, thank you, Daoist,” Shen Siyuan said.

He knew Xiao Feng Ridge—it was a nearby hill, though calling it a mountain was an exaggeration; it was merely a large mound of earth, where he’d played as a child.

The old Daoist rose. “Then I won’t disturb you further. Rest early.”

His uncle stood up as well.

Shen Siyuan had things he wanted to say to his uncle, but didn’t know what—just as he’d said, everything was past; the living and the dead walked separate paths. What use was speaking of it?

His uncle lingered in the mortal world, refusing to vanish, perhaps waiting for Qiao Zhen.

Let him wait, then—let him have hope. When Shen Siyuan learned why the Netherworld vanished, perhaps he could restore his reincarnation. Before that, he could place him on the Ten Thousand Souls Banner to prevent his body from dissolving.

But there was no rush now. He saw them out the door, watching them drift away.