Chapter 36: The Person in the Painting

A thread of coldness stirred Feng Xue slightly awake; as he looked at his surroundings, he felt momentarily disoriented.

Looking at the distant rolling mountains, the river surging before him, the dim moon hidden among clouds, and the fine snow falling like stardust, Feng Xue couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Walking across the stony riverbank, Feng Xue moved slowly—he didn’t know where he was going, but he knew staying put would change nothing.

Sparse but stubborn weeds began sprouting from cracks in the rocks; a few painted boats drifted down the river, where scholars and beauties drank and laughed; an old man sat quietly fishing by the shore.

Further ahead, the rocky shore gave way to grass, and the path grew busier: the poor carried loads on poles, the rich rode in carts, shepherd boys occasionally blew flutes among the hills, and beside a small stream flowing from the river, children played while women washed clothes.

Ancient charm, old-world elegance—Feng Xue walked along the path, his awareness growing clearer; suddenly he narrowed his eyes, stepped to the riverbank, and spoke to the back of a young wife sitting by the stream, dressed in coarse cloth, head tied with a kerchief, bending to pick vegetables:

“Having fun yet? Get it over with quick—I still need to go back to sleep!”

The young wife, her back turned to Feng Xue, stiffened; the entire world froze as if time had halted. She turned around, revealing a face of ethereal beauty; her kerchief dissolved like frost rising into mist, her black hair cascading like a waterfall, her coarse garments transforming like a Sichuan opera mask change—in the instant her hair swept past, becoming a plain silk ruqun.

“Why’d you know it was me?” came the woman’s cold, flat voice, not the near-Mandarin of Pingan County, but a distinct dialect—harsh and icy words, yet softened by the accent into something sweet and melodic.

Feng Xue didn’t dwell on it; he suppressed a smile and spoke as calmly as he could:

“You’re out of place.”

“Out of place? What’s that mean?” The woman didn’t understand. Feng Xue had no intention of explaining further; he pointed at the stream, then at the basket, barely holding back laughter:

“They’re in the painting. You’re not.”

To his surprise, this cryptic remark struck a nerve; she sprang up, her cold voice now tinged with anger:

“What do you mean ‘not in’? I’m right here!”

“They live inside the painting. You… just flattened yourself and stuck onto it.” Feng Xue forced out words meant to sound profound, but he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

What could he do? This ghost lady seemed dim-witted. The entire illusion was executed brilliantly, steeped in classical Chinese ink-wash elegance—yet she herself looked like she’d been cut from another painting and pasted in. Her edges were decent, but proportions, angles, details—all subtly wrong. She completely covered the vegetables as she picked them, even blocked the flowing water—like a Photoshop newbie who didn’t understand layer order, ruining the whole scene’s atmosphere.

But precisely because of this, Feng Xue had snapped fully awake—unlike in the fox shrine, where he’d needed enough ghost energy for two ghosts to bathe in before he noticed anything amiss.

Feng Xue’s words left the ghost girl stunned; she froze for over ten seconds, her pale skin flushing crimson. Suddenly, Feng Xue felt the world spin—only a furious shout echoed in his ears—

“Get lost!”

…

“Hum!” Feng Xue jolted awake, feeling the night’s chill, shivering involuntarily, then glaring:

“Damn it, you turned the heavens upside down, didn’t you?”

Feng Xue now knew he’d been dragged into a hallucination by the spirit in the painting—but his cultivation was too shallow; he couldn’t even master spirit control, let alone drag that ghost out and spank her. He sighed, deciding to seek revenge once his cultivation advanced.

Though wrapped in a sleeping bag, the night was still chilly; after waking, Feng Xue found it hard to fall back asleep, so he whispered softly:

“Yunxi… Yunxi! Liu Yunxi!”

Startled awake by Feng Xue’s call, Liu Yunxi responded quickly, clearly tense. Feng Xue was exasperated that this idiot snake still hadn’t gotten used to being called by name, but he pressed on:

“How much do you know about ghosts?”

“Huh?” Liu Yunxi hadn’t expected this midnight interrogation, but mindful of her massive debt, she swallowed her complaints and answered obediently:

“Not much—just what I heard from the Fox Immortal Grandma.”

“Then tell me what you know.” Feng Xue tightened his sleeping bag, wriggled like a caterpillar to the tent flap. Liu Yunxi gathered her thoughts and explained:

“Ghosts are the lingering forms of living souls, bound by obsession. Without physical bodies, their obsession slowly fades…”

“I know that—Jiu Gu already told me. Tell me something I don’t know—like ghost ranks, cultivation methods.” Feng Xue rudely interrupted. Liu Yunxi sighed and rephrased:

“You know about xuan cultivators becoming ghost immortals. You’re asking about the demonic ones, right?”

“Mm.” Feng Xue hummed, as if half-asleep, lulling himself into sleep.

Liu Yunxi had no patience left; she obediently continued:

“Newly dead wild ghosts have limited power—they can’t even be seen by the living, only barely enter dreams when people sleep. The netherworld occasionally permits virtuous ghosts to visit descendants through dreams.”

“Some ghosts unwilling to go to the netherworld use dreams to haunt mortals, feeding on their fear (negative wishes) to sustain themselves.”

“Others don’t settle for just wishes—they drain essence, blood, and yang qi too, supplementing their yin with living flesh and yang energy to cultivate. These are what we call ‘evil ghosts’—those two in the fox shrine were this level.”

“But evil ghosts are weak. Without physical form, they can only use illusions. A third-rate wu cultivator’s blood qi repels them—they can’t even move in daylight.”

“But as they absorb more yang qi, evil ghosts gradually gain supernatural abilities: moving objects with spiritual thought, resisting ordinary wu cultivators’ blood qi, even using their qi to cultivate. At this stage, their eyes glow red—the deeper the hue, the stronger they are. These are called ‘fierce ghosts’ or ‘red-eyed fierce ghosts.’”

“If a red-eyed fierce ghost continues cultivating, its entire body glows red—becoming a red-robed vengeful ghost. At this level, even ordinary ghost immortals can’t oppose them; their ghostly aura corrodes spiritual power and blood qi. Only top-tier xuan masters or netherworld ghost kings can suppress them. Luckily, our demon qi suppresses yin-based ghosts—no need for a demon king; any accomplished great demon can suppress a red-robed vengeful ghost.”

Here, Liu Yunxi hesitated, as if guilty, then added weakly:

“Of course, our demon qi is also suppressed by spiritual power and blood qi…”

The dialect in this chapter merely indicates character traits; later dialogue will be in Mandarin. Just know this girl speaks Wu dialect (though not standard Wu—every ten li has different accents, Hekuang it’s another world).

PS: About the Hu Tian Bag—this is Jiu Gu’s business. First, she wouldn’t risk her reputation by incurring karmic debt. Second, from the protagonist’s perspective, he doesn’t care much.

First, the risk is low: the yin bag Jiu Gu holds only bears the cost—it doesn’t store the yang bag’s contents. If she stops the spell, the Hu Tian incantation simply fails and the items fall out—no real loss. Buying it grants convenience for short trips. The protagonist earns money easily—he still has several watches and some gold beans. Why not buy it?

As for the ancestral ash—what can you say? A shaman uses her ancestor to scam a newbie. What’s her motive? Money? She’d return half the gold beans. His life? Then why not just kill him? Because of gang pressure? A shaman who’d bend her principles under gang coercion would’ve quit long ago.

So for the protagonist, Jiu Gu is relatively trustworthy—and trusting her won’t cause major problems.

Conversely, he doesn’t trust the broker. Even if he were short on cash, he wouldn’t break his lease—the broker is far more likely to betray him.

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(End of Chapter)