Chapter 30

Having settled the terms with Song Da Shen, Hu Chen no longer delayed; he quickly stepped out of the courtyard and entered the study, where Song Da Shen floated behind him.

The moment the man and the ghost left the courtyard, a series of black shadows surged in from beyond the walls, howling with chilling winds.

The meat and vegetarian offerings on the altar rapidly diminished; chicken and duck bones appeared out of thin air, piled haphazardly to one side.

Faint whispers of chewing and bickering could barely be heard.

Guan Zhong felt a chill run down his spine but pretended not to see or hear anything, continuing to toss paper ingots into the fire basin.

On the other side, Hu Chen entered a pre-cleaned meditation chamber and carefully arranged on the table the rhinoceros-horn pen, the white jade inkstone, the well-forged silk, premium pine soot ink, and a set of colored inks.

“Elder Song, you know this place is a frontier fortress, where literary culture is weak—I’m still short of spirit ink. Might I trouble you...”

Hu Chen gazed at the indistinct, shadowy figure radiating yin energy with hopeful eyes.

If Guan Zhong had entered at that moment, he would have seen under the candlelight that his master cast a shadow, while the blurred figure across from him had no shadow beneath its feet.

“Younger brother, I’ve served as Police Inspector for many years, seen my share of things—but never have I met anyone like you. You don’t even use a single incantation or talisman to summon a spirit—you just open your mouth and command them... Oh, wait—I’m not even a person anymore, I’m a ghost deity.”

You haven’t even prepared the proper brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone for summoning a spirit—yet you expect a ghost deity to make up for your omissions.

Honestly, many great immortals aren’t as brazen as you.” Song Da Shen spoke, half mocking, half sighing.

The “Summoning Spirit and Transferring Image” technique was originally a magical art—even if unorthodox, it still counted as an esoteric method.

Its threshold was high; many extraordinary individuals, even if they knew the method, could not perform it.

To summon a spirit and transfer an image, one must possess exceptional mastery in both talismanic incantations and spirit invocation.

For instance, to summon a ghost deity or a painting immortal, one must at least prepare a Summoning Spirit Talisman and be able to recite the Summoning Spirit Incantation fluently.

First, burn the Summoning Spirit Talisman and the petition scroll, then recite the incantation—only then might a ghost deity appear.

Hu Chen trained only in martial arts; he understood no magical arts.

He summoned Song Da Shen entirely through connections and backdoor deals.

Once Song Da Shen arrived, he used bribery to win over the ghost deity.

Summoning Spirit and Transferring Image was already a heretical, unorthodox art.

Hu Chen’s methods were even more unorthodox than the technique itself.

“Elder Song, I dare not take advantage of you—it’s merely that I’m constrained by circumstances and powerless.” Hu Chen was equally helpless.

Had he been able to obtain spirit ink—even at great cost—he would never have turned to a ghost deity for help.

Ghost deities demand even greater prices.

“I’m no scholar—I have no spirit ink. Ask Master Zhang later; perhaps he brought some, or perhaps his painting skill is divine and doesn’t require it.” Song Da Shen said.

With that, he cast a command spell; the candle flame in the room snuffed out with a soft “pop.”

Darkness thicker than ink, denser than glue, pressed down with suffocating weight—even Hu Chen, an immortal martial expert, felt discomfort.

Suddenly, in the darkness, the floor tiles split apart, opening a two-meter-wide, infinitely deep chasm.

Faint, ethereal music of silk and bamboo drifted up from below, unreal as a dream.

As the music drew nearer, a pale-faced, tall-hatted minor ghost appeared first, followed by four red-haired, black-faced minor ghosts carrying a brocade palanquin, all floating out of the fissure—then the crack slowly sealed shut.

The palanquin was exquisitely ornate, painted with landscapes, court ladies, and immortals—so lifelike they seemed almost alive.

“Great Immortal, we’ve reached the western Shu territory; we’ve now entered the Governor’s Mansion.”

The pale-faced ghost turned and bowed respectfully toward the palanquin’s curtain.

“Hmm. Has the person arrived?” An old man’s voice came from behind the curtain.

“I, Guan Hu Chen, pay my respects to Master Zhang!” Hu Chen immediately knelt and bowed.

“Are you the one to be painted?” Master Zhang asked.

“No, it’s my daughter who seeks entry into the palace—she needs a Spirit Portrait.” Hu Chen replied.

“Has your daughter arrived?” Master Zhang asked.

“She’s in the next room; she’ll be here shortly.” Hu Chen did not call out to Guan Zhong, because Master Zhang’s word “person” actually meant “ghost”—for they were all ghosts.

Hu Chen gave Song Da Shen a glance. “Elder Song, I’ll need your help again.”

This was the second phase of Summoning Spirit and Transferring Image: Soul Extraction!

Summoning Spirit and Transferring Image had two major steps: first, summon the spirit—burn the Summoning Spirit Talisman, recite the Summoning Spirit Incantation; the talisman and incantation combined to invite the painting immortal from the Netherworld into a clean meditation chamber.

Second, burn the Soul Extraction Talisman and recite the Soul Extraction Incantation; again, the talisman and incantation combined to draw the target’s soul.

No matter where the target was—even if thousands of miles away, even if dead for decades—if their soul still lingered anywhere in the world, it could be summoned instantly into the room for the painting immortal to trace and render.

Beyond these two major steps, there were countless minor details and trivialities.

Hu Chen lacked the ability, so he cheated outright.

Summoning a spirit? He used backdoor bribes to buy off ghost deities.

Soul extraction? He bribed ghost deities again, asking them to fetch his daughter’s soul.

Song Da Shen and his ghost subordinates were civil servants of the Netherworld; soul-snatching was their specialty—far more effective than the Soul Extraction Incantation.

“Stop eating and get over here to work!” Song Da Shen was annoyed, but he’d expected this.

He shouted toward the courtyard outside, in a ghostly wail.

It truly was a ghostly wail—like a night owl’s long shriek.

Two old ghosts in government office uniforms appeared: one thin ghost, reeking of alcohol, his face flushed red; the other fat ghost still gnawing on a steaming, dripping pork trotter (ps).

Both wore iron chains as thick as a thumb, swaying as they walked, the chains clinking.

The two ghost officers didn’t use the door; like phantom shadows, they passed straight through two walls into the room.

“Master, who are we to fetch?” asked the drunken old ghost.

“Guan Yu, female, Sha Man tribe, age eleven by lunar reckoning—she’s in the back courtyard of the Guan Mansion.” Song Da Shen said.

“Guan Yu?” The old ghost looked puzzled. “A girl?”

Hu Chen felt awkward and explained: “Her given name is ‘Yu’; coincidentally, my surname is ‘Guan.’”

“When we return to Yingxiang Prefecture, I’ll have a scholar give her a new name.”

Song Da Shen growled impatiently: “What’s her name to you? You’re soul-snatchers—just call the name and drag the soul.”

“Aye, sir!” The two old ghosts swayed off again, laughing and chatting as they left the meditation chamber.

“Miss Guan has quite the airs—making me wait.” Master Zhang spoke in a sarcastic tone.

He wasn’t complaining about Miss Guan—he was targeting Guan Hu Chen.

Hu Chen understood and immediately knelt again, bowing thrice. “Forgive me, Master Painter—I didn’t mean to delay you.”

“I prepared vegetarian fare and fruit wine, hoping you’d first enjoy the offerings before being troubled to pick up your brush.”

Song Da Shen also offered a flattering smile. “Master, please have a sip of wine to moisten your throat—Miss Guan is right next door, coming any moment—”

“ROAR!” A ferocious, savage tiger’s roar shattered the night air; its sound waves formed visible, transparent ripples that rippled outward in all directions. Song Da Shen froze, involuntarily stepping back.

The five ghost bearers of the palanquin clutched their heads, cowering behind the palanquin, wailing in terror.

The palanquin itself remained steady, but its curtains and tassels fluttered violently from the sound waves.

Inside, Master Zhang let out an “Oof!”

“Aaaah~~~~” The tiger’s roar was mixed with a piercing, agonizing ghostly scream.

Just hearing the scream made one feel pain—endless agony.

Hu Chen looked bewildered. “Just now... I felt a ripple of Tiger Soul Divine Intent. Was that an illusion—or...”

He was the only one here who wasn’t a ghost.

In the real world, no tiger roared to shake the heavens and terrify all demons.

He saw no transparent sound waves rippling like water.

Hu Chen’s only sensation was the familiar yet alien Tiger Soul Divine Intent.

It felt like a Guan family master practicing the “Tiger Soul Seven Kill” nearby, unleashing the Seven Kill’s essence.

But that master’s Seven Kill essence seemed subtly different from the one Hu Chen had spent thirty years mastering.

“Master, save me!!”

As the man and ghosts in the chamber stood stunned or bewildered, the fat ghost officer who had left earlier now floated in, clutching a large trotter and wailing like a banshee.

“Chi Miao, why are you holding your own leg? Where’s Luo Yan? What just happened—was it you?” Song Da Shen demanded.

The large trotter the fat ghost held was his own leg—not a pig’s trotter.

His right leg had been cleanly severed diagonally from the hip.

His left leg was also injured, limping.

“Old Luo—wahhh! Master, Old Luo—he’s dead! Killed by ‘Guan the Tiger’!” Chi Miao wailed.

Hu Chen turned pale. “My lord, I’ve been in this room the whole time—Elder Song can testify—I didn’t kill any ghost!”

“Not you, you ‘Guan Tiger’—it’s your little she-tiger, your daughter Guan Yu! My leg! Poor Old Luo—wahhh! So unjust! So cruel!”

Chi Miao collapsed on the floor, sobbing bitterly, trying to reattach the trotter to his severed stump.

(ps: To clarify, for attentive readers—the food here is genuinely steaming. The vegetarian dishes and meat offerings placed earlier had long since gone cold; I didn’t make a mistake.)

Humans and ghosts exist on separate dimensions.

Simply put, the ghost dimension is colder, darker, and more chilling.

Just as a human’s body temperature remains constant—when it’s winter, your breath steams; in summer, it doesn’t.