Chapter 7

Shen Yanping’s gentle words startled him: “Pei Xiao Brother, how did you wake up?”

Pei Ye blinked in daze, offering no concealment, and recounted the dream he’d had last night.

First, compared to the mysterious black chi, Pei Ye naturally trusted these familiar faces he’d known for over a decade; second, he understood nothing about these supernatural matters and needed Shen Changjian’s help.

Yet to his disappointment, all three looked equally baffled.

Feng Zhi furrowed his thick brows: “What does this have to do with dreams—what do you think, Shen Yanping?”

Shen Yanping also shook his head: “At least in the Immortal Platform texts I’ve accessed, I don’t recall any immortal hunter shaped like a chi that can enter dreams.”

Chang Zhiyuan said: “Then let’s attribute it temporarily to trauma. If there’s a chance tonight, we can test whether pain can awaken the soul-lost.”

“Tonight there will still be seven people… but this fire talisman doesn’t appear ahead of time—how do we tell who the ‘spirit’ finds more palatable?”

The three fell silent.

“I think it might be based on martial talent,” Pei Ye said slowly.

Shen Yanping’s eyes widened slightly: “That makes sense!”

Martial talent, of course, is composed of many factors, but all three here understood the boy meant the quality of the “dantian seed.”

Feng Zhi bid farewell: “I’ll go verify this right away.”

Chang Zhiyuan said: “Shen Changjian, the mountain path out has been washed away by floodwaters—we must send a soul-bird to the Immortal Platform to send word.”

“I already released the soul-bird when I saw this ritual, detailing the urgency and asking the Immortal Platform to forward it to the Prefectural Office, requesting Jing Commandant arrive as soon as possible.”

Chang Zhiyuan sighed: “There are many in the prefecture who could surpass this killer, but only Jing Commandant has the ability to arrive on time.”

Feng Zhi quickly verified the victims’ identities and gave a definitive answer.

“If so, I’ll leave this to you two gentlemen,” Chang Zhiyuan mused, donning his straw hat and signaling for a long staff to be brought: “I’m now going to oversee the county’s notifications and sweeps, concentrating potential targets at the county office for protection.”

“You fear they’ll snatch people early?”

Chang Zhiyuan nodded: “We don’t know if they’ve already locked onto twelve candidates, or if their ‘god’ selects seven only when the ritual begins. If it’s the former, they might try to seize them before reinforcements arrive.”

“But even if Feng Zhi and I prepare fully, we likely couldn’t withstand even a few of his strikes,” Shen Yanping whispered. “Even if we gather these people at the county office, it might… just be a net that catches them all.”

Chang Zhiyuan fell silent for a moment: “We can’t just watch as the killer harms the people. At least this way, we risk losing only three of us—if we leave them at home, seven households will die. How many neighbors might be swept up? We can’t even guess.”

Shen Yanping nodded heavily.

Pei Ye bowed and requested leave: “Gentlemen, I’d like to return home first.”

“Go ahead, but return to the county office quickly for protection,” Chang Zhiyuan hesitated, then added, “Little Pei, Lord Lin mentioned you to me… please grieve wisely. This killer is far too dangerous—don’t… act rashly on your own.”

Pei Ye fell silent for a moment: “Don’t worry, Commander Chang. I know my limits.”

Without waiting for a reply, he tore off a strip of cloth and crudely wrapped it around his forehead, then strode southward.

Though his wounds had thankfully not flared up despite being drenched all night, that didn’t mean luck would last—he already felt a dull ache in his abdomen; if the rain continued tonight, it would surely erupt again, and Pei Ye needed to retrieve wine and medicine.

Walking down the street, Pei Ye pondered. Though all three elders held skeptical views, the idea of the chi-dream still stirred his mind—every word of their conversation remained vivid.

If such a chi truly existed, where did it come from?

“One prospers, all prosper; one suffers, all suffer”—had his fate somehow bound to it?

He recalled the phrase: “The rest is up to you”—did that mean he himself would be among the seven tonight?

Last night’s soul-loss had been awakened by the chi; tonight, no such aid would come. According to its words, he must use the so-called [Chunshou] to resist the Immortal Lord’s soul-call.

But where could he find how to use it?

Fate…

Pei Ye frowned. He truly felt the character “chun” carried a faint, elusive familiarity.

For Pei Ye, who read little, the uncommon character “chun” would never appear often—so if he’d seen it once, he might remember it, but the memory was too vague; no matter how hard he strained, he couldn’t recall it.

Yet precisely because he read so little, the books he’d seen were few: neither of the two literacy texts at home contained it—so he must have seen it in the county office, while borrowing Lord Lin’s favor to read stories.

He could search for it when he returned to the county office.

On his way back, Pei Ye tried several incantations and finger seals to activate this so-called “fruit,” but received no response at all—until he felt as if he’d turned as eccentric as Old Xiangzi, at which point he gave up.

Passing through the main street to Chengnan, he soon reached the familiar alley.

At his gate, Pei Ye did not enter, but leapt over to the neighboring courtyard.

Besides retrieving wine and medicine, Pei Ye had two other tasks at home: first, to ask Old Xiangzi to recount the tale of “Big Ears Becomes Immortal,” which lay east of the river one day and west the next; second, to ask Uncle Yue whether he knew anything about this symbol.

The broken wooden gate had no latch, only a rope tied across—Pei Ye yanked it open and strode inside.

The narrow courtyard was cluttered, leaving only a narrow path leading to the house.

“Old Xiangzi!” Pei Ye called—but no answer came.

Pei Ye approached the small house, pushed open the door, and was met with a heavy stench of damp mildew; black smoke rose from the floor—trampled, sooty incense ash scattered everywhere.

The tiny room resembled a strange, eerie shrine: the laughing Buddha in the center was smeared with greasy filth; smaller statues of arhats and bodhisattvas lay overturned on the table; two unlit incense sticks still smoldered in the censer.

In the corner piled up statues of the Three Pure Ones, Confucius and Mencius, Guan Yu, the God of Wealth, Lü Zu, the Stove God—everything imaginable, yet many were rotten, others spotted with mold; even the relatively intact ones were coated in thick dust.

The small house had only three rooms; Pei Ye opened them one by one—all empty. One room was crammed with junk; another held a stone-supported plank bed, upon which lay a quilt caked with greasy ointment.