Chapter 321

That night, we moved into the Yao family's ancient castle.

Yao Yirong also appeared; she merely pretended to glance at me casually, then stopped paying attention to me, chatting and laughing with others.

I looked at her arrogant demeanor and suddenly felt grateful to her; without her, I might have missed this opportunity, might never have met the girl named Qing Qing. Even less likely would I know that this world still has a second 'Dream'.

"Do you know? My uncle, in his old days, once encountered such a strange thing while herding cattle." The pitch-black castle, a few red candles lit, a dozen or so people gathered like this, in this atmosphere began telling scary ghost stories.

"That was probably during the Cultural Revolution. One day, my uncle took the cow to the riverbank to graze; after letting the cow go, he gathered firewood in the woods two meters from the riverbank. Suddenly, he heard many children splashing and playing by the river; turning his head, he saw several kids having a water fight. At that moment, my uncle felt an itch and wanted to join in. But his family burned firewood for cooking; if he couldn't find firewood, they couldn't cook rice."

"But seeing so many people playing in the water, my uncle couldn't resist; he quickly bundled up the firewood. He was about to take off his clothes to join them, but do you know what he saw when he turned back?"

The one telling this story was a young man named Zheng Yang, heard to have a decent family background, and he had been pursuing Yao Yirong all along.

"What did he see?" Several girls looked at him eagerly.

Having teased enough, Zheng Yang smiled smugly and lowered his voice.

"At the exact moment my uncle turned around, he saw those playing children suddenly vanish. Yet he clearly remembered hearing their laughter just a moment before."

"Thus, my uncle felt strange and led the cow to the riverbank to have a look. Not looking would have been fine, but upon looking, he nearly had a heart attack. There were no children by the river, only rows of footprints like a duck's. Immediately after, on another embankment of the riverbank sat a monster: a rat's mouth, duck's feet, dog's face, two eyes blood-red, staring at my uncle and even shedding tears."

"My uncle was so frightened he abandoned the cow and ran home barefoot. The next morning, he was missing; the whole family searched but couldn't find him. Later, people found his corpse by the river, his body wrapped in a coil of black waterweed, lying at the river's edge. His body was swollen like a ball, eyes wide open, and he died with eyes unclosed."

Zheng Yang's story was actually not scary at all, yet in this atmosphere a few girls really turned pale with fright.

"I... I'll go to the restroom first." Even Yao Yirong, who fears neither heaven nor earth, showed lingering anxiety.

I took the opportunity while she was going to the restroom to find an excuse and follow behind her.

The reason is simple: I must always make clear to her that Pangzi's mistake damaged our two reputations and also caused me to misunderstand her; no matter what, I owe her an apology.

In the hallway, I intercepted her.

"Yao Yirong, I want to talk to you about what happened last time."

Yao Yirong wiped her hands and asked doubtfully: "What happened last time? What exactly?"

I said, it's about the time I sneaked into your room.

"Get lost..." Yao Yirong's face instantly flushed: "Don't think that because I invited you this time your face is big; if it weren't for my brother specifically requesting to see you, I would never want to see you in this lifetime. If you dare bring up last time again, I will certainly not let you off."

She was furious, like a raging lioness, threatening me fiercely.

Being scolded by her, I also got angry: Damn it, I once went to great lengths to save you; if you're ungrateful and misunderstand me, fine, but now I come to apologize politely, and it's like slapping a hot butt onto a cold stool.

Unreasonable, I cursed her once and turned back to the castle.

Yao Yirong relentlessly pursued me from behind, asking: "Who did you say is unreasonable?"

When we returned to the castle, everyone's eyes turned toward us.

Zheng Yang jumped up suddenly, glaring at me fiercely, rather like a flower's protector.

"Yirong, what happened? Is someone bullying you?" Zheng Yang asked Yao Yirong gently.

Yao Yirong's expression darkened as she shook her head, saying nothing. But everyone could sense she was deliberately hiding something.

No need to think; she is unwilling to mention what happened last time. Although I and Yao Yirong know it was merely a misunderstanding, every time she brings it up she acts like a cat whose tail has been stepped on—nothing but anger.

Although we understand, outsiders do not, thinking I harbor ill intentions toward Yao Yirong—there are many such people. For example, Zhou Yang is one misled by rumors.

Even after sitting down for a long time, his eyes would intentionally or unintentionally glare at me; the meaning in his gaze is obvious—nothing but provocation.

Later, they started playing a game, inviting the Spirit Pen.

The game of the pen immortal actually originates from China's oldest shamanic practice, planchette writing. The planchette is the brush that conveys the thoughts of immortals, but immortals disdain to write themselves, so they rely on the hands of shamans or Daoists to convey their meaning, writing heavenly secrets on a sand board. This is planchette writing, also called planchette writing.

In ancient times, the mansions of ministers and nobles would enshrine some practitioners who could do planchette writing, whether shamans or Daoists. Whenever they had doubts or bad omens appeared, they would always ask these practitioners to do a planchette writing session. This also led to many fraudulent planchette mediums in the martial world who made a living by cheating people with planchette writing, using the technique to deceive the world and achieve their own goal of amassing wealth.

Although planchette writing has been passed down to the present, most people hold the gods in reverence, but there are also those who doubt that planchette writing is mere child's play.

In the Records of the Strange, a clear account is given of a story in which a planchette immortal was questioned; this story took place during the Song dynasty.

Speaking of the Song dynasty, there was a Daoist named Wohu Shanren who once invited immortals to descend upon a planchette altar on Mount Tai; everyone burned incense and bowed to him in reverence. During this, a scholar leaned against the desk, sitting sideways, and mocked: "Planchette writing is nothing but martial-world practitioners who have practiced their handiwork, coming out to deceive people—how could there be true immortals constantly at people's beck and call, amusing themselves with mortals?"

As soon as the words were finished, the planchette brush flew and wrote a poem, which said: "Startled birds cry without cease in autumn's grief, at Zhangtai looking back, willows dim and drear; flowers bloom by promise, hearts break apart; clouds scatter, no trace, dreams likewise lost. Standing shy, I pluck the golden lute, half-drunk I laugh and urge jade east and west; the pipa still as it was years ago— I ask, wife of the Xunyang merchant."

After reading this poem, the scholar fell to his knees with a thud, kowtowing nonstop, begging the planchette immortal for forgiveness.

In fact, this poem was secretly sent by the scholar a few days earlier to a former lover, a courtesan who has since reformed, but the scholar cannot forget her. Put bluntly, the scholar is trying to seduce another man's wife, committing adultery.

After the scholar kowtowed and apologized, the planchette immortal wrote on the paper: "That woman has now reformed; you are peeking into others' private chambers—fortunately this note never reached her, otherwise trouble would have multiplied. I learned this poem from observing the records of the Hall of King Yama." Moments later, the immortal wrote again: "Romantic tales are the root of hell; the sea of karma rages—may you turn back to shore." By then the scholar's face had drained of color, and he dared not harbor the slightest doubt about planchette writing.

However, famous things are often exploited—be they people, property, or a sect's name—so someone will openly impersonate them, making true and false indistinguishable. Some rely on genuine ability, others on a glib tongue to cheat food and drink. After all the hearsay, people end up overgeneralizing, so Daoists become seen as frauds and planchette writing as a ridiculous trick.

However, whether it's planchette writing or the game, both require a professional ritualist Daoist to perform. Planchette writing, put simply, is a method of opening one's bodily apertures to let a ghost enter the body and control the hand to write characters; in ancient times this was used for divination. But it must be summoned by a professional Daoist, in which case the spirits are the ancestral masters' yin spirits; whereas when an ordinary person summons, they get only the wandering evil ghosts and demons that roam the mundane world.

The games of pen immortal and disc immortal are adaptations based on the principle of planchette writing. Their danger needs no saying: if you happen to summon an "immortal," you may call it forth but not necessarily send it away. For ordinary people, what they summon are merely wandering souls and ghosts; after it answers your questions, you naturally must repay it. If it's a benevolent spirit, burning some paper money can send it off. If it's a wronged soul, it may well make you take its place as a substitute—you won't die, and it won't leave.

So, seeing these people play the pen immortal game, my first thought was to stop them. I don't care how they want to die, but Xiao Mengxue is here, and there's also Qingqing who looks extremely similar to Meng; naturally I cannot let them run wild.

But sometimes, good intentions are bound to invite disaster. As soon as I voiced my concern, someone immediately mocked me.

"Excuse me, are you still a man with a pair? Your courage is so small; if you're afraid, then don't play. Anyway, I'm here, so any wandering souls and ghosts will have to step aside."

The one mocking me was Zhengyang; after thoroughly defeating me in words, his expression was full of smug satisfaction.

I was about to lose my temper, but Pangzi grabbed me in time.

"Forget it, they like to play—let them play. Isn't it that I'm here with you? As proud disciples of the Huaguang Sect and the orthodox transmission of the Yinshan lineage, are we really afraid of some wandering souls and ghosts?" Pangzi whispered this into my ear.

After hearing Pangzi's words, I forcibly pressed down the rising flame. Let them make a fuss; at worst I'll play the do-gooder again and clean up after them.

Although no one objected, summoning the pen immortal does require pen and paper. Everyone was just here to travel and play—who had the time to bring such stuff? In the end, Yao Yirong, that prodigal daughter, in order to play this ridiculous game, actually took out an antique Qing dynasty painting from her father's room.

Flipping over the painting provided the paper for summoning the pen immortal; bringing a brush, the tools were now fully ready.

Seeing this, I couldn't help but curse inwardly, "Good-for-nothing!" Regardless of whether they were spoiling the fun, I simply asked Pangzi for a cigarette, stepped out into the hallway, and smoked quietly while watching the moonlight.

Not long after, the house echoed with bursts of girls' screams, followed by noisy clamor, as if Zhouyang had summoned the pen immortal, prompting everyone to ask questions.

I, however, was puzzled, for when I looked inside I felt no trace of yin energy at all. Was my power too low, or was the pen immortal's cultivation too high, that I couldn't sense anything?

I continued turning my head, leaning against the hallway and smoking a sullen cigarette, paying no heed to them. Just then, a sudden gust of wind that felt icy to the extreme blew from behind me, making me shiver involuntarily.

As soon as I turned around, I nearly bumped into Pangzi walking toward me. Seeing Pangzi, I grabbed him and asked, "Did you really summon the pen immortal?"

Pangzi swore bluntly: "What a lame pen immortal—the whole thing is just Zhengyang putting on a godly act, taking the opportunity to grope."

I suddenly realized; in fact, I should have thought of it earlier. Men's tricks to take advantage usually are only a few moves: in the movie, watching a movie, they boldly make a big spread-wing move. Or they tell two ghost stories, scaring the girls' fragile hearts, making the girls unable to withstand the fright and seek support, naturally falling into the man's embrace.

But... when Pangzi said the following sentence, my heart felt as uncomfortable as if it were stuffed with feces.

"Ah, you don't know. Just now the girl named Qingqing next to me hugged me tightly; that soft feeling was doubly great."

I... endured the discomfort for ten seconds and blurted out: "Pangzi, didn't someone say that a friend's wife must not be offended?"

Pangzi exclaimed in surprise: "What friend's wife? Is he my friend's wife? Besides, that saying isn't this version, okay?"

"Um... which version is that?"

Pangzi answered without looking aside: "Obviously it's a friend's wife—ride her hard."

…………Anyone who considers you a friend really ends up suffering misfortune for half a lifetime.