Chapter 55: Chapter Eight: The Mysterious Female Ghost Beneath the Ancient Castle – Murong Jiaja

I and Pangzi didn't dare hesitate at all, we rushed down the mountain.

The Cat Immortal matter is certainly important to me, but it pales in comparison to Mengxue's safety.

At this moment I couldn't help but recall what happened that day in front of Zhou Yu's tomb—Zhengyang collapsed for no reason; I initially thought he was feigning misery, but now it seems the matter is far more complicated than I imagined.

That night we invited the Brush Immortal, I felt a bone‑chilling chill. The next day, Zhengyang, who clearly looked sturdy, suddenly became extremely feeble, toppling at the slightest breeze.

Could all this really be related to inviting the Brush Immortal? But I clearly remember seeing no spirits at all, and Pangzi said it was just Zhengyang's prank. So why did Mengxue say over the phone that the Brush Immortal killed three people?

It seems the only way to find answers and dispel our doubts is to return to the ancient castle.

After Pangzi and I came down the mountain, we didn't go straight to Yao Yirong's ancient castle; instead we went to town to buy cinnabar yellow paper.

Why buy yellow paper and cinnabar? Naturally to draw talismans for Pangzi. After being overcome by yin, I'll be weak and powerless for at least a day; the only one I can rely on now is Pangzi.

This time Pangzi came on tour without any magical implements, so we had to draw talismans in advance to prepare.

Pangzi finished drawing the talismans, handed me a few sheets, and then we all ran straight to Yao Yirong's ancient castle.

Upon reaching the ancient castle, we pushed the door open, but the moment we entered, the main gate slammed shut with a bang.

The ancient castle instantly plunged into total darkness; although it was morning, inside one could not see one's hand in front of one's face. Inside and outside the castle were like two worlds—one side heaven, the other hell.

Following my memory, I groped around the ancient castle and found the red candles placed on the hall table; we each lit one and held them in our hands.

The faint flame finally allowed Pangzi and me to regain some of our sight.

The hall remained exactly the same old‑fashioned hall, unchanged. Yet Pangzi and I dared not be careless—this was utterly bizarre. In broad daylight with the sun blazing, the castle interior was pitch black; even if the structure were tightly sealed, it couldn't possibly block out all sunlight.

"Mengxue, Mengxue, where are you? Answer me, brother!" Pangzi bellowed at the top of his lungs, hoping to contact anyone inside.

But it was all in vain—Pangzi's roar elicited only an empty echo from the hall.

"Let's go, let's head up and have a look." I guarded the candle while scanning the hall for a while, then pulled Pangzi up the stairs.

I recall the ancient castle having five floors; Mengxue and the others should be on the third floor.

But when I counted the floors and led Pangzi to the third floor, upon entering we discovered something unbelievable.

By the weak light I somehow saw the matchbox left on the first floor, and the supposed third‑floor furnishings were exactly identical to those on the first floor—the hall table, the statues, unchanged. In my memory the third‑floor walls should have held an ancient painting, there should be a rectangular table, and the ceiling should have a plum‑shaped chandelier.

Pangzi and I refused to accept it, we ran up the stairs again, but no matter how we walked we kept ending back on the first floor, going in circles—let alone finding Mengxue and the others.

"Hai Sheng, this feels off," Pangzi tugged at my sleeve.

I rolled my eyes—this is obvious even to a fool.

"Could we have encountered a ghost wall?" Pangzi asked again.

I nodded. "It's possible—try spitting a couple of mouthfuls of saliva into the air."

A ghost wall is a bewildering array set up by yin spirits; once someone falls into it, no matter how they walk or how many flights of stairs they climb, they will forever just go round in circles in the same spot.

The best way to break a ghost wall is to spit saliva into the air, because saliva contains human essence and yang energy. Elders often say not to spit casually on the ground when walking at night, precisely because saliva carries yang energy. If you walk the streets at night and casually spit, especially near graves, you might hit a wandering wild ghost, hurting it; if it gets angry, it will naturally follow you home.

Pangzi kept blowing air and spitting several mouthfuls of saliva into the air; when I saw his throat drying out, I hurriedly called him to stop.

"All right, all right, let's go?" I stopped him, then stepped onto the stairs again.

After reaching the third floor, I waved behind me: "Pangzi, this time we shouldn't get lost again…"

Before I could finish, my mouth felt as if stuffed with feces, I choked completely. Because when I reached back with my hand, I touched nothing. Looking back, I was nearly scared out of my wits—Pangzi that coward had vanished……

How could this be?

Pangzi was just behind me a moment ago—how could he disappear? A guy weighing over a hundred pounds gets lost on the stairs; what's going on?

A gust of wind blew down the stairs, extinguishing the candle in my hand; I staggered back two steps in fright and crashed into the heavy wooden door behind me.

With a creak, the heavy wooden door behind me swung open on its own.

Heart pounding with apprehension, I turned to look inside the room—and froze completely.

The space was brightly lit, golden lamps adorning every corner, an antique sandalwood‑carved wooden chair exuding exquisite elegance.

The poem's voice carried an indescribable sorrow and bleakness, making one's mind involuntarily picture a woman standing beneath the moonlight, gently sighing as she plucks her zither.

You are like the bright moon, I am like mist; when the moon hides, the mist leaves dew in the empty air.

You excel at playing the zither, I at dancing; when the music ends and people part, my heart feels blocked.

All because of a single glance from you, I think of you morning and night.

My soul follows you to the ends of the earth; my belt grows loose, yet I feel no hardship.

Longing is painful—who can I confide in? Far away, I know not where you are.

I lament that youth flees like morning dew; when will I build a nest with mud for your home?

After thirty‑six rounds of the bright moon, I shall perform a rainbow‑feathered dance for you.

The poem's voice carried an indescribable sorrow and bleakness, making one's mind involuntarily picture a woman standing beneath the moonlight, gently sighing as she plucks her zither.

I followed the sound to its source and found the speaker of the poem.

She was a woman dressed in theatrical costume, her back to me, holding a yellowed scroll.

Before hearing her voice, my heart was filled with fear and unease; but as soon as I heard this poem, my heart suddenly calmed, I forgot where I was, and I forgot why this woman had appeared here.

I vaguely recalled that she was reciting a Han‑dynasty Yuefu poem, yet I had never encountered a reciter so full of feeling. A strong curiosity welled up in me; even though my reason told me she might be a ghost, I couldn't help but step forward quietly and ask, "Who are you, and what place is this?"

The poem's speaker turned around, letting me see her clearly—a very beautiful woman, more beautiful than anyone I've ever seen; yet when she frowned at me, I couldn't help but feel a pang of pity.

Suddenly I recalled a poem by Li Bai: "Beautiful woman rolls up the pearl curtain, sits deep, brows furrowed. Seeing tear‑stained cheeks, I don't know whom she hates." I thought, the image of a frowning, wistful woman from the Immortal Poet's brush must be exactly this one before me.

She turned her face, frowned at me for a moment, then gave a playful smile: "Aren't you afraid of me?"

Her voice was pleasing to the ear, like a sutra, capable of cleansing the spirit. Even though I now lack magical power and am in an unknown setting, my heart felt no trace of fear.

I shook my head and continued asking, "You still haven't told me who you are—how did you end up here?" This was the first time I felt curiosity toward a female ghost; I began to believe QingSongShu's words that every ghost has an untold story, that they were once human with human joys and sorrows. Seeing her for the first time, I instinctively wanted to learn about her past—this sense of familiarity felt as if we had known each other before, especially those eyes; at first glance they seemed familiar, as if I had seen them somewhere.

She shook her head, her eyes seeming to sink into long memories, then she sighed softly and said, "If you truly want to know who I am, call me Murong Jiaja; this name was given to me by one of the masters of the manor."

"Jiaja…" My heart felt like an electric shock; suddenly an image rose in my mind—my older sister, whose name was also Jiaja.

Memories surged like a tide: my sister climbing onto my bed to scare me, later she donned my master's Daoist robe, accompanying me to school every day and chasing off those who bullied me.

I recall my master saying that if we were fated, I would surely meet my sister again… Could this be the fate my master spoke of?

It's just that this Murong Jiaja, who looks exactly like my sister, could she be the murderer who killed Zhengyang and the others? Thinking of this, my heart suddenly tightened. Even though this Murong Jiaja isn't my sister, I really don't want to believe she is the murderer who killed Zhengyang and the others; I don't want us to become enemies.

The woman before me, called Murong Jiaja, paid no attention to me; she simply answered my second question to herself.

I don't even know how long I've been here; I only remember that when I woke up, a group of brown-haired, blue-eyed people rushed into this manor, carrying something strange. Later I learned that the strange thing they carried was called a gun. They entered the house, looting whatever they saw and killing anyone they encountered, and they almost burned the manor down with fire.

Later, another group of people, old and young, took over the house. The master of the house liked to play with a copper coin, which people at the time called a 'Yuan Datou'.

Er... the Eight-Nation Alliance, Yuan Shikai? I was startled. Looking at it this way, Murong Jiaja has indeed been in this manor for a very long time.

But they couldn't see me; I spent year after year in this dark, sunless house. Spring came and went, flowers faded and bloomed again, and the people in the house kept being replaced in batches.

After that, an old man came to the house; he loved painting and calligraphy. One day I inadvertently wandered into his dream. After waking, he painted a picture in my likeness and gave me the name Murong Jiaja.

And then what happened? I asked softly, sitting beside her.

She smiled sweetly and continued: "After that, a young man moved into the manor. He wore the same clothes and spoke the same words as those brown-haired, blue-eyed people from before. He brought a scroll painting into the house, but the painting sealed a female ghost that feeds on qi. Every night, the ghost would punctually appear beside the young man. Unable to resist the temptation, he coupled with the ghost night after night, until even his essence and qi were completely drained, turning him into a desiccated corpse. After some days, a Daoist came to the manor; after several struggles, he sacrificed himself, using his own soul as a curse to seal the female ghost."

She paused there, then continued: "Not long ago, you moved in, and a tall boy took down that painting. He dripped blood on it, undoing the soul curse the Daoist had placed. The night before last, the female ghost escaped from the picture, entwined with that boy, and coupled with him."

What are you saying? What did that boy look like, and how is he now?" I asked anxiously.

He's already dead—not only him, but two other men died last night as well." She bit her lip and whispered softly: "Then you and a fat guy broke into the house, and you accidentally stumbled through the Luo Shen Eight Trigrams Formation, entered my room, and saw me."

Luo Shen Eight Trigrams Formation—that isn't Cao Zhi's dream lover; who created it during the Three Kingdoms period? How could it be laid out in this house?

What the hell is this? I don't have time to figure out what's going on; now I'm even more worried about Mengxue's safety. According to what Murong Jiaja said, that female ghost seems still to be sucking people's essence and qi. So far three people have died, including last night; I don't know if it will continue tonight.

I got anxious, threw out the line, "I'll come look for you tomorrow," and bolted out the door.

Murong Jiaja blocked me from behind, saying: "You won't be able to find her like that; you can only go around in circles where you are."

I turned around, puzzled, and asked her: "Then how should I find her?"

Murong Jiaja pursed her lips and smiled, saying: "Leave this place; every ten steps you take, recite a constellation mantra. After you finish reciting all twenty-eight, you will naturally be able to locate her."

"Oh," I said, not understanding, but I subconsciously chose to believe her.

A moment later, I turned again, scratched my head, and asked: "Um, how can I find you again?" Although it's a simple question, I don't know why, but after asking it my face also turned red.

Murong Jiaja chuckled and said: "In the lowest part of this manor there is a small copper door; if you open it and walk backward according to the primordial eight trigrams numbers, you can return to this room."

I fled the room in panic, and behind me came her giggling laughter; amid the laughter I heard two words—"idiot."