Chapter 41: The Ghost Hanging Behind

The entire study was divided into two sections by a screen painted with a lady, and the half facing the door held a square table, a side table, and a luohan bed.

The side table leaned against the west wall, bearing an incense burner and a pair of vases.

Xu Yuan fixed his gaze on the pair of vases.

About a foot tall, with slender necks and rounded bellies, they were only large enough to hold one or two plum blossoms.

A sinew rope released from his hand thinned to the width of a hair, slipped through the door crack, lightly touched one vase—and the vase swayed slightly, showing no anomaly.

Xu Yuan turned to the other vase; as soon as he touched it, a sinister emerald glow erupted within!

Xu Yuan flicked his wrist swiftly—the sinew rope coiled into a knot and thudded shut the vase’s mouth.

The thing inside was about to surge out and unleash its fury—but was slammed back by a strange object, neither soft nor hard, yet both soft and hard, seemingly soft yet actually rigid.

Stuck halfway out, the thing writhed in agony, furious, its evil light blazing like fire; the vase shook violently on the side table, clinking sharply.

Xu Yuan tossed all remaining sinew rope inside—the rope hissed and tightly bound the vase to the table.

No matter how much the thing inside struggled, it made no sound.

Xu Yuan exhaled the fire from his dantian, melting the copper lock on the door, then gently pushed it open.

The vase was likely a treasure of a Spirit Cultivator, containing a yin soldier, now sealed shut by Xu Yuan’s swift action.

After entering, Xu Yuan conducted a quick inspection—this study held only this one trap.

Only then did he dare to search thoroughly.

He soon found an iron box hidden in a compartment of the bookshelf; inside was gunpowder.

Further searching revealed a special set of brushes and ink—cultivator tools of a Literary Cultivator; Master Qiao had not taken them to Qihetown, perhaps because they were inconvenient to carry, or perhaps Qihetown had its own set.

Elsewhere, in an ancient book, he found four calligraphy slips.

Two bore the character “Seal,” each targeting a Law Cultivator and a Spirit Cultivator respectively.

One bore the character “Arrow,” covered densely with hundreds of “arrow” characters.

The last was a tiny slip, no bigger than a palm, easy to conceal, inscribed in bold, ancient Daoist script with four baffling characters: Dragon Essence, Tiger Vigor.

Xu Yuan stared at this slip for a long while, deeply puzzled: Why had Master Qiao written this?

What use could it serve?

He bundled everything—including the vase—together and slipped out the way he came.

By the time he left Wangjing Alley, it was late; Xu Yuan hurried back to Jinzhuang Building, where he had left his original clothes.

He retrieved them and changed out of the ones he wore.

Returning in this outfit, his stepmother would surely pinch his ear and scold him for wasting money.

The Jinzhuang Building clerk’s expression turned sour; when Xu Yuan emerged dressed in his old clothes, the clerk said bluntly: “Sir, once you’ve worn our garments, we do not accept returns or exchanges.”

This man bought a fresh set of fine clothes, returned within an hour, and carried a heavy bundle!

What did he do? Need I say?

Xu Yuan waved his hand: “No return.”

Good, the clerk’s face instantly brightened; he bowed warmly to see Xu Yuan out, then added: “Sir, fifty steps left from here is a pawnshop. If you have anything inconvenient to sell...”

Xu Yuan stepped out and walked straight ahead without looking back.

This time Xu Yuan returned via the East Gate; Mao Sishu had just come back, his back bent under a load of carpentry tools; he had opened his shop door and was organizing his wares.

“Uncle Mao.” Xu Yuan greeted warmly; Mao Sishu saw him, and the worry etched in his wrinkles dissolved into rare, genuine joy: “You’re back!”

“Yes, Uncle, how’s business lately?”

Mao Sishu suddenly frowned: “Don’t move.” He fixed his gaze on Xu Yuan, then with a palm-sized hand, precisely pulled a chisel and hammer from a tattered satchel at his feet.

He swung and struck sharply at the empty space behind Xu Yuan.

Ding!

Xu Yuan felt dazed, as if a shrill ghostly wail had echoed behind his ear.

A cold wind swept behind him—something fled.

Xu Yuan turned—nothing was visible; cold sweat broke out on his back: Careless!

When had it been watching him? When had it hung behind him?

On Ghost Witch Mountain he was constantly alert; after returning to the city, feeling safe, he’d grown lax.

Mao Sishu put away his tools: “A greedy ghost. These things are hardest to detect. You... showed off wealth?”

Xu Yuan thought—it must have been at Jinzhuang Building.

Just as he was about to answer, Mao Sishu waved him off: “Forget it, I won’t ask. Go home quickly—your stepmother’s probably waiting impatiently.”

That was Mao Sishu’s nature: if you asked him for help, he’d act without hesitation; but if you didn’t explain why, he’d never pry.

“Thank you, Uncle.” Xu Yuan bade him farewell and stepped into the alley.

…

Xu Yuan’s courtyard had been carved out of an old stage.

The stage stood three stories tall, with a small square in front; this courtyard had once been part of that square, and Xu Yuan’s grandfather had partitioned off this small patch and built two rooms.

They had lived there ever since.

“Just got back and you’re off again.”

The scent of food and his stepmother’s complaints drifted from inside.

“Wash your hands and eat!”

Dinner: four dishes, one soup, red bean rice.

For two people, this meal was lavish—clearly to celebrate Xu Yuan’s return.

On the table, indeed, was a dish of winter bamboo shoots stir-fried with cured pork.

Xu Yuan sat down happily and began eating.

His stepmother chewed her chopsticks, wanting to warn him to pause cultivation of the Alchemy Path.

But she reconsidered—she had no solution yet; telling him would only worry him pointlessly, so she held her tongue.

Instead, she took out The Five Cauldrons Cooking and handed it to him.

“Wang Shen gave this to you. Study it diligently, don’t slack off.”

Xu Yuan knew this cultivation method; holding it felt unusually heavy: “Wang Shen gave me this?”

His stepmother drew a breath, solemn: “Remember this debt. When she passes, you will wear mourning for her and bury her properly.”

Xu Yuan nodded seriously: “Of course.”

His stepmother paused, then added: “Your gunpowder inner elixir... seems problematic. For now, stick to external elixirs in Alchemy. Focus your main efforts on Life Cultivation.”

Xu Yuan nodded in agreement; his inner elixir was powerful, but he hadn’t told her all the details.

His inner elixir constantly depleted—its danger level would gradually decrease.

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(End of Chapter)