Chapter 6: The Drumming of King Wen

At the crow of the rooster, the world turned white.

With the village’s chorus of rooster calls, a line appeared between night and day; yin qi sank, yang qi rose, and human voices gradually emerged from the village.

“You brat, why are you so lazy?”

“Go feed the pigs, then you’ll have to head to the fields…”

Li Yan had not slept all night, holding his knife and guarding the courtyard; hearing the neighbors scolding their children from afar, he finally pushed open the wooden door.

Creak~

The ancient door bolt emitted a grating, teeth-chilling sound.

Li Yan stepped out and looked up—his eyes filled with shock.

The plaque hanging above, “Hundred Battles, Mighty and Fierce,” had lost much of its lacquer, its corners visibly rotted, and even a crack had formed on the right side.

Li Yan did not know the principle by which this treasure repelled evil—perhaps it was tied to the imperial court.

But he could see that after one night, the plaque had suffered considerable damage; if it held out one more night, it might fail entirely.

And that “Blind Old Three” had clearly only been temporarily driven back.

What should he do?

As Li Yan pondered his strategy, his grandfather Li Gui emerged from the room, leaning on his cane.

The old man had raised his large tobacco pipe to smoke, but seeing Li Yan’s disheveled clothes and knife in hand at the door, he scolded: “You brat, you train your knife so hard you don’t even eat? Why aren’t you dressed properly?”

“Don’t stand there scaring people at dawn—I’ll go make you something to eat.”

Saying this, he hobbled toward the kitchen on his crutches.

He was too old to have heard the commotion last night.

Li Yan opened his mouth to stop him, but how could he think of food now? He hurried inside and pulled on his clothes.

Farmers’ clothing was never refined—mostly made of coarse black cloth; with the weather warming, people wore only single layers.

But these pants were usually too loose, with no cut or shape, hanging straight down—without leg bindings, movement was truly inconvenient.

After dressing, he stepped out and hurried toward the village entrance.

He knew the corpse of “Blind Old Three” hung from the big locust tree at the village entrance, but he’d been too lazy to look—never expecting trouble to arise last night.

As he left, he glanced back at the smoke rising from the kitchen, and clenched his fist tightly.

His grandfather was still at home—he couldn’t leave.

Whatever that thing was, he had to find a way to deal with it!

The warm sun had just risen; golden earth, wheat fields, blue sky, white clouds—farmers carried hoes back and forth, a peaceful rural scene.

It was like two different worlds from last night’s strangeness.

The corpse of “Blind Old Three” hung from the village entrance’s big locust tree—already battered by children yesterday, now passersby laughed and idly struck it with their hoes.

Li Yan did not rush closer, but sniffed the air.

He stood upwind, barely fifty meters away, yet the distinctive foul stench of “Blind Old Three” was completely absent.

It seemed, merely an ordinary wolf carcass.

Li Yan frowned slightly, moved closer to inspect—still found nothing unusual.

At that moment, a man passed by and sighed: “Pity. I told you, just eat it—it’ll rot in a few days hanging there.”

Li Yan was speechless, not knowing what to say.

The man was Li Shuanzhu, a bachelor with no decorum—always greedy for food, notoriously foul-mouthed, fond of arguing, and universally disliked.

Eating that thing? Last night’s misfortune would’ve been his.

Li Shuanzhu remained oblivious to how detested he was, continuing: “Wang the widow says this thing’s bad luck, wants to burn it and perform rites—I don’t see anything special…”

Li Yan was startled and quickly asked, “What else did she say?”

“What serious thing could she say?”

Li Shuanzhu shook his head. “Her house reeks like a latrine, and she’s always muttering nonsense—what a waste…”

With that, he slung his hoe over his shoulder and walked off.

Li Yan paid no mind, gazing thoughtfully at the village, then without another word, headed toward Wang the widow’s house.

Soon, he arrived near her home.

It was an old courtyard, its gate tightly shut, wild grass growing along the rammed-earth walls, piled with debris and thick with dust.

Most villagers had gone to the fields, so no one was around—it looked like an abandoned ruin.

As Li Yan approached, his brow furrowed.

The odd places in the village were the land god shrine—and this widow’s house; the stench of foulness and rot was torture to his nose.

Add to that the gossip around widows’ doors—people would gossip endlessly—so even if curious, few ever came near.

But now he had no choice. “Blind Old Three” must be dealt with—and Wang the widow might know something…

Creak~

Just as he raised his foot, the wooden door suddenly opened; Wang the widow, disheveled and pale-faced, peered out.

She cautiously glanced behind Li Yan, eyes filled with wariness, then trembled: “Come in—the Immortal wishes to see you.”

Li Yan was taken aback.

Wang the widow knew he was coming!

And… Immortal?

Li Yan tightened his vigilance, yet his face remained expressionless; he lightly gripped his knife’s hilt and strode into the courtyard.

As soon as he entered, the stench hit him like a wall.

His sense of smell far surpassed ordinary men—he suffered instantly, holding his breath, frowning as he scanned the surroundings.

Around the courtyard’s corners, piles of rotten wood and pickling jars stood arranged in a circle; the liquid inside had spoiled, covered in white foam, swarming with flies.

The smell here was worse than a latrine.

Li Yan could no longer bear it—he covered his nose. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, his gaze froze—he noticed something strange.

!.

These jars, though seemingly chaotic, were arranged precisely—according to the Eight Gates: Kai, Xiu, Sheng, Shang, Du, Jing, Si, Jing.

He had trained in martial arts and swordplay, and knew a little of this.

Such an arrangement—could there be hidden meaning?

Before he could think further, Wang the widow quietly opened the inner door, gesturing for him to follow.

Her method of opening was strange: she pulled the door sideways just a crack, then hung a cloth curtain to block the light—as if afraid wind might enter.

Good heavens, even postpartum confinement wasn’t this sealed…

Li Yan’s suspicions deepened; he followed her into the room.

Unexpectedly, the room’s smell was far less overpowering than the courtyard—but the light was dim, stiflingly hot, and the stench of incense and rot grew stronger.

Li Yan’s gaze was immediately drawn to the room’s furnishings.

Against the back wall stood a square altar, bearing four plates of steamed buns, three plates of fruit, roast chicken, fatty meat, and wine jars.

Three incense sticks burned in the censer; candles on either side glowed dimly.

Behind the offerings rested a wooden tablet, its center bearing a red paper inscription: “Place of Hu Sangu,” flanked by a pair of couplets:

“In deep mountains, cultivates spirit and nature; from ancient caves, spreads fame across the four seas.”

Out-Mounting Immortal?

Li Yan blinked, memories long buried rising to the surface.

In his past life, while collecting ancient artifacts, he had studied folk customs.

This practice originated in primitive shamanic religion, popular in Northeast China, with “Protective Family Immortals” and “Out-Mounting Immortals”—rare in Guanzhong.

Now he recalled: Wang the widow had been bought by her late husband from a human trafficker; someone had mentioned she came from the Northeast.

But what drew him more was what lay before the altar.

The ground was studded with red wooden sticks, encircled by red cords; a neatly dressed, clean-faced little girl lay motionless upon it.

Her eyes were tightly shut, as if unconscious, her eyelids trembling.

More strangely, along her head, shoulders, and arms—at acupuncture points—her skin quivered faintly, like a drumhead.

What was she doing?

All this seemed absurd to Li Yan.

But since last night, much of his understanding had been overturned—he knew this world was not simple, and another force existed.

Wang the widow offered no explanation; she lifted a large red cloth from a shelf beside the altar, revealing a drum.

The drumhead bore the Eight Trigrams; behind it hung eight strings—four facing north, four south—with copper coins dangling, clinking as she lifted it.

Beneath the drumstick’s handle, five-colored red cloth strips were tied.

King Wen’s Drum, King Wu’s Whip?

Li Yan narrowed his eyes—his interest stirred.

This world might be more than mere folk custom…

Wang the widow picked up the drum and whip—and seemed transformed; she shook her shoulders, jerked her head, striking the drum rhythmically as she circled the red cord on the ground.

Dong! Dong! Dong-dong!

The drumbeat boomed in steady rhythm; her demeanor shifted—from timid and subservient to solemn and grave—as she began to chant:

“Sun sets behind western hills, night falls, doors barred. Travelers hasten to inns, birds flee to forests, tigers return to mountains. Birds flee to forests with shelter, tigers return to mountains in peace…”

As she sang, her accent changed.

Li Yan had seen this scene before—in his past life.

The scene was the same, but his extraordinary sense of smell detected something different.

He could smell how, with the drumbeats vibrating, the foul, incense-laced stench in the surrounding space seemed to gain a direction.

Beating in rhythm, it continuously gathered toward the center…

(End of Chapter)