Chapter 992: The Taiyin-Subduing Immortal White Bone Tower

West of Zhigucheng, near Qinghua Temple, a vast expanse of wasteland was crowded with countless graves—mound upon mound, piled, pressed, and crammed together, numbering in the thousands.

This was the western graveyard of Zhigucheng; never mind the hundreds of thousands of townsfolk, laborers, and canal boatmen coming and going.

Just the floating corpses carried by the Nine Rivers into the Haihe each year required burying over a hundred here!

Floating corpses from the Haihe, traveling merchants, fleeing refugees, families wiped out, brawlers slain in duels, starving road corpses, nameless victims of robbery—any body without lineage or kin to claim it was buried here.

There was simply no more room to bury them!

Centuries ago, a monk and a Daoist convinced the then-magistrate to erect two tall towers to collect these remains.

Then, merchants and wealthy households of Zhigucheng pooled funds to send men to gather exposed bones from all over, enshrining them in the towers, and arranging funerals for these corpses as well as for widows, orphans, and the destitute.

For this purpose, the Bone-Burying Society was formally established, holding the White Bone Lady’s Ten Thousand Ghosts Assembly every April 8th, performing “Soul-Calling and Orphan Pardon” and “Releasing Grievances and Dissolving Feuds” before the White Bone Tower.

During daylight, travelers passing through the west gate would detour around it; at night, no one dared come near—within a ten-li radius, not a single household remained.

Today, a group of northern ginseng hunters, clad in deer-hide coats and dog-fur hats covering their ears, marched in formation through the graveyard and arrived here.

The elder at their head had his hands tucked into his sleeves, hunched over, his weathered face lined with age, yet his eyes shone unusually bright as he gazed toward the southern canal route, where a faint afterglow of sunset still lingered on the horizon, vivid as blood.

The elder’s face darkened as he murmured: “The Ghost Cart drips blood—a dire omen!”

A burly man beside him replied: “Second Master, in such a crowded, lively place, how dangerous could it be? How could it be worse than our old forests up north? There isn’t even a single bear around. Those thugs who hired us—they swagger and glare but never move—how could they compare to the bearded bandits in the woods who kill on sight?”

“That Ghost-Faced Bear, wrapped in a coat and hat, comes down to knock on doors and eat people—don’t we ginseng hunters encounter one or two every winter?”

“The bearded bandits in the woods—shoot you the moment they see you, raid villages, steal money and women, even eat human flesh in their mountain caves—neither human nor demon…”

“Old Seven…” the elder turned to him: “Do you want to stay here?”

The young man called Old Seven opened his mouth, thought of the past few days’ pleasures—opera, acrobatics, brothels—and nodded fiercely: “Zhigucheng has too many amusements—I don’t want to go back to the old forest!”

Several young men beside him stayed silent, but their eyes betrayed agreement.

The “Second Master” exhaled a deep white breath, watching it vanish into the night air, then whispered: “I know it’s fun here. In past years, when we searched the mountains for treasures, a hundred-year ginseng could buy us a few rounds of revelry, and that was all.”

“Zhigucheng is wonderful!”

“A hundred-year ginseng sells for hundreds of taels of silver—how quickly you can spend it! Dining halls—I’ve never even heard the names of half the dishes. Opera, storytelling—wow! Real skill! Truly brilliant. Crosstalk? That takes real talent, and you can listen all day for cheap. The finest goods from the south, the wonders of the capital, even the exotic curiosities sent from overseas—how wonderful!”

The Second Master’s eyes gleamed, but he shifted tone: “Yet this is also a place that devours men and spits out bones.”

“The storytellers and crosstalk artists, the opera performers with painted faces, the herbal sellers, the acrobats, the wrestlers, the thieves who break into temples, the martial performers!”

“How immense must their skill be to survive and thrive in Zhigucheng?”

“We mountain hunters know the rules of the forest—but the rules here… do you understand them? That pair of hundred-year Yin-Yang blood ginsengs cost us six lives; our entire ginseng guild nearly collapsed! Yet they were merely a single precious herb kept by nobles in the capital. We’d barely begun to enjoy a few good days when the Shamans came knocking. Their leader sat upon his throne, and even our ancestral spirits had to bow.”

“We sent the blood ginseng up—and they refused it…”

The Second Master slapped his chest: “They poured out pure white silver—but they wanted our lives!”

“Yet even that arrogant Shaman leader nearly lost his life on his first day in Zhigucheng—five Great Immortals, not one survived!”

“For these past days, they’ve treated us like honored guests, spent nearly three thousand taels on us—just to send us to deliver a single petition, walk into this graveyard’s White Bone Tower, and bow before the Lady! Child, it’s never that simple!” The Second Master spoke with solemn gravity.

At that moment, someone panted up behind them, running over.

It was a four-eyed Daoist wearing Western spectacles, a satchel slung over his shoulder, one hand holding a celestial stem-branch Ziwei compass, the other gripping a banner-flag, gasping for breath, face pale: “Go… go now! The yin is heavy—don’t linger!”

The ginseng hunter Second Master noticed how instantly the Daoist calmed his breathing, revealing profound qi cultivation, and remembering the mountain hunters’ deep respect and caution toward monks and Daoists, he bowed: “Master, please take your time—are you the Southern Mao Mountain four-eyed Daoist sent to assist us in the ritual?”

The four-eyed Daoist seemed distracted, urging: “Hurry! The southern Dragon Gate has opened, stirring countless spirits and gods. This graveyard has been here a thousand years—countless vengeful ghosts and malevolent spirits. Speak again before the White Bone Tower.”

At these words, the group quickened their pace.

Ahead, several shadowy figures loomed faintly through the mist, watching them.

The young ginseng hunters grew tense but pressed forward toward a six-tiered, pointed-topped tower emerging from the mist.

Gray-white mist rose slowly, dry and pale—not damp fog, but smoke seeping from cracks in the earth. As the mist enveloped the space, heaven and earth grew hazy, as if some light illuminated it, indistinguishable whether night or day.

The four-eyed Daoist lit a bundle of sandalwood incense and passed it to them: “This mist is yin energy mixed with celestial corpse poison. Yin energy alone is tolerable—but don’t let the corpse poison enter your body. A serious illness is minor; if you’re poisoned and turn into a jiangshi, it’s trouble.”

Several young men turned pale.

Then the four-eyed Daoist slapped his forehead: “Forgot! Jiangshi are minor. Just the other day, I lost a corpse king in Zhigucheng! That corpse king was refined by the White Lotus Sect’s Holy Maiden into a nine-eyed fire jiangshi. Logically, Zhigucheng should’ve suffered a three-month drought—but rain fell within days.”

The Daoist chatted idly, half-heartedly, while covertly observing them with the corner of his eye.

“I had my apprentices collect several buckets of rainwater. Tianjin Port’s rain smells fishy, the Nine Rivers’ rain is yellow, the southern canal’s rain is unbearably heavy, the northern canal’s rain is icy, but the rain here by the west gate is thick with corpse qi, hiding hidden earth energies.”

Gray-white corpse qi drifted toward them, but the sandalwood incense encircled them, repelling the miasma.

Occasionally, a few strands drifted onto the hunters—but were neutralized by a faint, elusive herbal scent, unable to penetrate their bodies.

The four-eyed Daoist glanced at them: “Even the nine-eyed fire jiangshi couldn’t disperse these clouds—meaning Zhigucheng’s surroundings harbor many things as potent as that drought demon. One such entity lurks here in the west gate graveyard—a corpse king, and…”

The veteran hunter Second Master’s face darkened at the word “corpse king.”

He stopped walking.

Only then did the Daoist finish his sentence, the words slipping from his teeth: “…most likely, a terrestrial immortal.”

The Daoist gripped the bronze talisman sword on his back. Before them, the white mist had thickened into a curtain. Behind it stood a towering shadow—twelve feet tall, long limbs, arms, and legs.

Merely by its silhouette, it matched the height of the White Bone Tower. Its topknot was tied, hands raised like a deity’s, fingers pressed in a sacred seal. The wind stirred its ritual robes, fluttering like silk.

The Daoist frantically shook the Three Saints’ Exorcism Bell. The sharp chime pierced the mist, jolting the dazed hunters back to awareness. The veteran hunter Second Master swiftly unslung his pack, flung open the cloth—and revealed a white deer-hide robe.

“I’ll cover the Immortal!”

With a sharp cry, the Second Master hurled the white deer-hide robe toward the towering shadow.

The mist parted under the bell’s chime; a pair of claws, nails impossibly long, reached out from the fog.

Its left hand curled thumb, middle, and little finger into its palm, forming the Three Saints Seal. The nails, nine inches long, grew from dry, branch-like fingers like tiny daggers.

Its right hand—five dagger-like claws lunged for the Second Master’s heart.

The bronze talisman sword slashed at the nails—metal clashed, sparks flew. The Daoist reeled back, hurling talismans like lightning—three orange-red fireballs struck the shadow.

The white deer-hide robe wrapped the shadow like a living thing. The fireballs ignited the hide, instantly turning it into a blazing figure—intense yang energy surged forward.

The Second Master’s face lit up: “Three Pure Fires!”

He pulled a red thread taut, leaping forward to strangle the shadow’s neck—but the Daoist behind him shouted: “Retreat!”

The Second Master instantly leapt back, his feet stamping deep prints into the graves as he spun and fled. Yet the shadow’s sleeves whirled, long sleeves sweeping the living deer-hide robe away.

The sleeves rose from beneath the claws, wrapping around the talisman sword.

At that moment, the ginseng hunters saw clearly—it wasn’t sleeves at all, but countless fine, feather-like white hairs, dense as a dust brush, coiling around the bronze sword, dragging it instantly into the mist.

The shadow bit the sword. Clear metallic grinding sounds echoed from the mist—it chewed, then swallowed the Mao Mountain talisman sword whole.

The Daoist pulled a box from his back. Four bronze mirrors flared with light—he held one in each hand, two more sprouted from his ribs, each gripping a mirror. All four mirror beams converged on one point.

“Lesser Yin, Lesser Yang, Greater Yin, Greater Yang. Four Symbols converge—repel demons, suppress evil! Qin Wang’s Bone-Reflecting Mirror—manifest!”

The mirror beams pierced the mist, striking the shadow’s face.

Half its features were covered by white hairs a foot long; only two purple eyes remained visible—no dullness of the dead, but an alien, inhuman gleam.

The white hairs fluttered like flowing robes, making the corpse king appear as if draped in a tattered yet pristine, ethereal crane-feather cloak.

Its head tapered sharply, like a lofty crown—amidst the mist, it resembled an ancient immortal, isolated from the world…

The faint glow in its eyes remained piercing even under the convergence of the four mirror beams.

“Terrestrial immortal!”

The Daoist’s eyes widened in shock. Though he’d speculated repeatedly, witnessing this ten-thousand-year corpse king—equivalent to an alternate form of the Immortal Realm—still shook him to his core; his spectacles slipped off his nose.

“Elder, you’ve already become an immortal—why torment these humble disciples?”

The Daoist bit his fingertip, pressing it to his temples. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, crimson threads piercing his pupils—then his irises split into two, sliding left and right, revealing four pupils. Divine light surged as he stared at the shadow.

In the four pupils, the shadow’s face suddenly lifted—the terrestrial immortal’s entire visage filled the irises.

“You… are… also… an… immortal…”

A voice, like a plucked string, rasped—indistinguishable from wind or human speech—clearly reached the Daoist’s ears.

“Four… eyes… double… pupils… your… past… life… also… became… an… immortal…”

“Then…”

“Why… did… you… return…”

The Daoist’s pupils trembled, the two black pupils colliding within his eyes, struggling to merge again. Crimson veins multiplied until his eyeballs rolled beneath his lids, spinning, sinking deeper into their sockets.

The white deer-hide robe on the ground swelled. Beneath it, countless rabbits and rats seemed to burrow. Gradually, a white deer raised its head, standing upright. Above it, the mist split open—a sliver of moonlight fell.

The Daoist suddenly looked up, fixing his gaze on the moon.

In his pupils, the silver moon filled all.

Within those eyes, the terrestrial immortal’s shadow faded. Slowly, the crimson veins retreated into the back of the eyeballs.

In the bright moon within his four pupils, a tree of flesh and bone silently grew—a cassia tree, its branches and fingers stretching like countless arms, clawing from the deep pupils, emerging from the irises.

Those arms slowly seized the terrestrial immortal’s shadow reflected in the Daoist’s eyes.

One, two, eight fingers pressed against the immortal’s face. As five or six hands gradually covered it entirely, the immortal’s reflection in the Daoist’s dark pupils was slowly dragged into the bottomless depths by countless arms, like branches of the cassia tree unfurling.

Across from them, the terrestrial immortal in the thick mist fell silent. Though veiled, the ginseng hunters still felt its divine, indifferent gaze.

From afar, within the White Bone Tower, a single chime rang.

The terrestrial immortal vanished in the mist—or rather, dissolved into it. Then the mist parted, and the White Bone Tower stood abruptly before them in the moonlight.

“Praise the Lord of the Taiyin Mirror!”

The Daoist, snapping back to awareness, wiped nonexistent sweat from his brow, and called the group forward to ascend the White Bone Tower.