Chapter 2: Chapter Two: Ink Becomes Characters

Lu Fang woke from bed, his jet-black eyes rolling restlessly.

Everything that had happened in his dream felt too real to be a dream.

He had only heard the story of “Liaozhai Zhiyi: Nie Xiaoqian” before, but now he remembered every word by heart.

Could this be the Golden Finger activating!

Lu Fang sat up, barely concealing his joy, ready to try.

An old man in a long robe stepped closer, his face lined with a short beard, relief washing over him: “Young Master, you’ve finally woken.”

Lu Fang recognized the man as Chen, the household steward; the voice he’d half-heard in his daze had belonged to this old servant.

“Chen, send someone at once to Yuyang Mountain’s Lingdu Temple—fetch the Daoist to come and exorcise the ghost.”

“Exorcise a ghost?”

Chen’s face twisted with suspicion.

“A few days ago, I was locked in my room…”

Lu Fang briefly recounted the encounter with the beautiful woman, embellishing slightly to frame her as a malevolent spirit.

“No wonder! No wonder!”

Chen turned pale with alarm and rushed to summon help.

Lu Fang stopped him and added: “Send someone to the county magistrate’s office too—explain the situation, bribe them with silver, and make sure they send a true expert who can subdue ghosts.”

It was already dark; reaching Yuyang Mountain outside the city would be too late—reporting to the authorities was the next best option.

He feared the ghost might strike at any moment!

Lu Fang ordered Chen to gather all the male servants and find black dog blood and boy’s urine.

Chen bowed deeply: “I’ll see to it at once—I’ll go to the magistrate’s office myself, it’s safer.”

After Chen left, a dozen or so male servants arrived, some carrying buckets of warm black dog blood and boy’s urine—the stench of rot and urine filled the room.

Lu Fang felt somewhat reassured; he’d taken some light broth earlier, and now his strength and spirit had returned. He rose and went to the study.

He had a hunch—the “Ink Brush Manuscript Realm” had given him the full text of “Liaozhai Zhiyi: Nie Xiaoqian,” and he could extract something from it.

He had tried repeatedly, but nothing happened.

He decided to try writing it out while the sky was still dim.

He dipped his brush in ink, raised it to the paper—and suddenly, an invisible force blocked him; he could not form a single character.

Did the Heavenly Dao not recognize it?

It was said that the characters of this world had once been projections of the Heavenly Dao.

For ordinary people to write characters on paper, they needed the world’s Heavenly Dao’s approval.

The former body had studied for over a decade—and never once could he write a single character.

Not just him—most people in this world couldn’t do it; they could only use simplified characters for daily needs.

There was another kind of “writing” called Elegant Script, painstakingly crafted by ancient sages through lifelong insight—these texts were recognized by the Heavenly Dao and granted miraculous power.

For example, the canonical Elegant Scripts of the Three Teachings could bestow extraordinary power upon those who read them regularly.

‘The Ink Brush Manuscript Realm gave me the full text—but won’t let me write it? Is this a joke? If you won’t let me write, I’ll write anyway!’

Lu Fang’s stubbornness flared; he gripped the brush tighter, determined to form characters.

His knuckles turned blue and trembled from the force.

Suddenly, the full text of “Liaozhai Zhiyi: Nie Xiaoqian” appeared before his eyes—the brushstroke pierced the void, shattering the Heavenly Dao’s chains of this world.

Lu Fang wrote effortlessly on the paper: “Ning Caichen, a man of Zhejiang. Generous and upright, he valued his integrity. He often told others: ‘I have never taken a second wife.’ Once, traveling to Jinhua, he reached the northern suburb and lodged at a temple…”

This text was written by Pu Songling of the Qing Dynasty, nearly three thousand characters long.

Lu Fang’s body had not fully recovered, but his mind was gripped by peril; he wrote in fits and starts, yet made considerable progress.

About an hour passed when Chen returned to report:

“Young Master, I bribed the magistrate’s office and waited outside for a long time—the officer came out and said he’d noted it down, but someone must come to Lu Manor to verify and complete the procedure—tonight won’t work.”

Lu Fang paused his writing, glanced at the night outside, and frowned: “Has the messenger to Yuyang Mountain returned?”

Chen’s face darkened as he shook his head: “The county is far from Yuyang Mountain—it’ll take time.”

Night grew darker still, and not a single rescuer had arrived.

Lu Fang’s heart raced with panic, but he forced himself to calm down, pacing silently through the study.

His mind spun with ideas, each one examined and discarded—then his eyes fell on the paper on the desk, and he stopped, laughing bitterly: ‘Of course—I was blind to the obvious.’

Chen’s interruption had made him forget—he still had “Liaozhai Zhiyi: Nie Xiaoqian.” Perhaps…

“Miss, you’re back!”

“What’s that smell? Why is everyone here?”

A commotion erupted in the outer room.

Lu Fang turned to see a girl in a yellow pleated skirt enter—seventeen or eighteen, with a pale oval face, bright eyes, and white teeth.

“Sister.”

Lu Fang called out joyfully; in his memories, this white-gowned beauty was his younger sister, Lu Ling.

She had been exceptionally clever since childhood—in conduct, household management, and scholarship—she had always outshone Lu Fang.

By sheer chance, she had also acquired extraordinary skills.

Though Lu Fang was nominally the head of the household, Lu Ling was the true master.

The former body only sought her out when he needed silver, reluctantly and reluctantly—and otherwise avoided her at all costs.

Lu Ling’s bright eyes fixed on Lu Fang’s emaciated frame; her heart swelled with anger, frustration, and pity.

Her eyes reddened, and tears spilled down.

“I’ve been gone only a few days—how have you become so thin? Are you trying to starve yourself? Fine! Fine! Fine! I’ll never hold you back again—do whatever you want.”

Lu Fang laughed helplessly, instinctively reaching to wipe her tears—then stopped, unsure, his hand frozen midair.

“Sister, don’t cry—I’m being haunted by a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Lu Ling frowned.

After locking her brother in his room to force him to study, he’d refused to see her.

At first he’d shouted and raged, then fell silent—and ate well.

Lu Ling had been busy with household affairs and ignored it.

Even when others said Lu Fang had grown thin, she assumed it was from studying.

“Miss, Young Master has encountered a ghost…”

Chen recounted the full story of Lu Fang’s ghostly encounter.

Lu Fang stood silently, nodding occasionally, adding that he’d taught the poor, scholarly beauty knowledge out of pity.

Lu Ling’s brow knotted as she pulled a folded yellow talisman from her sleeve and tossed it to Lu Fang:

“Wear this, Brother—it will protect you.”

Upon learning that messengers had already been sent to the county and Yuyang Mountain,

Lu Ling ordered a sword brought and sat guard in the room.

Given her brother’s nature, she’d doubted the truth of “the ghost”—but after thought, dismissed it.

He’d grown so thin; there was no benefit to fabricating such a tale.

Lu Fang clutched the warm, triangular talisman, his chest tight.

The talisman had been given to Lu Ling by her Master—she’d carried it on her person for over a decade, said to ward off evil and protect the wearer.

A girl, hearing of a ghost, didn’t flee—she stayed, and gave him her own protection.

This sister was foolish!

Foolish enough to break your heart!

Lu Fang worried: “Sister, if you give me this talisman, what about you…”

Lu Ling cut him off sharply: “If you’d told me sooner, none of this would’ve happened. Go rest. If the ghost dares harm you, it’ll have to cross my corpse first.”

“Hmph! See if you dare chase after women again after this! I cried for you—and I shouldn’t have come back!”

Yet she sat motionless in her chair, ever vigilant.

Lu Fang bowed deeply, smiling weakly: “With a sister like you, even if I die today, I have no regrets.”

Lu Ling refused to answer, turning her back.

Lu Fang sighed, thinking: ‘With so many here, the ghost may not dare come.’ He returned to the desk, picked up his brush, and resolved to finish writing “Liaozhai Zhiyi: Nie Xiaoqian.”

Scratching… scratching… scratching…

The brush scraped against the paper.

Lu Ling’s ears twitched; she turned to see Lu Fang writing, rose, and walked over.

Seeing page after page of bold, vigorous running script, her face brightened—she dared not speak, thinking:

‘May Lu family ancestors bless us—Brother can finally write characters!’

Hours passed.

Suddenly, a strong wind blew open the window, rattling the shutters against the eaves with a dull thud.

Lu Ling hurried to close the window—

as she turned—

a cold wind hissed through the room.

“The ghost has come!”

“Help!”

[101] “Ah—”

Amid shrieks of terror, the dozen men in the room were swept up by the chilling wind and flung in all directions.

In midair.

A mass of gray mist took the form of a demon—green-faced, fanged, with bulging green eyes; its mist-like body writhed like a worm, feet hovering above the ground as it drifted closer to Lu Fang.

“Don’t you dare harm my brother!”

Lu Ling drew her slender sword and slashed her fingertip.

The moment the blade touched blood, it trembled faintly, a faint spiritual glow rippling across its surface like water.

This was the “Blood Sword Art”!

It nourished one’s sword with one’s own blood to attain an unfathomable sword realm.

Lu Ling’s garments flared without wind, and a sharp sword intent radiated from her body.

A sharp cry!

She lightly tapped the ground and leapt upward, her slender sword whirling in a blur of cold, glittering light.

In moments, she struck the demon over a dozen times.

The demon’s form shifted unpredictably, evading each blade strike.

With crashes and bangs, the swordlight shattered furniture.

Seizing an opening, Lu Ling feinted then switched to “Blood Sword: Cross Slash,” slicing the demon into four pieces.

Before she could rejoice, the demon’s misty body reformed as one; it raised a hand, and a chilling wind snatched Lu Ling up, hurling her hard against the windows and doors.

It was still too much for her!

Lu Ling might have managed a common ghost with this fringe technique, the “Blood Sword Art,” but this demon was clearly no ordinary spirit.