Chapter 223: Come… Watch… The… Show… Ah…

Lu Yuan led the two of them along the edge of the hollow, avoiding several dark patches where the yin energy was especially thick, and finally found a concealed spot beneath a broken cliff at the southwest corner.

It was a huge bluish-black rock, roughly half the size of a small room, slanted and wedged between the cliff face and the ground, creating a natural recess with the mountain body behind it.

The rock’s surface was covered in moss and black water stains, its edges weathered into serrations like blades.

Yet the front face was unexpectedly smooth, like a stone stele that had been deliberately polished.

Even more convenient, the bottom of this boulder had two natural cracks running through it.

From the outside it would look like nothing more than an insignificant fold in the cliff, giving no clue that a hidden cavity lay behind it.

Lu Yuan circled the boulder, then pulled the compass from his bosom and pressed the needle steadily into his palm, observing closely for a moment.

He relaxed his brows slightly and whispered to the two of them:

“This place is good.”

“Most importantly, this stone happens to sit on a node where the earth veins loop, so we can borrow about three parts of the earth’s energy and it won’t be entirely drained by that willow’s spiritual mechanism.”

When Xu Erxiao and Wang Cheng'an heard this, they immediately set to clearing the rubble and dead vines beneath the rock.

Xu Erxiao hefted the large box behind him down onto the ground with a thump, wiping sweat from his brow:

“Brother Lu, whatever you say, we’ll do!”

Wang Cheng'an squatted, pulled three brass grounding nails from his chest, and drove them into the soil about a foot to the left, right, and front of the boulder.

Each nail thunked into the earth with a heavy sound as if struck into something hard.

Wang Cheng'an had prepared for that, smearing some cinnabar on the nail heads with his fingertips so that the sound immediately quieted and no further noise followed.

Then he looked at Lu Yuan and murmured:

“Three Powers positioning, the earth’s energy won’t leak.”

“Brother Lu, you can set up the altar now.”

Lu Yuan watched Wang Cheng'an’s ritual actions with evident approval and nodded.

These two had not followed him for nothing; their method handling now looked proper and practiced.

Remember, they had joined the sect less than a year ago. In many other Daoist orders, disciples with under a year’s service would still be doing chores at the temple.

Lu Yuan nodded at Wang Cheng'an, then took a square of yellow cloth from his pack and shook it open.

The cloth was roughly four feet square, coarse like handwoven hemp, but its surface was densely inscribed with talismanic symbols in cinnabar and ink.

The strokes twisted like coiling dragons and serpents; in the center sat a smooth Taiji diagram, surrounded by the names of the Twenty-Eight Mansions’ star officials.

Each corner contained a charm line invoking guardian deities such as:

“East the Azure Dragon, South the Vermilion Bird, West the White Tiger, North the Black Tortoise, Center Gouchen, guard the altar base,” and the like.

When the yellow cloth was spread out it emitted a faint, heavy scent of sandalwood and mugwort that pushed the surrounding rot back a step.

Lu Yuan pressed down the cloth’s corners with anchor stones, then pulled three one-foot-two-inch lightning-struck jujube wood nails from his bundle and drove them into the ground just outside the four compass points of the cloth.

As each nail struck, he chanted softly:

“One nail clears Heaven, two nails spirit the Earth, three nails calm Man, four nails subdue the evil.”

“Nail down Heaven and Earth, let qi follow the divine turn.”

With each nail, the wind seemed to pause and the low ominous hum receded farther.

After setting the altar base, Lu Yuan carefully took out three spirit tablets.

The center tablet was carved from peach wood, dark as pitch, its front painted in gilt regular script with eight characters reading “Supreme of the Three Purities and Three Realms.”

The tablet was small but heavy.

Lu Yuan set it respectfully at the rear center of the yellow cloth, close to the boulder, cushioning its base with a small square of pure white cloth.

The left tablet was made of cypress, the grain delicate and the carving simple and aged.

Its inscription read: [True Man of Nine Heavens Responding to Primordial Principles and Upholding Laws, Celestial Master Commanding Thunder, Illusion-Breaking Golden Thunder, Zhang Jiuting’s Position].

The characters were strong and sharp, radiating a fierce aura.

This, of course, was Lu Yuan’s founding patriarch, the source of his Daoist lineage.

Lu Yuan arranged the tablets carefully, then took a sheet of yellow paper from his bosom bearing a complex talismanic sigil, folded it in three and tucked it under the base of Zhang Jiuting’s tablet.

The right tablet was carved from ordinary willow wood but had been lacquered with many coats of tung oil and shone faintly.

Its inscription read “Positions of the Ten Thousand Spirits and Holy Ones of the Three Realms.”

This tablet honored guardian deities and wandering spirits, serving as witnesses to the altar and helping accrue goodwill.

With the three tablets placed, Lu Yuan stepped back and straightened his robes.

He formed the hand seal for Supreme Elder Lao Jun and bowed deeply.

Seeing this, Xu Erxiao and Wang Cheng'an hurriedly mimicked the bow and salute.

When they finished, Lu Yuan withdrew the ritual sword from his bundle.

The scabbard was black lacquer with little ornamentation, only the hilt wrapped a dozen times with dried mulberry bark, giving it a rough, solid feel.

When the blade left the sheath, a cold gleam flashed in the dim valley.

The spine was etched with a Big Dipper pattern; the seven stars dotted the metal and seemed to move as the sword turned.

Lu Yuan placed the ritual sword across the yellow cloth before the tablets, the tip pointing due south, toward the willow.

Next came the compass.

It was an old copper compass, its face polished smooth; scales densely marked—heavenly stems and earthly branches, the Twenty-Eight Mansions, the Bagua and Nine Palaces—everything complete.

Its central needle did not point to true north as an ordinary compass would; instead it trembled slightly, like it was being tugged by an invisible force and always pointed toward the roots of that willow tree.

Lu Yuan put the compass to the right of the ritual sword, three inches away, letting the needle settle.

“Light the candles.”

Lu Yuan said in a low voice.

Wang Cheng'an produced two white candles from his chest—special, thicker than ordinary ones by over half.

The wax was mixed with cinnabar and realgar powder, emitting a sharp medicinal smell.

He set them into two bronze candleholders in front of the yellow cloth, the holders wedged firmly into the stone fissures.

Xu Erxiao struck several matches before the candles would catch—not because of the wind, but because the air here was too humid and cold; it took several strikes for the flame to take.

When the candles flared, their light was dim yellow but unexpectedly bright, driving away the shadows within a three-foot radius.

The flames flickered gently but did not waver, standing steady as if to say:

No wind may invade here.

With the candles lit, Lu Yuan brought out a small green-stone censer, only fist-sized, its base engraved with the four characters “Eternally Suppress Filth.”

He added fresh ash and carefully lit three sticks of “true-subduing incense,” reverently placing them inside.

The incense smoke was fine and clear, carrying a crisp medicinal aroma that rose like a white thread, straight up about several feet before slowly dispersing.

Under the boulder the smoke formed a hazy cloud that wrapped the three of them and the tablets.

“The incense endures, the guardian remains,” Lu Yuan murmured.

He then took out a stack of yellow talisman paper, a dish of cinnabar ink, and a small wolf-hair brush, placing them to the sword’s left.

The papers were pre-cut, each three inches wide and seven inches long; the cinnabar was high-quality vermilion, and grinding it released a metallic-sweet smell.

Finally, from the very bottom of his bundle he produced a copper coin threaded with a red cord.

The coin was round outside and square inside, rusted with age, but the characters “Taiping Tongbao” were still faintly visible on its face.

Lu Yuan suspended the coin three inches above the compass, letting it spin slowly.

“Three Powers set, Four Symbols guard the altar, Five Directions hold watch, Six Ding protect the body, Seven Stars shine, Eight Trigrams encompass.”

He stuck the peach-wood sword into the left-front of the yellow cloth, tip slanted toward the earth, then took a pinch of incense ash and scattered it evenly around the cloth, forming a faint circle.

With everything arranged, Lu Yuan stepped back half a pace and examined the makeshift altar.

The Three Purities tablet sat center, the patriarch tablet to the left, the myriad spirits’ tablet to the right; the ritual sword lay horizontal, the compass rotated, the candles burned bright, and the incense cloud lingered.

Beneath the cold, dark valley, under that boulder, this little space felt like a world unto itself.

It refused to mingle with the surrounding filth and exuded a calm, stately Daoist aura.

Xu Erxiao’s eyes lit up; he lowered his voice and said:

“Brother Lu, this altar layout is truly impressive!!”

Wang Cheng'an nodded too, showing a bit of relief:

“With this altar in place, we’ve got the confidence.”

Lu Yuan did not relax. He took three protective talismans from his bosom and gave one to each of them to paste—one on the chest and one on the back.

He affixed the last to his own chest, patted his robe, and said in a low voice:

“The altar is set, the aura is fixed.”

“Now we wait for the moment at dusk when the killing qi is thickest.”

He looked up toward the lonely, swaying willow outside the boulder; a bright glint flashed in his eyes:

“At that time, I will use this Three Purities altar to draw in the righteous energies of the Five Directions, suppress the evil killing force piercing the willow, and shatter the evil deity feeding structure of this Wildman Ditch!”

The three fell silent, sitting cross-legged by the yellow cloth, closing their eyes to regulate their breath and quietly awaiting the deep black.

In the valley there was only the willow’s windless swaying and the low, mournful murmurs from scattered bones, echoing near their ears.

Time moved slowly in the hush.

There were no sun shadows on the mountain faces—only the strip of sky overhead shifting from a bleak whiteness to gray-yellow, then from gray-yellow sinking into gloom.

The three took turns keeping watch; one kept eyes on the willow and the valley below while the other two breathed and conserved energy.

Around midday Xu Erxiao rifled through the box and found a few dry biscuits and a small jar of pickles.

They drank from the water skin and ate hurriedly.

The hard biscuits made Xu Erxiao’s jaw ache; he muttered under his breath:

“This damned place, even the biscuits are three parts harder than elsewhere.”

Wang Cheng'an said nothing, chewing in silence, his gaze never leaving the willow.

Later, the valley’s light began to darken at a speed visible to the naked eye.

It wasn’t the natural dimming of the sun setting, but a gray-black mist seeping up like vapor from fissures in the earth, spreading layer upon layer.

The willow’s branches moved more violently, swaying without wind as if countless invisible hands tugged each hanging thread.

Lu Yuan glanced at the compass; the needle no longer trembled—it was nailed rigidly toward the willow’s root, not moving an inch.

“Soon.”

Before his words finished, the sky went utterly black.

Not the dusk of evening, but as if someone had slammed a giant black pot over the Wildman Ditch—every scrap of light swallowed clean.

The candle flames under the boulder leapt and sent out a ring of dim yellow halo.

But the halo’s edge seemed to be gnawed by something, jagged and uneven, unable to extend further.

At the instant the darkness fell, a gong struck from below the mountain face.

“Clang—”

The gong sounded deep and worn, as if struck inside an old bronze gong corroded for decades.

The sound bounced among the valley walls with an indescribable desolation.

Then came a second strike.

“Dong—”

A drumbeat, heavy and deep, like someone pounding inside a chest, making the heart constrict.

Then a thin, piercing erhu cried out, a sound like a steel wire stabbing the eardrum and churning inside the brain.

Afterwards came various theatrical voices—dan voice, sheng voice, jing voice, chou voice—like a whole opera company had suddenly begun to sing in the depths of the valley.

But the sounds were wrong.

These singing styles didn’t match any real operatic script; they were parodies of the singers’ tones, learned poorly.

Each syllable was dragged too long, turned through seven or eight twists, laced with a wailing undertone.

The dan voice was shrill like a woman's funeral wail, the sheng voice hoarse as if something lodged in the throat, the jing voice rough like gravel scraping metal.

All these noises mixed and twisted together, circling through the dark valley.

It made the scalp tingle, hairs on the back stand up.

Lu Yuan snapped his eyes open and his right hand already gripped the ritual sword across the yellow cloth.

Xu Erxiao and Wang Cheng'an startled at the same moment; their inner lights met in the dim candle glow and they all saw the same alertness and coldness in each other’s eyes.

“Don’t make a sound.”

Lu Yuan’s voice was very low, nearly a breath.

“Go behind the stone and look—what’s beneath.”

They crept close to the boulder, pressing against the cold rock, edging along its rim.

Lu Yuan went first, pressing his body to the icy wall and poking out only half a face; his inner light went past the stone’s edge and peered into the valley below.

His pupils suddenly contracted sharply.

Unknown to them, a stage had appeared in the valley below.

The stage was huge—about ten feet square—and its surface was composed of blackened old planks, some rotten and broken, revealing yawning gaps beneath.

Four thick wooden pillars stood at the stage’s corners, wrapped in faded red silk and yellowed paper flowers.

In the dim light those silks looked like strips of dried blood.

A tattered canopy hung above the stage, its cloth shredded into dangling strips that fluttered in the windless air.

Most eerie of all, eight lanterns were lit around the stage—one on each side and four at the corners.

The lanterns were ghastly white; their paper had frayed and been roughly pasted, revealing the dim candle flames within.

Those flames fluttered oddly—faint and fierce at once—never extinguishing.

Their light bathed the stage in a ghastly whiteness that made everything on it look corpse-pale.

There were figures on the stage.

No—those were not people.

Standing on the stage was a row of “things” dressed in opera costumes.

At the far left stood an old dan role wearing a deep cyan costume.

The fabric’s material was indiscernible—silk-like and yet coarse—glossing with an oily sheen under the lamps.

Her face was plastered with a thick layer of white makeup that looked like it could be peeled off as a paper shell.

Each cheek had a round dab of rouge, bright red and shocking like two coagulated clots of blood.

Her lips were painted crimson but the mouth’s corners were fixed in a stiff upward grin, forever frozen into a human smile.

Her eyes never closed; they gaped wide, the eyeballs motionless, pupils like two black voids, empty within.

Next to her stood a hua dan in a pink theatrical gown, hem dragging across the stage and long water sleeves drooping to her knees.

Her face was equally overpainted but featured finer features, the coquettish expression fitting the young maiden role.

Yet her neck was crooked at an unnatural angle, twisted to the left as if snapped and reattached incorrectly.

The hua dan’s lips opened and closed as if singing, but the sounds did not match the mouth movements.

Her mouth mouthed the dan role, yet the voice that issued was the hoarse sheng voice, like someone else was being forced out of her throat.

Further right stood a wusheng in white, a backing banner on his back with four small flags; the flags hung limp as if soaked.

His face was bluish-grey, unpainted and exposed—sunken eye sockets, protruding cheekbones, purple lips.

In his hand he held a long spear, its tip rusted, the shaft wrapped with a few strands of black hair.

The wusheng did not sing; he paced the stage in a most peculiar way.

Each step was steady and planted but his knees never bent, moving like two wooden posts.

When he reached center stage he would abruptly spin—the motion stiff like a marionette—and then continue, endlessly walking and spinning.

At the center of the stage stood an old sheng in a black robe, sporting a long white beard that had yellowed and clumped into strands.

The old sheng’s eyes were closed, standing motionless in the center, but his lips trembled rapidly as if reciting something.

His voice was soft, yet oddly clear in the valley, like a thousand people whispering at once; the whispers wormed into the ear and gnawed at the mind.

What was most terrifying was not these details.

Most terrifying of all was that none of their feet touched the stage.

Each foot hovered roughly three inches above the boards.

The old dan’s embroidered shoes, the hua dan’s arched shoes, the wusheng’s black boots, the old sheng’s cloth shoes—all floated.

It was as if invisible hands were holding them, pushing them through a performance that did not belong to this world.

Their shadows, cast on the stage by the ghastly light, did not synchronize with their actions.

Sometimes a shadow made a movement while the figure on the stage made a different one, as if there was a breath’s delay between shadow and body.

Other times the shadow moved a beat faster than the body, acting before the figure had even moved.

The eight lanterns’ light could not reach outside the stage’s bounds.

The stage’s edge felt like an invisible wall that trapped every beam, leaving the ground around it in deeper darkness—black as an abyss.

Xu Erxiao’s teeth chattered, making a faint clacking sound.

He forced his jaw shut, but the chill had already crawled up his spine to the back of his head, making his muscles uncontrollably tremble.

Wang Cheng'an gripped the protective talisman on his chest so hard his knuckles whitened.

His face was ashen, lips pressed tight, while the muscles at his eye corners twitched.

Lu Yuan’s breath quickened for a moment, then he forced it down.

He stared at the eerie stage below, thoughts moving fast.

When had this troupe appeared?

They had been posted behind the boulder all day; their view never left the valley, yet the troupe had simply manifested with no sound and no warning, like it had grown out from the earth.

He recalled talk in the inn last night—some drunks had mentioned a grand troupe in Wildman Ditch…

Seeing it so soon was unexpected.

These performers were not human nor any proper troupe.

They were evil puppets.

Spawned by that willow’s feeding on countless dead spirits’ essence, they were manifestations formed by the coalescing malignant qi—part of the whole evil deity supply arrangement.

Lu Yuan inhaled and restrained the chill at his fingertips, then motioned to the two and whispered in extremely low tones:

“Don’t move.”

“Don’t make a sound.”

“They are singing.”

“Wait until they finish the first play. That moment is when the killing qi is at its peak and when our altar rites will be most effective.”

At that moment the old sheng on stage suddenly opened his eyes.

His eyeballs were pure white with no pupils, like two cooked fish eyes.

The instant he opened them, the gongs, drums, and erhu stopped entirely.

Every “person” on the stage froze mid-motion.

The old sheng slowly turned his head and looked straight toward the boulder.

His face showed no expression, but those two white eyes seemed to peer through the dark, through rock, and lock precisely onto the location of Lu Yuan and the others.

Then he split his lips into a grin.

His mouth peeled back to reveal a pitch-black gumline and a tongue equally black.

He emitted a sharp, drawn-out laugh.

The sound was like nails on a blackboard magnified dozens of times, echoing throughout Wildman Ditch.

Immediately, every “person” on the stage turned their heads.

All their eyes aligned to stare at the boulder.

All their mouths—at the same instant, in one voice, in a tone that belonged to no operatic style—lightly and hollowly spoke one sentence:

“Come.....watch......the......show......ah......”