Chapter 120: The Chao Huan Fan

Tea houses and taverns sold meat and boiled fish.

Though the few narrow, shabby gambling dens beside the muddy road were filthy, they were loud and packed, people jammed together so tightly not a breath could pass; several idle vagrants who couldn’t find seats clung to the window frames, craning their necks forward in eager competition.

After the dice were rolled inside, they would react as if it were their own fate—sometimes shouting, sometimes cursing, utterly absorbed in their frenzy.

Peddlers carrying loads, flower sellers, mat weavers, sugar-blowers.

A peddler trudged through mud, loudly hawking rouge and powder from his bundle; a traveling troupe performed a sleight-of-hand trick involving melons falling to the ground, drawing a crowd that pressed close, cheers never ceasing;

Several children and a yellow dog played beneath a giant weeping willow at the village entrance, their clothes all dusted gray.

Crowded, thronging, voices rising in a din…

Standing atop this hill dotted with graves, one could see far off a bustling village market, old and young gathered, lively and vibrant.

Yet even Daoists found it hard to dwell here long, so heavy was the damp, yin energy of the abyss.

This thriving scene of mortal villagers, placed alone in this yin land, was utterly incongruous—like putting a melon into water.

But upon closer inspection, Chen Hang noticed something amiss.

Though the village market was lively and crowded, every face was pale and ghastly; the skin exposed from sleeves bore faint purple-red lividity of corpses.

And deep in their eyes, their expressions were rigid, vacant.

All laughter, anger, and shouting were merely painted masks.

As if a clay or wooden statue had been meticulously painted with lifelike expressions—externally vivid, yet inwardly still mere rotting wood and yellow earth.

The small hill where Chen Hang stood was not far from the village, yet none of them noticed it, as if blind to its presence.

“So this is a ghost village?”

Chen Hang mused to himself.

The origin of the abyss was unknown.

Some said it descended straight into boundless darkness, suppressing a tributary of the Yellow Springs, serving as the reincarnation ground for all Daoists of Xu Du Tian, guarded below by divine soldiers and generals.

Others claimed the abyss was merely the accumulated, discarded wastelands of ancient states, piled here.

After all, the powers of Immortal Daoists were incalculable—they could pluck sun and stars from the sky, move seas and mountains; if they fought, even smashing an entire province to dust and then recreating life anew would be no great feat…

Yet regardless of the tale, this land, steeped in dense yin miasma, had birthed countless yin spirits and ghosts.

The deeper one went, the more perilous it became…

Yan Ping, at least, was a Foundation Establishment second-layer Daoist, having reached the “Size and Shape as One Wishes” realm.

Even after being wounded by his own primordial solar divine light, fleeing without time to heal, he still retained some fighting strength.

Otherwise, he could not have made Chen Hang chase him for three full days.

Yet now he was bound like livestock upon a butcher’s slab, limbs severed, life and death unknown—utterly pitiful.

The situation before him was unclear; Chen Hang had never encountered such a sight before.

He brushed his sleeve and pondered a moment, then took from his space bag a colorful folding fan, holding it in his palm.

This fan was named “Chao Huan Fan,” gifted to him by Xie Tan of the Flower Goddess Mansion at Fuyu Lake; though a mere clever trick, it was ranked among mid-tier talismanic treasures.

The fan’s surface depicted twelve beauties; with a simple spell, they could be summoned, indistinguishable from real women, and for three hours, no matter how they were used, they suffered no harm.

After three hours, their forms would fade and return to the fan’s surface.

Even if they died, since a core spiritual imprint remained stored within the fan, merely three days later, one could expend some embryonic breath to revive the dead beauty anew.

These beauties were originally crafted for yin-yang union, for Daoists often possessed immensely strong blood and physique, unlike ordinary mortals, risking injury during sexual cultivation.

Thus, the maker of this Chao Huan Fan had specially reinforced the flesh of each of the twelve beauties.

Nearly every beauty’s body was as hard as metal or stone, yet soft as cloud down—even a typical Foundation Establishment second-layer “Size and Shape as One Wishes” cultivator paled in comparison.

If these twelve rode horses in formation and charged, no mortal general, no matter how legendary, could withstand them a single blow.

Even without any Daoist arts or spells, they could easily breach cities, topple fortresses, and slaughter armies.

Such useful puppets were perfect for Chen Hang to send ahead and probe the ghost village’s true nature.

He silently recited a spell, then pointed at one figure on the fan.

A sultry, light laugh echoed; a misty spiritual light floated in the air, and after several breaths, it slowly descended, swirling into the form of a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

She stood gracefully beneath an ancient tree, her face exquisite, her figure slender and elegant, clad only in a sheer robe as thin as a cicada’s wing, accentuating her willowy waist and rounded hips.

One glance stirred desire, compelling one to pull her close and savor her, forgetting all else.

“This humble servant, Chu Niang, greets this esteemed sir—”

“No need for formalities. That ghost village ahead is strange—please go and probe its nature.”

Chen Hang waved his hand, cutting off her bow, and spoke.

“Esteemed sir?”

Chu Niang’s words died on her lips; she could not continue.

She stiffly raised her head, her almond eyes filled with disbelief, her heart pounding wildly.

After a long pause, she spoke strangely:

“What did you just say… did I mishear? Could you please repeat it?”

“Go and probe the nature of the ghost village ahead.”

Chen Hang glanced at her coolly:

“What?”

“...”

Chu Niang froze, her lips slightly parted, her gaze toward Chen Hang filled with complex emotion.

Since acquiring the Chao Huan Fan, he had never once used it; today, finally, she thought the young man had awakened to its true pleasures.

Yet she had not expected:

He summoned her only to send her to her death…

Seeing Chu Niang frozen in place, motionless, Chen Hang frowned:

“Why are you still standing? Did I not make myself clear?”

Why haven’t you set out yet? Haven’t I made myself clear enough?

Chu Niang shook her head, bit her cherry lips, and brushed a lock of cloud-like hair behind her ear.

She glanced at Chen Hang, cheeks instantly flushed, and nodded softly, voice sweet and trembling:

“Your humble servant understands. I shall give my all, and not fail your trust.”

“Once inside the ghost village, if possible, kill the man bound upon the butcher’s slab.”

Chen Hang, accustomed to such looks, remained unmoved:

Chen Hang was already accustomed to such glances and showed no reaction, only saying:

Chu Niang slightly lifted her fragrant shoulders, nodding shyly and accepting.

Yet the moment she stepped into the ghost village, the once-bustling market fell utterly silent—as if a drop of ink had stained clear water.

Yet as she stepped into the Ghost Village, the once bustling market fell utterly silent, as if a drop of dense ink had been spilled into clear water.

The villagers instantly transformed into vengeful ghosts and tormented spirits!

They surged forward.

In an instant, they tore Chu Niang to shreds!

She never even reached the butcher’s slab—barely three steps in, she was ripped apart by the horde.

Even her body, stronger than a Foundation Establishment second-layer cultivator, proved useless!

And after tearing Chu Niang apart, the ghosts’ ferocious forms vanished instantly—as if nothing had happened…

The vendors resumed shouting, the troupe continued their tricks.

Even the children, moments ago bleeding from seven orifices with ruptured intestines, now had rosy cheeks, rolling playfully with the yellow dog…

Even the children who had moments ago bled from all seven orifices and had their guts torn open now had rosy cheeks, rolling about with the yellow dog…

Chen Hang’s heart jolted.

Then, seeing them move like puppets, bound to fixed actions, clearly lacking spirit or intellect, a notion slowly formed in his mind.

At this moment, Chu Niang’s image on the Chao Huan Fan had grown faint.

Though he tried summoning her again with another spell, she remained motionless, unresponsive.

Chen Hang knew he must wait three days before reviving her; after one attempt, he abandoned it and randomly selected another beauty, summoning her forth.

Again, she took no more than three steps before being torn apart by the ghosts.

Chen Hang did not hesitate—he summoned another, sending her into the ghost village…

Seeing this, Chen Hang did not hesitate and summoned another, instructing her to enter the Ghost Village…

…

The fifth.

…

The sixth.

…

When half the twelve beauties on the Chao Huan Fan were dead,

Chen Hang finally retracted the fan, lowered his gaze, and fell into deep thought.

These ghosts were too fierce; even if he entered himself, he would gain no advantage.

The commotion might draw even stronger demons.

Then, his life might truly be in peril…

Back then, there might truly have been a threat to one’s life…

Yet the beauties he had summoned from the Chaohuan Fan into the marketplace were not meant to die senselessly.

First, he wished to test the spirits’ level of intelligence.

Second, he sought to draw a trace of yin energy from these spirits, then use the “Scattering Mirage, Condensing Form Technique” to mimic their qi signature and deceive them.

…

“Fortunately, though these spirits are ferocious, their intelligence is exceedingly low—they only guard their own little patch of ground, and as long as one does not enter the village entrance, they will not turn hostile.”

Chen Hang held a wisp of qi drawn from the spirits by the Chaohuan Fan’s maidens, and activated the “Scattering Mirage, Condensing Form Technique,” practicing several times.

Once his own qi signature had become indistinguishable from that of the marketplace spirits, with not the slightest difference remaining,

he swept his sleeve and strode forward toward the horde of ghosts.

The moment he stepped past the village entrance,

an indescribably eerie atmosphere settled heavily over him!

It felt as if he had slipped beside a slumbering giant beast—any slight noise might wake it, and see its gaping, bloodied maw open wide!

Cold yin winds howled back and forth, bleak and chilling.

As he drew near, each of the previously bustling spirits paused momentarily, nostrils twitching, like dogs catching the scent of blood.

Yet the “Scattering Mirage, Condensing Form Technique” was no ordinary arcane art; after a few moments of confusion, they ceased their scrutiny and ignored Chen Hang entirely, returning to their own affairs.

“Fortunately, these spirits have low intelligence… and no hostility toward their own kind?”

Seeing this, Chen Hang finally relaxed, exhaling a breath of relief.

He walked toward Yan Ping on the meat slab, and along the way, he greeted a few spirits—but none responded, neither hearing nor acknowledging him.

“Old man?”

The butcher behind the meat stall was a bare-chested man, about sixty years old, heavily built, with a long, streaked white beard nearly reaching his chest, speckled with flecks of crimson meat, messy and grimy.

Hearing Chen Hang’s call, he did not look up, merely continued rubbing his hands back and forth, muttering to himself.

“What a lucky bastard—he’s in this state and still clinging to life.”

On the meat slab, Yan Ping, his limbs severed, lay unconscious but still breathing.

He had carried many protective treasures; it was thanks to these that he had escaped death for three days, and now clung stubbornly to life.

As Chen Hang raised his hand to end him completely,

suddenly, the butcher’s expression shifted—he swiftly extended his hand, shielding Yan Ping’s torso as if guarding his food.

“Shanhu Gong’s blood offering, young man… do not eat!”

He grunted deeply:

“The Lady of the mansion is to be wed—only Shanhu Gong gets the finest blood offerings!”

He roared in warning, and at that cry, all the spirits turned their heads toward him.

Thin, chilling yin winds arose from nowhere, freezing to the bone—making one’s scalp crawl!

Chen Hang’s gaze darkened slightly.

Seeing that Chen Hang had not been driven back by his threat, the butcher grunted again deep in his throat.

He extended his massive hand, stiffened for a moment, then slowly took down Yan Ping’s left leg from the iron hook, weighed it, and hurled it at Chen Hang’s feet.

“Here, eat!”

The butcher growled:

“Go! Go!”

Countless pale, staring eyes snapped toward him; the spirits stirred with unease, and in an instant, Chen Hang felt a wave of malice envelop him.

As if the moment he reached for Yan Ping’s severed limb,

the next instant,

he would be torn apart and devoured by the horde!

“Looks like I’ll have to fight my way out…”

Faced with this sudden turn, Chen Hang’s eyes hardened with gravity; as he lifted his sleeve, preparing to strike forcibly,

suddenly, a soft melody of stringed instruments floated through the air, clear and ringing, accompanied by waves of sweet fragrance.

“Shanhu Gong…”

The butcher grunted again, quickly covering his face and lowering his head.

All the spirits trembled in terror, wailing in confusion, as if suddenly awakened to fear.

…

…

Within a vast, sprawling estate,

Song Rupu, having failed again to flee his wedding, was pinned to the ground by several great ghosts, tightly bound, not a single finger able to move.

“The Lady is Shanhu Gong’s offspring—this son-in-law truly has no sense.”

A long-tongued ghost dressed as a housekeeper giggled, drifting into the air, and said:

“You’ve already annoyed the Lady enough—if you do it again, the Lady will have me place you in a cinnabar cauldron and fry you before letting you out.”

“I don’t want to marry! I don’t want to have children!”

Song Rupu sobbed, writhing desperately on the ground:

“We’re all ghosts already—how can there still be lust and love? Is this reasonable? How does this make sense?!”