Chapter 48: The Three Ghosts, in the Midst of Tempering

Beneath the cavern, in the stone chamber.

Three wooden tablets lay arranged in the center. Ji Ming’s long pale legs, hairless and gaunt, were crossed as he sat, his frame slightly arched. In his hands, he rolled a string of prayer beads, gnawing absently at his mouthpiece.

Behind him stood a boy attendant, holding a sword; at his side, another attendant raised a torch.

“Will the three of you not come out and speak?”

Ji Ming addressed the tablets.

Despite his courteous inquiry, the three tablets before him remained utterly still, as cold and lifeless as tombstones.

“Where are the Clear Breeze and Bright Moon?”

Ji Ming called out.

The two attendants standing to one side, their faces earnest in the torchlight, took a moment to realize that the spirit lord was calling them by their new names—names he himself had bestowed.

“Clear Breeze, Bright Moon!” Ji Ming’s composure faltered slightly. He called once more.

“Here, Master!” The two attendants, a boy and a girl, stepped forward with their torches, so nervous that they moved in awkward unison, arms and legs flailing together—a sight both comical and endearing.

A stifled giggle escaped from the sword-bearing attendant behind.

“Silence!” Ji Ming said sternly.

The torchlight cast flickering shadows on the tablets, but the spirits within showed no sign of wavering. Ji Ming marveled inwardly—could it be these spirits cared nothing for their tablets?

“Burn them,” he ordered, deciding to press further.

The two attendants stepped forward, oblivious to Ji Ming’s true intent to test the spirits. They thrust their torches directly at the tablets, and in an instant, all three toppled backward.

“The three of you do have remarkable composure!” Ji Ming laughed.

At his words, three shadows seeped from the fallen tablets. Wisps of chilling wind stirred in the chamber, causing the flames to gutter and sway.

“Songhe!” Ji Ming called.

“Yes, Master!” The sword-bearing attendant strode forward and presented the ancient peachwood sword. The three shadows instantly cowered on the ground, not daring to stir the wind again.

Peachwood is famed for expelling evil and subduing ghosts.

This old sword, carved from the heart of ancient peachwood, was something no ordinary spirit could withstand.

In the air rose indistinct whimpering, like faint singing or chanting—the three spirits seemed to have something to say.

“Prepare brush and ink,” Ji Ming commanded, and the three ghosts immediately began to write.

If treasures from the Stonewhite Village could be carried away, how could a mere brush be beyond them?

When the writing was done, Ji Ming took the sheet and found three crooked lines of script, sloppier than his own hand.

“To ascend the altar and perform rites, to receive offerings and sustenance—our duty is to serve.”

Ji Ming understood the term “rites of deliverance”—a class of ceremonies evolved from Daoist offerings, used specifically for the salvation of spirits.

The simplest of these rites requires only incense and candles—this is what is meant by providing sustenance, or, put plainly, feeding the spirits.

In his pouch, Ji Ming found a few sticks of incense and some candles.

It was clear these items had been specially made at the Four Sorrows Monastery, intended for daily Daoist rituals.

More advanced rites involved talismans and offerings; there were even tales of water-and-fire rites, which only masters who had built their foundation could perform.

It was said that if a lost soul received the merits of such a rite, it could be transformed inside and out, even restored to human form—though whether this was true, Ji Ming could not say.

Within his pouch, he found five paper talismans—three for feeding the spirits, and two for summoning spirit-soldiers.

Ji Ming was no longer an illiterate novice in the arts; he had a basic understanding of common talismans and the fundamental knowledge of rites such as these.

Among the other odds and ends in his pouch was a set of poison-dispelling wooden needles, clearly crafted by Mount Taiping for countering the venomous arts of Great Mount Panchu.

This gave Ji Ming a deeper appreciation for the contests of Daoist sects.

As for the three scripture volumes in his pouch, they turned out to be Buddhist sutras. Ji Ming could not fathom how Four Sorrows Monastery, as a branch of Mount Taiping, allowed such heterodox teachings to circulate.

With a flick of his long hand, the prayer beads clicked softly as Ji Ming gazed at the three spirits.

He intended to subdue them for one primary purpose: to act as his eyes and ears, gathering intelligence outside the mountain.

He was not the kind of reclusive spirit content to cultivate in isolation; he dared not ignore the affairs of the world beyond.

In the chamber, he piled up earth to form an altar and set upon it three sticks of incense and two candles taken from his pouch.

Draping his brocade robe and monastic sash about himself, Ji Ming took up the peachwood sword from Songhe and began to pace before the altar, tracing the steps of the Big Dipper.

These ritual steps were said to summon the gods; to call mere spirits with them was effortless.

Though Ji Ming’s steps were not yet masterful, he could feel the connection between himself and the three spirits deepening.

The emotions the spirits expressed on the altar echoed faintly in his own heart, bound by invisible threads.

Ji Ming paced the pattern of the Three Lights and stars, his segmented body twisting, peachwood sword dancing in his hand. The flickering incense and candle flames swirled with the movement of his ritual steps.

Amid the curling fragrance, Ji Ming gained new insight into the art of ritual movement.

With each step, the three spirits grew more submissive. At last, Ji Ming pointed his sword at the altar and shouted, “Go forth, gather intelligence, and report back to me at once!”

The three spirits, having inhaled the incense and candle smoke, bowed deeply to Ji Ming, then whirled away in a gust of cold wind, vanishing into the night.

With the spirits dispatched, Ji Ming settled into the life of a proper spirit in his cavern.

Day after day, he alternated between studying Daoist texts, worshipping the pale moon at the cave mouth, absorbing spiritual energy, and occasionally instructing his three attendants in the basics of internal cultivation.

Though he could not practice these arts himself, by teaching the children he could glean some understanding of their principles.

Time slipped by unnoticed in the mountains, one day blending into the next.

Over the days that followed, the three spirits returned repeatedly with news from the world beyond.

“Rumor: To the west of Lanyin Province, in the neighboring region of Heshan, a large group of Daoist practitioners has infiltrated, causing great unrest.”

“Whispers: On the battlefield at Guancai Grotto, seasoned adepts of the second rank have quietly headed north.”

“In the thirteen great villages, rogue sorcerers have plundered the countryside.”

“Stonewhite Village’s estate was attacked by Daoist forces; the shaman’s disciples suffered heavy losses and are seeking refuge with the monk at Bald Brush Peak.”

…

Every few days, the three spirits brought new tidings—rumors and hearsay, little more than grist for Ji Ming’s mill. Only the movements of the shaman’s disciples truly caught his attention.

Bald Brush Peak lay to the east of Hengshan, a mere thirty or forty miles from his cave. For an ordinary traveler, it was two or three days’ journey.

Given the current state of affairs, it was inevitable that more wandering sorcerers would seek sanctuary at Bald Brush Peak.

In light of this, Ji Ming dared not venture far from his cave. Even the pond where he once went to replenish his spiritual energy, he now visited rarely.

One night, as he sat coiled atop a rocky ledge outside his cave, breathing in the mountain’s spiritual essence, he suddenly saw a faint glow nearby.

Shrinking back on the rock, Ji Ming unfurled his wings and glided closer for a look.

There, half-hidden by foliage, a small buck with short horns was kneeling with its forelegs, bowing and kowtowing repeatedly to the moon overhead.

Strands of spiritual energy streamed down, soaking into its body, causing fine hairs to stand on end and glisten through the leaves—a sight that caught Ji Ming’s attention.

“You look familiar—have we met before?”

Startled by the voice, the little buck ceased its bowing and sprang into a panicked run, only to collapse before it had gone far.

The buck’s limbs went numb, strength utterly gone, as if struck by a sudden poison.

Turning toward the sound, it saw a gigantic black centipede coiled in the treetop, peering down through the branches.

“You’re that trickster centipede!” The words left the buck’s mouth before it could stop them. Regretting it instantly, he fumbled for a way to retract his words but found himself tongue-tied.

“Now I remember—you were one of Young Master Hutu’s attendants.”

Paralyzed and helpless, the little buck mustered all its strength to lift its head and flatter, “Yes, yes! My lord, I’m honored you remember such a small creature as me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My master will soon be heading to Tai Mountain’s Gaoli, so he dismissed all his attendants from the mountain. I plan to go into secluded cultivation on the outskirts of Li Ridge.”

“When is your master leaving?”

“In about three weeks, I hear. For the Fox Court examination, they say you must arrive at Gaoli’s Underworld three days to a week in advance.”

Ji Ming nodded silently; this schedule matched his own calculations almost exactly.