Chapter Eighteen: The Sage Speaks Not of Monsters, Force, Chaos, or Spirits

“Ming, it’s your mother!”
A gentle, frail voice, as melodious and tender as a nightingale’s song, echoed softly in the young man’s ears.
The boy, tense a moment before, felt all strength drain from his hand; the knife he held could no longer be raised. His fear vanished in an instant, leaving only shock.
There could be no mistake—this was the voice he had heard more than any other since childhood, the voice of Zhong Ming’s mother.
All the caution and cleverness he usually possessed faded away at the sound of that familiar call. His mind was thrown into disarray, and he stood rooted to the spot.
The woman in white drifted to stand before Zhong Ming—her face and her smile so achingly familiar.
Could it be that souls truly exist in this world, that after death, one becomes a spirit?
Seeing his departed mother stand once more before him, Zhong Ming’s mind faltered. The education he’d received in later years warred with the evidence before his eyes, and his thoughts crumbled under the strain.
The woman in white seemed to notice the unease in Zhong Ming’s expression; disappointment flickered across her face.
She spoke again, “Ming, do not fear me. I have come only to bring you something. When I am finished, I will leave.”
The boy said nothing, his folding knife still unsheathed in his hand.
“This stone box is for you. Once you have it, I will go.”
She extended her arm, and in the soft, glowing light cradled a stone box, which she offered to him.
Zhong Ming did not immediately reach for the box. Instead, he frowned and stared at it for a moment before pointing at the woman in white. “You’re not my mother!” he declared.
What brought him back to his senses was precisely the stone box in her hands—a box with a story of its own.
It was called the Twin Mandarin Stone Lock. According to his mother, it was a family heirloom, entrusted to her by Zhong Ming’s father before he left for war, with strict instructions to keep it safe.
The Twin Mandarin Stone Lock was a marvel, crafted by a renowned artisan of the Shang dynasty. Its mechanism was intricate, impossible to open by force, for doing so would trigger an explosion that would destroy both the contents and the box itself.
It could only be opened with the Dragon and Phoenix Key, divided between two people and, just today, reunited in Zhong Ming’s hands.
At first, Zhong Ming had not known its purpose. His mother, on her deathbed, had not explained it, only that it was precious. He had only ever seen it twice in his life.
The first time was when he was a small child, bullied and missing his father. To comfort him, his mother had shown him the box, saying it was a treasure left to them by his father.
The second time was at his mother’s burial. Zhong Ming, searching their humble home, had found the box beneath the bed and placed it in her simple wooden coffin as a burial gift.
They had been poor, and with nothing else to offer, he remembered the stone lock and put it in her coffin.
Earlier that day, when the Dragon and Phoenix Key came into his possession, he had thought of retrieving the stone lock but dismissed the idea, feeling it disrespectful to disturb his mother’s grave for the sake of a mere treasure.
He lacked neither food nor money; why trouble his mother’s peace for something so uncertain?
The Twin Mandarin Stone Lock should have been buried in her grave, and yet here it was before him now. By all rights, this should have convinced him the woman was his mother. But Zhong Ming heard something amiss in her words.
His mother had always spoken of the lock with reverence, never once calling it a “stone box”—always the “Twin Mandarin Stone Lock.” It was only natural that he would be sensitive to any change in the name of such a treasured heirloom.
How could his mother change what she called such an important thing?
So the boy concluded that despite the resemblance, this woman in white was not his mother.
He lifted his folding knife once more and took two steps back to keep his distance.
Pointing the blade at her, he said loudly, “What are you, and why do you approach me?”
“Ming, how can you not recognize your own mother? I am truly your mother, and I have only come to give you the stone box.”
As she spoke, she stepped closer, extending the box toward him.

During this time, the woman in white kept glancing nervously toward the direction Yang Yanlang had left, as if anxious or worried.
Zhong Ming noticed this as well—she was growing more agitated, losing all the mysterious air she’d had when she first appeared, and now seemed just like an ordinary person trying to avoid trouble.
Seeing her so unsettled, Zhong Ming felt a bit more at ease. She, too, could feel fear—so she must have a nemesis.
If she had a weakness, whether ghost or god, he no longer needed to be afraid.
Fear is born of the unknown. Once he realized she had something to fear, there was nothing left to dread.
So he kept retreating, hoping to buy time. He guessed she was wary of Yang Yanlang, which was why she kept looking in that direction.
Suddenly, in a rush, the woman in white darted forward and grabbed his arm.
Though she seemed to float lightly, she moved with astonishing speed; before Zhong Ming could react, she had seized his forearm and forced the Twin Mandarin Stone Lock into his arms.
But the moment she touched him, a green light flared from his chest.
A fresh green willow branch flew out from his bosom, arched high, then swiftly struck downward.
With a crisp snap, the willow branch lashed across the woman’s face, releasing a puff of black smoke. The soft glow enveloping her body vanished instantly.
It was as if a firefly had been snuffed out; the gentle light disappeared in a moment, and even the blue candlelight in the distance flickered wildly.
A fierce, animalistic roar—half wolf, half tiger—made Zhong Ming’s hair stand on end.
Before his eyes, the woman in white transformed into a towering, hairy black creature: coarse black fur, a long face, sharp fangs, red swelling on each cheek, and a body nearly nine feet tall. She stood on one leg, clutching her face where the branch had struck.
What kind of monster was this?
The sight stunned Zhong Ming. Only after a long moment did he remember to swing his folding knife, slashing at the beast.
The knife was as sharp as ever, and blood gushed from the wound on the monster’s arm.
“Zhong Ming! You reckless boy—you don’t know a good heart when you see one!”
The creature shrieked in a hoarse, grating voice, then turned and fled into the night.
The wind died down, and the candlelight went out.
The willow branch fell to the ground, its green glow flickered twice, then faded away.
Only the dazed boy remained, with the Twin Mandarin Stone Lock at his feet.
He stood there for a long time before regaining his senses, his mind in utter chaos.
First came the ice-cold immortal who had descended to strike Lord Tian, then the general who could summon his Silver Dragon Spear with a gesture, piercing walls to return to its master. And now, a black-furred monster, appearing as his mother, had handed him the heirloom he’d buried with her.
What was happening today?
Had the world gone mad, or was he losing his mind?
Three years was not long, nor was it short, but only just enough for him to grow used to this world of plough and blade.
Now, all manner of gods and monsters had appeared, overturning the world he’d only just come to understand.
As he was about to slap himself to see if he was dreaming, Yang Yanlang emerged from the darkness.
Yang Yanlang surveyed the area warily, and, once certain there was no danger, asked, “Zhong Ming, are you alright? I heard a beast’s roar—was it a jackal or a tiger?”
“Neither, uncle. I just met a ghost.”

The boy shook his head in bewilderment and recounted his strange, dreamlike encounter to Yang Yanlang.
When Zhong Ming finished, Yang Yanlang mused, “Nephew, could it be you met the legendary Old Mountain Demon?”
“Old Mountain Demon? Uncle, what’s that?”
Yang Yanlang did not answer at once. Instead, he exclaimed, “No wonder I couldn’t catch that madman spouting nonsense earlier! It must have been one of the Old Mountain Demon’s tricks.”
Realizing things had taken a turn for the supernatural, the general had no time for explanations. He said urgently, “Zhong Ming, pack your things! I’ll carry you—we must leave this place at once.”
It showed how dire the situation was—the general himself would carry the boy down the mountain.
From what he knew, the mountain spirits’ illusions were far more devious than the immortal tricks at the Duke’s mansion. They were cunning and manipulative, always trying to lead men astray.
As the saying goes: “It’s easier to face the Lord of the Underworld than to deal with his lesser spirits.” To the general, these mountain fiends were precisely those troublesome sprites.
He’d fallen for a trick himself when chasing that lunatic earlier.
Having suffered a setback, Yang Yanlang was now wary. Alone, he’d have fought his way out, but with Zhong Ming—a burden—he feared the boy might get hurt, so he wanted to leave the danger behind as soon as possible.
Zhong Ming, knowing things had grown serious, said nothing more and quickly gathered his folding knife, the Twin Mandarin Stone Lock, and the willow branch.
As for the food box and the bundle of paper money, the general tossed them aside without a second thought.
Yang Yanlang hoisted Zhong Ming onto his back. Without ceremony, he said, “Hold tight to my neck—I’m going to run!”
“I’m ready, uncle.”
No sooner had the boy spoken than the general summoned his strength, took a deep breath, and sped down the path.
Zhong Ming felt the wind roar in his ears—the scenery blurred by at a speed faster than riding a horse.
Anyone who witnessed Yang Yanlang at that moment would have cried out: “A true master of the realm!”
His feet barely touched the ground; with each stride he covered several yards, landing only on the tips of the grass before leaping off like a bird.
In just a few bounds, they left the hillside behind, vanishing into the night.

After the uncle and nephew had gone, a gentle white light glowed once more before Zhong Xiuniang’s grave.
The black-furred creature, so like a gorilla, emerged from behind the stone. In the short time since their encounter, the wound on its arm had completely healed.
Only a large, swollen bump remained on its forehead, glowing faintly green—a worrying sight.
Hopping over to the stone, the black-furred monster sat cross-legged on one leg before Zhong Xiuniang’s grave. “Master, I have delivered the stone box to Zhong Ming, as thanks for your teachings,” it said.
“Does this repay your kindness?”
No one answered; the creature was only talking to itself.
The night wind stirred, and the soft white light danced.
The black-furred monster tore a chicken leg from the offerings and stuffed it into its mouth, mumbling, “Well, you can’t eat these delicacies anymore, so I’ll help you finish them—waste not, want not!”
It ate with relish, smacking its lips noisily. Sometimes, in its enthusiasm, it would touch its swollen bump and grimace with pain.
All the offerings would end up in the belly of this black-furred beast.