Ning Caichen (middle)

Two burly men stepped forward, seizing Ning Caichen by the arms. Ignoring his struggles, they dragged him outside the inn and, as if discarding an old sack, hurled him forcefully to the ground, raising a great cloud of dust.

Ning Caichen tumbled head over heels, his book basket nearly coming apart, the books within scattering haphazardly—a most wretched sight. The passersby paused to watch the commotion with interest.

Inside, the inn’s young server asked the stout old proprietor, “Boss, that scholar is all delicate skin and gentle looks. Judging by his attire, he’s a licentiate, yet he dares to try eating and lodging here for free. Why don’t I quietly take care of him? Otherwise, if word gets out, people will think our Fortune Inn is easy to bully.”

The stout old man shot him a glare. “Our Fortune Inn is no den of thieves. We do business with integrity. In these chaotic times, honesty is more important than ever; otherwise, who will trust us?”

“If word gets out to the wrong people, losing this inn would be the least of our troubles. If it jeopardizes other matters, it would be a grave offense. Don’t get any funny ideas—go do your work.”

The young server shrank back, dissatisfied, his eyes darting as he hurried outside. As he stepped out, he saw Ning Caichen gathering his scattered books.

“Hey, you scholar,” the server said as he approached, squatting down with a sly grin. “You tried to stay at an inn without a penny—consider yourself lucky you weren’t beaten. Don’t hold a grudge.”

He continued, “A delicate scholar like you, if you spend the night out on the streets, you’ll likely end up as meat buns by morning.”

Ning Caichen had intended to ignore him, but at those words, his face paled. Such things were no jest—he had encountered a murderous inn before, and if not for his quick wits, he might have ended up someone’s dinner.

Seeing his fear, the server lowered his voice, “I’m not trying to scare you. Our Guobei County is in chaos, full of all kinds of people—cannibals among them. You’re a stranger here, no kin, no connections—if you die, no one will care.”

Ning Caichen swallowed hard. “I beg your guidance, sir. What should I do?”

The server nodded, satisfied, and whispered, “Since you ask so sincerely, I’ll give you a tip. Less than twenty li from here, there’s a mountain—once you see it, you’ll know by its lush greenery. On that mountain is a temple named Orchid Temple. You can stay there; no one will bother you.”

“Orchid Temple?” Ning Caichen repeated, his face brightening. He stood and clasped his hands in thanks. “Thank you, brother, I am deeply grateful.”

The server waved impatiently. “Go on, go! It’s not dark yet—if you hurry, you’ll make it before nightfall.”

Ning Caichen nodded and took his leave, but halfway down the street he turned back and called, “By the way, brother, how do I get to Orchid Temple?”

Orchid Temple?

The bystanders gasped and drew back in fear, staring at Ning Caichen as if he were mad. Bewildered, he ignored their reaction, thinking these locals simply odd.

The server’s face darkened, and he nearly kicked him in irritation. Suppressing his anger, he said, “Just leave the city by the south gate and keep heading south. Now go!”

With that, he hurried back inside.

…

That afternoon, Yifan finished tutoring Chen Nier and began making talismans in the courtyard. Recently, he’d gone through a great many Minor Demon-Expelling Talismans, but fortunately, they were quick to make and the success rate was high, so there was little waste of talisman paper.

In the courtyard was a small pool, the earth packed firm and lined with stones—a perfect place to wash brushes. Over time, the water in the pool had turned a deep crimson, like blood, but exuded a faint fragrance.

Having completed the last talisman, Yifan set down his brush, exhaled softly, and washed it clean in the pool before putting it away. Turning to Chen Nier, who sat watching with her small hands propped on a stone stool, he said, “When your Aunt Lan returns, ask her to build a little wooden shelter over this pool, so the rain doesn’t wash away the cinnabar water.”

He had once discovered by chance that, because he often washed his talisman-making brushes in the pool—and sometimes used the water directly to draw on stone—the water had gained a faint power to ward off evil. Most common ghosts dared not approach it. It lacked the potency of the Minor Demon-Expelling Talisman, but was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

His temple was poor in spiritual treasures: aside from the Demon-Slaying Sword, he had nothing of value, not even as much as the wandering cultivators. Even Daoist Zhao had one or two magical items, humble though they were—more than he could boast. And as for Zhuge Liuyun, with his powerful background, the sword pouch on his back likely held five or six spirit swords, not to mention treasures yet unrevealed—there was simply no comparison.

He shook his head, dismissing such thoughts. Magical items were important, but one’s own strength mattered more.

He picked up his teacup for a sip, just as Chen Lan returned with a hoe, sweat streaming down her face and mud on her clothes. “Thank you for your hard work,” he said.

Though the temple had grain, they lacked vegetables, so he had Chen Lan cultivate several plots near the temple to grow greens—better than eating plain rice day after day.

As for meat, there was no shortage. Whenever he had time, he’d bring some back from the mountains, so overall, their little temple had achieved a decent standard of living.

Chen Lan put down her hoe, drew some water, washed, and changed her clothes before emerging. “Master, you must be hungry. I’ll start cooking.”

Chen Nier followed her into the kitchen, and the laughter of the two, one large and one small, rang out from within, bringing a sense of life and warmth to the little temple—a feeling of home that was deeply comforting.

In this time, the initial awkwardness between them had faded. Chen Lan no longer feared Yifan would send them away, so she spoke and acted more naturally, sometimes even making small jokes.

Before the old Daoist’s death, he had rarely spoken apart from teaching Yifan, each mostly minding his own affairs.

As dusk fell, after dinner, Yifan retired to a side room. With enough space for the three of them, he’d set aside one of the remaining rooms for storage.

Inside, the small room housed more than ten clay urns. The larger ones contained ashes he’d collected years ago when Xiah Hou massacred the Purple Flower Brothel—over the years, the resentment within had been dispelled, and now, when time allowed, he could finally bury them.

The smaller urns, sealed with talismans, held the little ghosts he’d subdued of late. They offered little energy when refined, so he kept them imprisoned in the urns. Once their resentment faded, he would let them go to the underworld.

He checked and found none missing. Last time, the Ghoul Spirit had secretly devoured a few, thinking he wouldn’t notice, so he’d punished it with three days of fasting, which curbed its appetite.

He didn’t forbid it from devouring ghosts, but these lesser spirits had committed no great evil—most were victims of mountain violence, lingering due to unresolved ties.

Besides, the vast mountain was full of malevolent spirits, and in these troubled times, countless souls died daily in the valleys. There were more than enough for the Ghoul Spirit to feast on to its heart’s content.