“Yin and Yang are fundamentally different paths; once a person dies, their soul should return to the netherworld, and matters of right and wrong, good and evil, are for others to judge. Remaining in the mortal realm is no blessing for them. Either they transform into wandering ghosts after the seventh day following death and eventually have their souls scattered to the winds, or they mutate into fierce ghosts denied the cycle of reincarnation, rejected even by the underworld. A ghost lingering in the realm of the living will inevitably disintegrate into nothingness as time wears on.” Within Miaoyuan coexisted both universal compassion and decisive ruthlessness. He shook his head lightly, adding, “Evil spirits harm the living; this humble monk can by no means stand by and do nothing.”
“I understand,” Qing Ling nodded. He was no saint, so naturally, he harbored personal biases.
In a flash of lightning, Qing Ling made a move that even he found utterly ridiculous: he put down his brush, effectively relinquishing the sliver of a chance to escape from Shang Zhangheng’s grasp.
“Yet I am sorry, Master Miaoyuan,” Qing Ling’s voice remained steady and composed. “If you insist on intervening, then our alliance is off.”
After a brief moment of contemplation, Miaoyuan understood. “What relation is that evil spirit to you?”
Without answering, Qing Ling simply maintained a quiet standoff against him.
Miaoyuan sighed lightly. “Whatever relation he may be to you, that belongs to the past, Benefactor. Fierce ghosts know no human sentiment; they harbor only resentment and murderous intent. Regardless of virtue or vice, once someone transforms into a ghost or a fiend, they become an irrational, emotionless evil spirit. If you protect him, he might very well end up killing you.”
Qing Ling wasn’t deeply versed in these matters of gods and ghosts, but he had long since harbored suspicions. He wanted to ask how Shang Zhangheng had managed to recover his sanity, but clearly, now was not the time.
Silence was Qing Ling’s only response.
Qing Ling knew himself well enough to recognize that he was a cold, indifferent person. After Uncle Yu passed away, he felt a sense of loss but not overwhelming grief; A-yuan’s violent death in the mountain valley had been the same, and the same applied even now.
Yet Qing Ling possessed his own distinct code of conduct. Right and wrong naturally looked different depending on the person. He would sew winter clothes for Uncle Yu, and he would seek out the truth of A-yuan’s death from Shang Zhangheng. And now… Qing Ling gazed toward the silent, empty doorway, his calm, unruffled eyes gradually suffused with a deep, profound darkness.
Regardless of right or wrong, he would not allow Miaoyuan to obstruct this revenge.
Of course, Miaoyuan could simply choose to ignore Qing Ling, but the millennium-old fierce ghost trailing beside Qing Ling made Miaoyuan far more wary. Either he let the ghost currently murdering people outside go free, which could save more lives, yet the Buddhist teachings Miaoyuan had cultivated since childhood told him that all living beings were equal, and he had no qualification to judge good from evil.
“He will likely return very soon,” Qing Ling said, lowering his eyes. “Since Master Miaoyuan had to go to such lengths to deal with him, I imagine you are no match for him either. You would do best to leave first.”
Miaoyuan still wished to persuade him: “This humble monk will not stand idly by regarding the matter of that millennium-old fierce ghost. The plan I discussed with you earlier remains unchanged, but the one outside, entangling oneself with a fierce ghost after all.”
Before he could finish his sentence, Miaoyuan’s expression abruptly shifted. He sensed an intensely heavy, baleful aura enveloping them. Qing Ling also froze as Shang Zhangheng, clad in dark robes, materialized within the room. With an icy expression and eyes surging with overwhelming, monstrous ferocity, Shang Zhangheng swept an arm around Qing Ling’s waist, pulling him into his embrace, and asked in a low whisper right beside his ear: “What is this? What were you plotting with him?”
The yin energy shrouding his body condensed once more into swirling black fog. Though Qing Ling felt nothing untoward, Miaoyuan felt as though he had been cast into a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood in that exact instant. The surroundings were filled entirely with slaughter and shrieks of agony; both heaven and earth turned scarlet and chaotic. Involuntarily, he experienced raw terror, terror that pierced straight into his marrow, a sensation that infiltrated every pore.
Realizing that the fierce ghost had made a move against him, Miaoyuan hurriedly composed himself, closing his eyes to chant Buddhist scriptures. With a heart steadfast in his Buddhist faith, where both compassion and martial resolve served no evil purpose, a faint golden glow emerged from beneath his skin, transforming into a barrier inscribed with scriptures that enveloped his entire body.
Everything around him vanished in an instant. Opening his eyes, he found himself back inside the small room.
Qing Ling was honestly and obediently allowing himself to be held by Shang Zhangheng, answering truthfully, “Plotting how to kill you.”
He would have loved to fabricate a lie, but it would have been meaningless.
Shang Zhangheng was practically angered to the point of laughter. Letting out a soft, dark “Ah,” his sinister gaze shifted toward Miaoyuan.
Miaoyuan immediately braced himself as if facing a formidable enemy.
“I spared you twice,” Shang Zhangheng released Qing Ling and stepped forward. “Yet you remain ungrateful and unrepentant.”
In a daze, Miaoyuan almost suspected he was facing some kind of monster, for the aura on him was unequivocally ghost-Qi. But this evil spirit clearly harbored genuine murderous intent this time; cold sweat poured down Miaoyuan’s face as he pressed his lips together and prepared to fight to the death.
“Wait.”
Stepping forward, Qing Ling grabbed the sleeve of Shang Zhangheng’s robe. Despite still being deeply afraid, his face drained to a pale white, his expression was dead serious. “Master Miaoyuan shares no karma with you; he owes you no debt. You yourself said that killing an unrelated person will prevent you from entering the cycle of reincarnation.”
Turning his head back to gaze down at him, Shang Zhangheng met his eyes. Returning the gaze, Qing Ling caught sight of bone-deep hatred and venom swirling within those eyes, and he vaguely sensed that Shang Zhangheng’s violent rage stemmed from more than just Miaoyuan.
Taking advantage of the fact that the ghost hadn’t made a move, Qing Ling shook his head at Miaoyuan. “Why don’t you leave quickly.”
Completely stunned, Miaoyuan wore an expression of sheer bewilderment.
He hadn’t expected Qing Ling to actually be able to rein in this furious fierce ghost.
“But you.” Miaoyuan hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then that icy gaze landed back upon him once more, those pitch-black eyes burning as though stoked with scarlet flames meant to incinerate every living thing in existence.
“He is my husband,” Qing Ling’s tone sounded almost like a sigh. “He will not harm me. Master Miaoyuan, thank you for your trouble, but please leave.”
Before departing, Miaoyuan cast one last deep look at Qing Ling, a gaze filled with both worry and helpless resignation.
Once he had left, Shang Zhangheng tossed an object onto the table with a sharp clatter. Glancing down at it, Qing Ling realized it was a awl-like spike shaped like an arrow blade. Less than an inch wide, it measured roughly six inches long, wide at the top and narrow at the bottom. Aside from the sharp, piercing tip, every other part was carved with some sort of obscure, intricate inscription.
“What is that?” Qing Ling loosened his grip on Shang Zhangheng’s sleeve.
The next instant, however, his wrist was seized, and he was hauled right back into Shang Zhangheng’s arms. Only then did Qing Ling notice that Shang Zhangheng’s arm was trembling faintly, the force wrapping around him exceptionally tight. Feeling a chill of alarm, Qing Ling refrained from struggling, simply speaking softly, “Hold me a bit lighter; you’re squeezing me too hard, it hurts.”
Ignoring him entirely, Shang Zhangheng gripped Qing Ling’s chin, forcing him to lift his head.
Their eyes locked once more.
“That is my…” Shang Zhangheng’s tone carried a mocking edge. “Burial artifact.”
A ripple stirred in Qing Ling’s heart.
So the members of the Qing family really had plundered Shang Zhangheng’s tomb and stolen items from it. Could this be the karma Shang Zhangheng had mentioned?
“What about you?” Shang Zhangheng asked, releasing Qing Ling’s chin as his fingertip gently caressed the youth’s refined face. “What did you plot with that monk, and why did you suddenly change your mind?”
Qing Ling could feel that chilling touch gliding across his skin like a venomous snake slithering past. He had no doubt that Shang Zhangheng was furious right now and genuinely wanted to kill Miaoyuan a moment ago. He had never forgotten that Shang Zhangheng was an unadulterated evil spirit.
“When she moved against Qing Wenxu, Master Miaoyuan heard it,” Qing Ling answered with complete candor.
He had no intention of making excuses. Shang Zhangheng was no fool; playing the pitiful card to win sympathy was utterly useless. Putting aside whether Shang Zhangheng even possessed the capacity for pity, there was no telling if this paranoid, vicious fierce ghost would simply decide to drag him down into the abyss directly.
Shang Zhangheng showed no surprise upon receiving the answer.
He knew that given the opportunity, Qing Ling would certainly rack his brains to find a way to shake him off. Between them existed merely a piece of paper recording a marriage contract, and Qing Ling had never bothered to conceal his reluctance, yet,
Shang Zhangheng glanced sideways at the spiked awl resting on the table. The layer upon layer of icy coldness and venom piling up within his eyes deepened further, mixed with an indescribable, bitter reluctance that churned and roiled together into towering bloody waves. Chaotic, fragmented memories gradually coalesced into a vivid, clear picture.
A chaotic era, starving people, bleached bones, struggle, and utter despair.
Shang Zhangheng slowly began to smile, a smile twisted with sinister, fierce malice.
Listening to it, Qing Ling felt his hair stand completely on end.