The forest after rain was heavy with damp, suffocating air. Droplets clung to ancient leaves, sliding from their tips, while slugs traced silver trails along the veins.
After the curse was dispelled, Shen Xiyin sat slumped against an old tree, drained and drowsy. Through the thin inner robe, faint marks lingered along the inside of her thigh. Her skin was too soft, too fragile. The curse etched there had long resisted removal—driven away only to return again, like wild grass sprouting anew with spring winds. Repeated attempts left unavoidable traces.
Pei Su turned his gaze aside and retied the loosened sash of her gown. She had not yet recovered. Fine sweat still beaded her brow, her breath uneven, warm and damp as it slipped past her parted lips, brushing lightly against the back of his hand. He withdrew, rose, and walked away.
Night descended. After the rain, dust settled, clouds dispersed, and a clear full moon hung in the sky.
But once darkness fell over Mount Bujun, thick fog surged, veiling clouds and moon alike. Though summer had come, the clammy mist seeped into sleeves, stirring an unnatural chill.
The Immortal Residence here was ringed by sheer cliffs. Below lay a bottomless abyss. Entry and exit required sword-flight—but in this dense fog, flying was impossible. In other words, those within could not leave, and those outside could not enter.
Pei Ling was sending word to Pei Daoqian through a paper crane, reporting the sudden appearance of evil spirits in the mountain. Mid-message, the crane’s glow dimmed. Pei Daoqian’s voice broke through only long enough to say, “Be cautious in all things,” before fading away.
No matter how he tried, Pei Ling could not rouse the crane again. He had meant to ask after the clan head, but now even that was impossible.
The memorial began with the tolling of the mountain bell.
Disciples of Mount Bujun guided sects from every path of the mystic world, leading them one by one into the mourning hall.
As they neared the hall, Pei Ling glanced outside. A few disciples of Mount Bujun were gathered in twos and threes, compass in hand, searching for traces of the evil spirit. It seemed they had yet to find anything.
Pei Jun patted his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go in quickly. Don’t miss the rites.”
Pei Ling answered softly and followed.
Inside the mourning hall, candlelight blazed. A gust of wind swept through the open doors, making the flames flicker and the room shift between light and shadow.
At the front lay an open coffin. Within rested Master Yun Xu, master of Wangyue Manor. Once a famed cultivator of the mystic world, now his glory was gone. Dead for over a month, his body was half-decayed, flesh rotted to reveal bone, his former face and bearing long unrecognizable.
The coffin was plastered with talismans to ward off decay and bind the soul. Beside him lay jade antiques and treasures, glowing with spiritual light—rare artifacts that proclaimed his exalted status.
The rites began. Pei Jun looked toward the coffin and noticed Qu Crooked-Mouth standing in the central place among the dead man’s kin and friends. That position was usually reserved for closest family or dearest companions. Yet this man was neither.
Pei Jun muttered in surprise, “Why is he there?”
Xie Yusheng whispered back, “The head of the Qu family of Luling was once a close friend of our master. He sent his son here in his stead.”
Pei Jun gave a quiet “Oh,” and let it go. He glanced at Pei Ling, unusually silent, staring fixedly at the patch of roof tiles above the coffin—old and new, mismatched.
Pei Jun frowned. “Do you find it beautiful?”
Pei Ling replied bluntly, “Ugly.”
Pei Jun was speechless. “Then why keep staring?”
Pei Ling said nothing. He only felt that the repaired tiles above the coffin carried a strange, unsettling discord, prickling at the heart.
Outside, the wind rose, rattling the window frames of the hall. Tree shadows swayed ceaselessly against the paper panes. In a daze, it seemed as though something rushed into Pei Ling’s mind like a sudden gale. Above the coffin—the newly patched tiles, the disciples struck by evil after the storm, the burial treasures, the young cultivator obsessed with jade antiques.
Pei Ling’s pupils suddenly contracted. “Something’s wrong!” His shout rang out, jarring in the mourning hall’s silence. All eyes turned toward him.
Pei Jun was deeply unsettled. Pei Ling was known for caution; even his uncle, who rarely praised anyone, had commended his measured conduct. For him to cry out and interrupt a memorial rite was utterly unlike his nature.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Pei Ling had no time to explain. He urged urgently, “Run—quickly! Don’t stay in the hall!”
The assembled cultivators exchanged bewildered looks. None moved. Amid the murmurs, one voice rang out, dripping with mockery: “The memorial is not yet over, and already you’re eager to flee? Is this the vaunted courtesy of the Pei clan?”
It was none other than the eldest son of the Qu family of Luling, standing at the coffin’s front.
Pei Ling ignored him. He turned instead to Luo Xuan and cried, “Seal the coffin—hurry!”
Luo Xuan did not understand why he spoke so, and hesitated. “But the rites are not yet complete. To seal the coffin now would be disrespectful.”
Pei Ling’s face was grave. “Which matters more—human lives or ritual?”
“Lives, of course,” Luo Xuan replied.
“Then act quickly.”
Still, Luo Xuan wavered. “But…”
The situation was too urgent to delay. Pei Ling shouted, “The most poisonous, most sinister evil spirit in this mountain is lying in that coffin right now!”
The hall fell silent at once, the murmurs cut off, leaving an eerie stillness.
The one in the coffin had once been the righteous leader who drove out countless evils, a man of virtue and renown. How could such a figure ever be linked with the word *evil*?
Into that dead hush, Pei Ling’s voice rang out again: “Why have the disciples tried every method to banish the spirit, yet it persists? Because the spirit is something they would never think to touch.”
A chill wind surged through the open doors, tearing at the talismans pasted on the coffin.
“The three disciples who died possessed—besides being of the same sect and meeting the spirit at midnight—shared one more thing in common. Before their deaths, they all went to the mourning hall. They all drew near Master Yun Xu’s corpse.”
Standing silently at the side until now, Xie Yusheng finally spoke: “If you mean the first disciple who died suddenly, that much is true. He tended to our master’s daily needs, and before his death he did indeed come into contact with the body. But what of the second and third?”
He paused, then pressed further: “The second disciple died while guarding the mourning hall that night. Yet many disciples have kept vigil there—why was it only he who met with disaster?”
Pei Ling replied, “Ordinary disciples on watch usually remain at the front of the hall, seldom approaching the coffin. And even if they do, it is most often in daylight, when the sun’s yang energy is strong, making it harder for evil to invade. But the second disciple was different.”
“That night, a storm raged until nearly midnight. The rain broke the tiles above the coffin, and water leaked down, soaking it. A disciple devoted to his master would, once the rain ceased, do one thing without fail.”
Pei Jun understood. “Clean his master’s coffin.”
Pei Ling nodded. “Exactly. And so, at the very hour when yin energy was strongest, he drew near the evil spirit—and was infected.”
At that moment, the disciple who had earlier guided them spoke up:
“But what about Brother Lu—the third who died? He neither kept vigil nor approached the master’s body.”
Pei Ling’s gaze shifted slowly toward the coffin. “No. He did.”
“When the disciple who relieved the night watch returned to his quarters, he found Lu not far from the mourning hall. Yet the dormitories lie far from here. At the third watch of the night, most were already asleep in their rooms. Why was he there?”
A cultivator in the hall echoed the question: “Why indeed?”
Xie Yusheng pondered aloud: “Because of the jade antiques.”
Pei Ling answered firmly, “Exactly so.”
“Master Yun Xu, like that disciple, was fond of collecting antiques and jade curios, among them several rare and precious treasures. Those very treasures now lie within his coffin as burial offerings.”
At his words, everyone’s eyes shifted toward the coffin and the gleaming artifacts within.
“That disciple, obsessed with jade and antiques, could hardly have resisted an interest in Master Yun Xu’s collection. Yet the master cherished those treasures deeply and rarely showed them. After his death, they were sealed away with his body in the coffin. With disciples keeping vigil day and night, the young man had no chance to approach them, and besides, such an act would have been a grave offense against his teacher. So he hesitated, unable to act.”
Pei Ling’s tone darkened. “But soon those treasures would be buried forever with Master Yun Xu. He feared he would never have another chance to see them.” With a sigh, he continued, “On the eve of the memorial, his desire overcame him. At midnight, when the watch changed and the guards grew lax, he slipped into the mourning hall. He feasted his eyes on the burial treasures—but in doing so, he was possessed by the evil spirit and lost his life.”
The hall fell heavy with silence, faces clouded with dread. Yet one voice broke through with a mocking laugh: “All this is nothing but your conjecture. No proof at all—just slandering the departed master…”
It was, of course, the arrogant young heir of the Qu family of Luling. But before he could finish, the wide-open doors of the mourning hall slammed shut.
The echo of the closing reverberated through the hall. Everyone held their breath. Then, in the deathly stillness, came a chilling sound: a knocking from within the coffin. The noise sent a shiver through every heart. Almost at once, a half-rotted human hand thrust out from the coffin’s edge. The hand crept along the lid, then lunged forward. Before anyone could react, it pierced straight through the chest of the man standing at the front.
The arrogant heir, moments ago so full of bluster, fell silent forever. Blood gushed from the wound, splattering across the floor, the stench of iron filling the air.
It was too late now to seal the coffin. On the night of the full moon, the evil spirit rose from within, and chaos erupted in the mourning hall.
While turmoil raged at Mount Bujun, the Enchantment Maze remained eerily quiet.
In the dim moonlight, Pei Su lit a bonfire beside an ancient tree. Damp air steamed upward in the glow.
Shen Xiyin had yet to awaken. She seemed lost in dreams, her cheeks flushed, breath uneven. In her half-conscious state, words slipped from her lips: “Respected elder… don’t…”
Pei Su’s hand, which had just broken a spell, clenched and then released. The branch he held to stir the fire snapped cleanly in two.