Before dawn broke, Zhang Jiuxuan, Lin Weiyao, and the captured sorcerer drove north toward the abandoned tin mines that sat deep in Penang’s central hills.
The road grew rough and overgrown, the trees pressing in so close they blotted out most of the sky.
The air turned thick and still, carrying the faint stench of rot and stagnant water.
“This way,” the sorcerer mumbled, his head hanging low.
“The main altar is built inside the deepest shaft.
They’ve been gathering leftover mine workers’ bones for months.” Lin Weiyao gripped the steering wheel tight.
“These mines closed fifty years ago.
No one has been down there in decades.” “Exactly,” Zhang Jiuxuan said, stepping out of the car and slipping his flip-flops back on.
“Old tunnels hold old grievances.
Perfect for feeding a curse.” They walked past rusted rail tracks and collapsed wooden sheds until they reached the mouth of the main shaft.
Thick black smoke seeped from the dark opening, and a low, rhythmic chant echoed up from far below.
“Stay here,” Zhang Jiuxuan told Lin Weiyao.
“If anything comes out that isn’t me, don’t look at it.
Just turn around and run.” He grabbed a handful of yellow talismans from his pocket, tossed one into the air, and stepped into the gloom.
The moment his foot touched the first step, the chanting stopped.
Dozens of pairs of glowing red eyes opened in the dark.
Skeletal figures draped in tattered rags crawled up the tunnel walls, their bones clicking and grinding as they moved.
Sharpened iron spikes jutted from their forearms—old mining tools, twisted into weapons by black magic.
“Bone guards,” Zhang Jiuxuan muttered.
“Pathetic puppets.” He snapped his fingers, and the talismans flared to life.
Golden lines shot through the air, wrapping around every skeleton in turn.
The bone guards froze, then shattered into dust one after another, the iron spikes clattering harmlessly on the stone floor.
He walked deeper, the tunnel opening into a vast cavern lit only by guttering torches that burned with green flame.
In the center stood a stone altar piled high with skulls and broken bones, and behind it, three robed figures stood waiting.
One was a tall Malay man with a face covered in swirling tattoos; another was an old Indian woman holding a staff carved from human bone; the last was a Chinese man in a black silk robe, his eyes cold and sharp.
“Little rat thinks he can break our work?” the tattooed man growled.
“This mine has drunk enough blood to birth a hundred curses!” “Not a rat,” Zhang Jiuxuan said calmly.
“A janitor.
And I’m here to sweep your filth away.” The old woman slammed her staff on the ground.
The cavern shook, and sharp bone spikes burst from the floor all around him.
Zhang Jiuxuan didn’t jump—he simply traced a circle in the air with his finger, and the spikes turned to soft sand before they could touch him.
The Chinese man stepped forward, pulling a jagged dagger from his belt.
“I know your kind, Taoist.
You care too much for the living.
We can bury a thousand bodies here, and no one will ever find them.
Starting with you.” He slashed the dagger through the air, and a wave of cold mist rushed forward.
Where it touched, stone turned black and crumbled.
Zhang Jiuxuan sighed.
“You’ve forgotten what the sun feels like.” He lifted one hand, and a beam of pure golden light shot down from the cavern ceiling—piercing straight through rock and earth as if nothing stood in its way.
The mist evaporated instantly, the dagger glowed red-hot and melted in the man’s grip, and the three sorcerers fell to their knees, screaming as the light burned the curse marks from their skin.
“This formation feeds on death,” Zhang Jiuxuan said, walking toward the altar.
“So I brought it life.” He placed his palm on the stone altar.
Golden fire spread outward, burning away every trace of black magic, turning the pile of skulls to fine ash that drifted away like dust.
When the light faded, the three sorcerers lay gasping on the floor, their power completely gone.
“The temple on the hill,” Zhang Jiuxuan said.
“Who is waiting there?” The tattooed man swallowed hard.
“The… the High Priest himself.
He brought something from across the sea.
A piece of a broken seal.
He says it will wake the old ones before the moon turns full.” Zhang Jiuxuan nodded.
He turned and walked back toward the tunnel entrance, leaving the three powerless men where they lay.
Outside, the sun had finally risen, spilling warm light over the hills.
Lin Weiyao rushed forward, eyes wide.
“Master!
You’re unhurt!” “The easy part’s done,” Zhang Jiuxuan said, glancing toward the distant hill where an ancient Chinese temple stood silhouetted against the sky.
“Now we face the one who’s been pulling all the strings.”