Chapter Fifteen: The Haunted Village on the Barren Mountain, The Corpse of Lady Yu

Han Chong emerged from the cave, his expression grave.

“What happened?” Cold Moon asked with a frown of suspicion.

“It seems that wretch disguised himself as a vicious spirit to scare off the porters, hid the bride in this tomb, and violated her. The woman has been driven mad with terror—you must help her out.”

Upon hearing this, Cold Moon’s face turned icy, her willow brows arching sharply as she trembled with rage. Without hesitation, she drove her sword straight through the filthy brute’s chest, wiped the blood off on his body, sheathed her blade, and entered the cave without a word.

Han Chong was slightly startled, not expecting such lethal decisiveness from this woman. Still, he said nothing as she helped the terrified, deranged bride out.

Han Chong kicked the corpse into the grave, set the tombstone upright, and left it as the man’s own burial mound.

The bride, shrouded in a black cloak, was led away by the pair, but instead of returning toward the county office, they made for the northern market town of Stone Canal.

Their pace was slow, and silence lingered between them. Only by late morning did they arrive at the Song family’s residence, where the bride was returned.

Just as they were about to leave, Han Chong abruptly halted, his eyes narrowing. In the mountain village northeast of the town, he sensed a faint trace of ghostly energy.

“What is it now?”

Cold Moon gazed in the direction Han Chong was looking but saw nothing unusual.

“There’s something strange in that village,” Han Chong replied with certainty.

“Oh? Let’s go and see.” The distance was vast—she could not sense anything from so far away.

The village lay at least a hundred miles from the town, nestled halfway up a range of black mountains that stretched for hundreds of miles, their jagged backs like the spines of wild beasts.

Quickening their pace, it took them two hours to reach the village’s outskirts.

Cold Moon’s eyes glinted with white light as she invoked her spirit-gazing art. Indeed, the village was shrouded in a dense miasma of ghostly energy.

She exchanged a glance with Han Chong, both recognizing the perplexity in the other’s eyes.

“How could the ghostly air here be so heavy? What has happened?”

“Let’s go in and see,” Han Chong said, taking a deep breath. Since fate had brought them here, they had to get to the bottom of this.

The village had perhaps a hundred households, but every door was shut tight; the lanes were deserted, not even the sound of a chicken or a barking dog broke the silence.

As they reached the village square, all at once every door swung open!

Hundreds of villagers, faces bloodless and arms stiff, surged out of their homes and surrounded Han Chong and Cold Moon.

“How can this be? Has everyone in the village died?” Cold Moon said in a low cry, drawing her sword.

“They’re possessed! But where did such a horde of vengeful spirits come from?”

Han Chong’s expression darkened, and he and Cold Moon stood back-to-back, swords at the ready.

“Wait—let me handle this!”

Just as Cold Moon was about to act, Han Chong stopped her and, with a pat to his storage pouch, drew forth the Ghost-Bane Peachwood Sword.

These were still villagers, merely possessed; if Cold Moon struck, she would kill them all. Better to try the peachwood sword, renowned as the bane of evil spirits.

As Han Chong infused the sword with his vital energy, blood-red runes shimmered along the yellow wood, pulsing with life and radiance.

The possessed villagers shrieked in terror, recoiling rather than advancing.

Han Chong moved among them, tapping or striking each frenzied villager with the sword.

In the blink of an eye, those struck by the peachwood sword collapsed to the ground, black smoke streaming from their bodies, unconscious but freed from the spirits.

Within the time it takes for a stick of incense to burn, Han Chong had dispatched every possessed villager, leaving bodies strewn about the village square.

Those struck first slowly awoke, dazed but no longer tormented by ghostly possession.

Yet dozens would never wake again—their essence drained by too long a possession.

Even so, Cold Moon felt relief in her heart. Had Han Chong not intervened, she might have slain hundreds of innocents.

She was astonished that Han Chong not only knew exorcism arts but wielded such a potent peachwood sword—the spirits had cowered from it as if before the King of Hell himself!

Han Chong was breathing hard; he, too, had not expected such power from the Ghost-Bane Peachwood Sword. Still, the effort had cost him nearly half his vital energy—about six points with each breath.

Just then, a chill wind rose from the mountainside behind the village, as if some monstrous spirit were clawing its way out.

Han Chong’s brow furrowed. If a vengeful spirit attacked now, the surviving villagers would be doomed. Exchanging glances with Cold Moon, they raced toward the source.

They soon reached a grand stone manor built before the mountain wall—the largest in the village.

The main hall’s doors gaped open, billows of black mist pouring forth, the wind howling with ever-louder shrieks.

They waited, but no spirit emerged; it was most peculiar.

“What now?” Cold Moon asked gravely, looking to Han Chong.

“We go in.”

Han Chong led the way, breathing a jet of flame to scatter the black mist, revealing the hall’s interior.

At its center yawned a great round hole, abyssal and still seething with black vapor; the shrieks came from within.

Mounds of earth and stone flanked the pit.

“This was just dug—a thieves’ tunnel!” Han Chong and Cold Moon exchanged glances, both suspicious. If spirits had clawed out, the earth should have spilled outside, not been heaped within.

Han Chong hurled a boulder into the hole—the crash was followed by an even louder chorus of ghostly cries.

“The tunnel is deep, but these spirits neither emerge nor retreat. Are they afraid, or is there another reason?”

Han Chong spat a plume of fire into the darkness, clearing more of the mist.

“Shall we go down?” Cold Moon hesitated—this place was steeped in ominous power, danger and fortune impossible to foresee.

Han Chong pondered. If they merely sealed the tunnel, future disaster might ensue. Better to investigate, especially with the Ghost-Bane Peachwood Sword in hand.

“We go down!”

Cold Moon produced a rope, tying it to a ceiling beam and dropping it into the pit.

Han Chong gripped the rope and descended, sword in hand; Cold Moon closed the door behind them and followed.

Ten fathoms down, Han Chong landed and spat fire to light the horizontal tunnel ahead.

Within lurked dozens of armored ghost-soldiers, and a formidable ghost commander clad in chain and plate.

The ghostly host cowered at the sight of the peachwood sword, yet did not retreat an inch.

Nor did they attack—an eerie standoff.

Teeth clenched, Han Chong surged forward, sword flashing, flames spewing from his mouth, felling a dozen ghost-soldiers in moments.

The ghostly commander howled, shielding the remaining soldiers, fighting to the death.

Pressed to the limit, the ghost-soldiers launched a desperate counterattack.

Han Chong fought with fierce resolve, stabbing and slashing without pause, his vital energy draining swiftly until he finally stood before the ghost commander.

The commander howled wildly, swinging a pitch-black axe at the peachwood sword, but the blade severed the weapon in a single stroke.

With a final, frenzied roar, the commander lunged. Han Chong spat blue fire, burning the spirit amid agonized screams, and at last struck it down with the peachwood sword.

[Ding! Congratulations, host, you have slain an Armored Ghost Commander!]

“How strange—the commander fought to the death, though he knew he was outmatched, as if ordered to hold this ground at all costs,” Cold Moon mused.

“Let’s look deeper—something is amiss,” Han Chong agreed, his eyes sharp with resolve, advancing step by step.

Bones crunched underfoot; after only a few miles, the tomb passage was littered with thousands of skeletons.

The walls bore carvings of dragons and phoenixes—markings of a royal tomb, without doubt.

Yet, for all those miles, not a single ghost or spirit barred their path.

Only upon reaching the central chamber did they find more ghost commanders, each guarding a side chamber overflowing with gold, silver, pearls, and jade—the floor itself was blanketed with treasures.

For the first time, Han Chong truly understood what tomb riches meant.

And this was not yet the main burial chamber; should the entire tomb be looted, it could rival a small nation’s annual tax revenue, or fund an army for years.

As they debated whether to attack the guardians, a cacophony of ghostly shrieks and monstrous roars echoed through the tunnels, the sounds of furious battle.

Among them, one ghostly scream was mightier by far than the fallen commander’s—at least tenfold. And it was unmistakably the wail of a female ghost.

Han Chong and Cold Moon exchanged a look, both recalling the county magistrate’s tale of the grand tomb of Lady Yu, the county’s most illustrious consort.

Only such a tomb would be buried with so many soldiers and such vast riches.

But if Lady Yu herself had become a vengeful ghost or corpse, who then was battling her in the depths? And if these formidable commanders merely guarded the outer chambers, did it mean the true contenders were even stronger?

Cold Moon felt a surge of dread, tugging Han Chong’s sleeve in silent warning to retreat.

It was daunting enough to face the ghost commanders, let alone those even more powerful.

Han Chong checked his vital energy—only 150 points remained, enough for just six uses of his mid-level demon-slaying art.

Yet as they turned to flee, calamity erupted.

Four monstrous apparitions burst from the distant passage, fleeing at top speed—whatever pursued them was beyond terrifying.

Han Chong and Cold Moon stared, stunned, for among them slithered a white serpent, astonishingly similar to the Lady of White Jade they had encountered before.

How could she be here?

Her companions were no less strange: a tiger-headed humanoid, much like the legendary Chang Ghost; a gigantic armored pangolin with hooked claws; and a towering, blade-wielding skeleton.

These four, ghost or beast, were wild-eyed with terror, and though they glimpsed Han Chong and Cold Moon, they paid them no heed, dashing headlong to the side.

A chill ran through Han Chong and Cold Moon—if such creatures were so terrified, what manner of horror pursued them?

There was no time for thought; the two turned and fled as well, glancing back.

Moments later, the dreadful, commanding wail of the female ghost resounded once more. They looked back, and a chill gripped their souls.

She wore a phoenix crown and crimson robes, golden-jade burial garments before her, a golden sword at her hip, black radiance swirling about her, making her seem the very goddess of ghosts.

Yet her face was that of a pallid, withered corpse, devoid of any princely beauty.

Her eyes gleamed like emeralds, her breath misted with chilling ghostly energy, and she drifted forward like a specter.

It was not her appearance that terrified them—they had seen much in their time—but the sheer intensity of her ghostly power, tenfold that of any commander, radiating an aura of overwhelming might.

All the ghostly commanders and soldiers prostrated themselves at her arrival, not daring to breathe in her presence.