Chapter 14: He Is a Spirit Master

I watched from the sidelines, feeling a growing sense of anxiety. Yet, beneath the worry, there was an undeniable thrill; seeing the figure in the black dress summon a pack of wild dogs with a single flute note made me wonder how the old man who had cast himself into the lake would respond.

Unexpectedly, the old man remained rooted to the spot, standing as still as if he were waiting for the dogs to pounce.

I broke out into a cold sweat, nearly shouting out loud in my desperation. But then, something truly bizarre happened—something beyond anything I could have ever imagined.

The figure in the black dress stood with his back to me, so I could not see his expression. However, I could sense a smug, cold sneer radiating from him. As he played, he would occasionally emit a cold snort. Opposite him, the old man stood with his hands behind his back, watching him nonchalantly, a faint smile gracing his own face.

Neither spoke; only the mournful, eerie sound of the flute echoed through the mountains.

Behind the old man, the pack of wild dogs went mad, charging toward him with reckless abandon. But just as the dogs reached him and lunged, the old man simply vanished into thin air.

I was certain I hadn't misseen it. He had vanished, right there on the spot. A living, breathing human being, gone in an instant.

I gasped, a chill running down my spine, hair standing on end. This old man was far more cryptic than I had imagined.

The figure in the black dress was equally stunned, the flute music cutting off abruptly. He lowered the instrument, but rather than frantically scanning the area, he remained eerily calm.

"Old man of the lake, I told you that you were past your prime, but you wouldn't believe me. Do you think I don't know your tricks? It was nothing more than a simple illusionary substitute. Your parlor tricks might fool the eyes, but they cannot deceive their noses." As he spoke, he gestured toward the pack of wild dogs nearby.

The dogs seemed to receive his command; they began to howl in unison, then scattered, tearing through the mountainside in a frantic search.

Seeing the confidence with which the figure in the black dress spoke, I couldn't help but worry for the old man. Even though he had been dismissive of me, we were, at the very least, acquaintances. I didn't know who this person in black was, but the thought of the old man falling into his hands left a heavy, uncomfortable weight in my heart.

Yet, there was nothing I could do but watch, helpless.

I scanned the wild, rugged terrain. The dogs were completely deranged now, sniffing incessantly everywhere they went. A few were even biting at rocks and tree trunks.

This was bad. If the old man was truly hiding nearby, even if he had used an illusion to disguise himself as a stone, he would surely be dragged out eventually. My anxiety deepened.

What could I do? Was there any way to break the black-clad figure's control over the dogs? I ransacked my memory for the contents of the "Ghost Arts," but while it contained techniques for controlling corpses, there was nothing on controlling dogs. I was frantic, sweat pouring down my face.

Just then, two of the dogs ferociously charged at a large tree and sank their teeth into the trunk. Suddenly, the tree let out a deep, elderly cry of pain. I snapped my head up to look; an aged face had appeared on the bark. In the next heartbeat, the trunk morphed into a human torso, and the branches transformed into limbs.

The tree had become the old man.

Seeing him exposed and pinned by the dogs, his limbs clamped in their jaws, my heart jumped into my throat.

As soon as he was revealed, the dogs on the mountainside went into a frenzy. All of them charged toward him simultaneously, jaws wide and snapping, viciously biting into his body.

I couldn't bear to watch any longer and lowered my head. It was truly unfathomable—a master of his caliber, meeting such an end.

Suddenly, just as I looked away, a crisp, sharp note from a flute pierced the air. I looked up to see the figure in the black dress holding the flute to his lips once more.

Across the clearing, the pack of wild dogs froze, their heads raised and ears pricked, listening with an eerie, obedient stillness. On the ground, the old man lay covered in blood and deathly pale, though he was still breathing.

I let out a sigh of relief and wiped the cold sweat from my face. Thank goodness, he was still alive. As long as there was a breath left in him, there was a chance. I searched my mind for the "Ghost Arts" again.

My eyes remained locked on the figure in the black dress. He had lowered his flute and was now walking slowly toward the old man.

"Old man of the lake, where did your illusions go? You couldn't hide forever, could you? Tell me, how does this feel?"

The old man’s gaze remained cold and sharp. Though his body trembled uncontrollably, there was not a trace of pleading on his face. "You junior, if I have fallen into your hands today, I have nothing to say. If you want to kill me, just do it. Why all this empty chatter?"

"You're at death's door and still so stubborn. I can't let you die just yet; death would be too easy for you." As he spoke, the figure in the black dress pulled a dagger from his robes.

He approached the old man slowly and plunged the blade into his calf. The old man’s face drained of all color, his body wracked with tremors.

The figure in the black dress gestured to one of the dogs, which immediately looked up, alert. He pointed to the old man’s wounded leg, and the dog lunged, beginning to lap up the blood flowing from the gash.

"Do you know who I am, you old fool?" The figure grabbed the old man by the collar, staring at him with malice.

The old man on the ground lifted his head, his face ghastly, beads of cold sweat clinging to his skin, yet he did not utter a single groan.

Seeing this, I lowered my head once more, unable to bear the sight. My mind raced, panic setting in, sweat stinging my eyes. But I was merely a novice—if even the old man had fallen to this person, wouldn't I be throwing my life away?

Yet, I refused to give up. As long as he was still alive, wasn't there a chance?

I clenched my fists tight, thinking desperately. Suddenly, a thought struck me. How could I have forgotten? The "Ghost Arts" might not have had a method for controlling dogs, but when I was a child, my father had taught me a technique for it—one that supposedly came from my grandfather.

At that thought, I turned and plucked a leaf from a nearby branch. Following the memory from my childhood, I began to softly whistle the dog-herding melody. The moment the sound left my lips, the pack of wild dogs across the clearing suddenly lifted their heads. They were reacting.