Chapter Three: In an Unjust World, Resentful Spirits Are Born

Outside the door, spring light was in full bloom. Liaochen, the young Daoist, had packed up the sacred implements, carrying the ancestral peachwood sword in his hands, and followed his master, Daoist Mingwei, down the mountain.

After traveling more than ten miles, they came upon Zhu Family Village, only to find something amiss. When a matron of a wealthy household passes away, shouldn’t the whole village rush over, wailing loudly to demonstrate their deep affection and exemplary filial piety—and perhaps to seize the chance for a good meal? Yet today, everyone’s faces looked strange.

Reaching the eastern end of the village, they saw an imposing mansion of blue bricks and black tiles, decked out in white banners, paper streamers, and lanterns for mourning. But no one had come to grieve.

The master and disciple headed straight for the mansion.

“Stop,” the master suddenly yanked Liaochen back, his expression more grave than ever before.

“Hand me the sandalwood box,” Daoist Xuanguang said.

Liaochen hurriedly opened the bundle and produced a wooden box. This was his master’s treasured possession, said to be left by the founder Lü Chunyang—Lü Dongbin himself—though Liaochen had never seen it opened, and his curiosity had long been piqued. Why had he never encountered such a thing in his previous life? Yet his master guarded it closely, so Liaochen never knew what lay within.

Daoist Xuanguang opened the box with solemn care. Inside was a single copper coin. He took it out and placed it in Liaochen's hand. “Before your grandmaster passed, he cast a divination for me. He foresaw a great calamity in my fate. I am forty-eight this year and did not expect it to come to pass now. Alas, after forty years of cultivating the Dao, I have achieved nothing. If things go awry, hang this coin around your neck and return to the mountain alone.”

“Ah!” Liaochen jumped, seeing his master was not jesting. In a panic, he cried, “Master, what’s happening? Please don’t frighten your disciple like this!”

His master gave a bitter smile. “I thought, in these degenerate times, there would be no more monsters or demons. Who would have thought such evil would arise in this tiny village? I cannot guarantee our safe return. From now on, you will be the abbot. Do not forget my words: abide by the righteous path, uphold the Dao, cultivate your heart, and pass down the tradition.”

“Master, is there really a ghost ahead? Let’s just leave. Even if we forfeit this job, we won’t lack for food,” Liaochen pleaded, grasping his master’s hand, eager to return to the mountain.

“Sigh, if fate decrees this calamity, how can hiding on the mountain avert it? Should this disaster come to pass, in seven nights the dead will return, and for a hundred miles around, all will become a realm of ghosts!”

“But master, if the evil is that fierce, surely some great expert will come to deal with it. We’re not up to the task,” Liaochen insisted, caring for nothing else. Since arriving in this world, the old Daoist had raised him as both teacher and father. Here, he had no one else, and he couldn’t let his master risk his life. As for others—what did their fate matter to him? If the world was doomed to ghosts, he would simply run far away. If things grew grave, surely the real masters from Wudang or the Celestial Masters of Dragon-Tiger Mountain would come. What did it have to do with their humble temple?

“Master, we know our own strength. Let’s just go home, or find a true expert to help!” Liaochen clung stubbornly to his master. In all his six or seven years in this world, he had never seen the old Daoist capture a ghost—perhaps simply out of ignorance. Why leap into a trap?

“Fool! As Daoists, how can we run from danger? To slay demons, subdue evil, and protect the peace of the mortal world is our duty—how can we turn away?”

Liaochen was stunned; his master, who usually cheated at chess and refused to admit defeat in wagers, had never seemed so lofty.

“Come along. Sooner or later, a cultivator must confront such matters. There’s much you can learn,” the master said. He took the coin from Liaochen, threaded it with a red string, murmured protective incantations, then hung it around Liaochen’s neck. Taking the peachwood sword, he pulled Liaochen along, striding resolutely towards the mansion.

At the gates, they found a crowd of “filial sons and worthy grandsons” standing outside. Within the open gates, the mourning hall was arrayed in white, but the deceased was nowhere to be seen.

As the two approached, a plump middle-aged man stepped out from among the mourners—it was Master Zhu himself. Upon seeing Daoist Mingwei, he clutched his hand, weeping, “Daoist, thank goodness you’ve come! My mother passed away at midnight the night before last, but refuses to close her eyes or let anyone approach. We can’t even change her burial robes! Several maids tried to wash her, but the moment they touched her, they collapsed, unconscious. Now, no one dares enter her room. Last night, everyone heard her crying from within—so terrifying!”

As Master Zhu spoke, a crowd of weeping descendants gathered round, all begging the venerable Daoist to save them, to let the old lady return to dust and earth, and not linger to haunt her family.

“If you had known this would happen, why act as you did?” Daoist Xuanguang snorted. This Master Zhu was no filial son, and had married a spiteful wife. Clearly, the old lady died with grievances. Did they think outsiders knew nothing?

“Yes, yes,” Master Zhu replied awkwardly, pulling out two large silver ingots and slipping them into Liaochen’s hands—a substantial sum. Today, even this miserly iron rooster had shed his feathers.

“Liaochen, let’s go in,” Mingwei said, and, seeing the silver, picked up the peachwood sword and compass and strode inside with his disciple.

The entire mansion was deserted, save for the coffin in the main hall, already prepared, though the old lady’s body was absent. Clearly, she still lay in her own room; no one dared move her.

Daoist Xuanguang, compass in hand, walked silently through the main hall to the back courtyard. As they entered a small side yard, the compass needle trembled violently. He sighed. “We’re here.” He pushed open the door.

Inside, an old woman lay on a battered bed. The quilt was torn apart, her withered hands gripping the bedframe, eyes wide open in death—a truly ghastly sight. Most chilling of all, blood had seeped from the corners of her eyes.

Liaochen followed his master inside and immediately shivered. Outside, spring was in bloom, but within, the room was bitterly cold.

“Alas, madam,” Daoist Xuanguang bowed. “Dust returns to dust, earth to earth. Yin and yang are separate—why linger? All have their own karma. Heaven is ever just. By clinging to this world for one last breath, you refuse rebirth, doomed to wander as a lonely ghost, until your soul is scattered—why bring such suffering upon yourself?”

“Madam, the world has its rules. Since you belong to the nether realm, I, a humble Daoist of forty years’ cultivation, shall perform rites for your passing, building a bridge for your rebirth on the forty-ninth day, promising you wealth and honor, peace and harmony in your next life. What say you?” Daoist Xuanguang sought to persuade the ghost, for unless absolutely necessary, he would not use force, as it would harm his spiritual merit. He spoke at length, making many promises, but the old lady’s eyes would not close. Sweat beaded on Daoist Xuanguang’s brow; clearly, this matter would not end easily.

“The unfilial will face heaven’s wrath. I am willing to petition the local City God on your behalf—your grievances will be judged fairly. When their lifespans are spent, the magistrates of the nether world will grant you justice. Will this suffice?”

At these words, the old lady’s eyes gradually closed, and the chill in the room seemed to lessen. Daoist Xuanguang and Liaochen prepared to summon the family to begin the funeral rites—when suddenly, a middle-aged woman burst in. With thin eyelids and prominent cheekbones, she bore the look of meanness. With no regard for propriety, and heaven knows what courage, she stormed in and began to berate Daoist Xuanguang: “You wretched Daoist! What business is this of yours? The old hag is dead, let her be dead! If you have the skill, destroy her spirit for all I care! Taking our silver and threatening to sue me in the underworld—have you no shame? I’ll have men smash your shabby temple to bits…” Raising her hand, she jabbed a finger at the Daoist’s nose, about to continue, when the old lady’s eyes snapped open and the room was engulfed in icy gloom.

Seeing this, Daoist Xuanguang was enraged. He struck away the woman’s hand, scolding, “Your lack of filial piety and virtue is plain for all to see! The old lady had already agreed to sever all ties between yin and yang, and now you, wretch, have ruined everything. Tonight she will become a vengeful ghost, a demon of wrath—none in your family or this village will survive!”

“Ah!” The woman was so frightened by Daoist Xuanguang’s words that she dared not make another scene, staring at the master and disciple in utter terror.

“Alas, calamities wrought by heaven may be forgiven, but those brought on oneself cannot be escaped,” Daoist Xuanguang sighed deeply.

“What now? What now?” the woman wailed. “Daoist, you can’t just walk away! Name your price, I’ll pay anything—just don’t abandon us!” Only now did she show fear, forgetting how she’d eavesdropped and thrown a tantrum just moments before.

Daoist Xuanguang said nothing, his face dark as he strode toward the door—only to find, outside, a dense crowd kneeling.

“Daoist, you mustn’t leave us! Since yesterday, we’ve summoned every priest and exorcist in the area, all to no avail. Pity us, pity our village—we cannot escape this doom!” The elders, women, and children of the village knelt, blocking the way, begging the Daoist for mercy.

“What use is it now? If only you had spoken up in the past when you saw injustice—would things have come to this? Among kin and clan, is there no justice?” Daoist Xuanguang said bitterly.

The crowd remained silent, weeping, refusing to move. Liaochen grew anxious—these people never did good, yet now they wanted his master to shield them from disaster. How could this be right? He tried to pull his master away, but could not budge him.

Daoist Mingwei, his face filled with sorrow, sighed, “Heaven is impartial; there will always be justice. Though you have not earned the merit of good deeds, the innocent should not suffer such calamity. Enough—let me bear this disaster.”