Chapter Forty-Nine: The Little Imp

In the empty Mongolian yurt, there was a shrine, but instead of deities, it held more than a dozen tiny wooden coffins, each about two inches long. Affixed to each coffin was a soul-lock talisman covered in runes. If Dustless's memory served him right, this was a method used to raise little ghosts. He entered, but saw no one emerge. The scene was eerie and unsettling.

“How is it that Mongolians use the Han people's methods to raise little ghosts?” Dustless was greatly puzzled. The place bore no resemblance to the practices of Mongolian shamans or the Yellow Sect lamas.

Pressed for time, Dustless did not linger to distinguish the differences. With a sweep of his wide sleeves, he moved the shrine out of the yurt. Starlight would soon help him find the infant souls he sought among all these little coffins.

Starlight descended, but the soul of the dead infant Dustless was searching for was nowhere to be found. His expression darkened immediately. He muttered inwardly, “Could it be that fate truly wants me to bear this karmic debt?”

“If I find out who’s behind this trickery, I’ll never let them off!” Dustless, both angry and anxious, saw the morning star already shining in the eastern sky, yet he had no clue. In a burst of rage, he cast a Five Thunders Spell onto the yurt.

With a thunderous crash that echoed for miles, the yurt was instantly blasted into fragments. Dustless turned to inspect his handiwork, when suddenly his expression changed and he shouted, “Where do you think you’re going?” In the blink of an eye, he vanished from where he stood, reappearing dozens of meters away, clutching a shriveled old Mongolian man in his hand. The old man wore a filthy Mongolian robe, his hair wild and tangled, as if it had never been tended. Dustless held him, covered in dust, looking utterly wretched.

“Speak! Where did you hide those three infant souls? To be honest, raising little ghosts harms your own karma and is none of my concern—I’m too lazy to meddle. But you just had to provoke me. Those lost souls are useless for ghost-raising. Who told you to do this?” Dustless flung the old man to the ground, asking slowly.

The old man babbled in Mongolian dialect, which Dustless could not understand. Seeing the man’s inability to communicate, Dustless sighed and smiled, “Since you can’t understand me and I can’t understand you, I’ll just have to search your soul. If your spirit is damaged and you end up a fool for this life, the next, and all eternity, you can’t blame me.” With that, Dustless grabbed the old man again, his hand reaching for the crown of his head.

The old man’s face turned pale, and he cried out desperately, “Don’t! Don’t do it! I’ll talk! I’ll talk, all right?”

“Then speak! What’s going on? You’re using southern methods from the central lands to raise little ghosts, and you claim not to speak Han—who are you fooling?” Dustless saw the old man’s tearful face and couldn’t help but laugh.

The old man’s face went ashen and he sighed, “Greed truly brings nothing but trouble.” He pulled out a soul-lock talisman from his robe. Dustless took it, swept it with his spiritual sense, and finally relaxed, then stood aside to let the old man tell his tale, feigning pitifulness.

It turned out the old man was not Mongolian, but a true Han. In his youth, he apprenticed with an old master from his hometown. After the master died, he roamed the world—sometimes wealthy, sometimes destitute. His luck was always poor, and once, his spellwork failed, costing someone their life. Seeing the authorities closing in, he had no choice but to flee beyond the frontier to escape punishment. Fortunately, he knew some minor spells and many tricks of the trade, soon gaining notoriety among the Mongols. But then he suffered the shamans’ revenge; they nearly killed him, forcing him to flee in the night, wandering the steppe and occasionally taking small jobs. To protect himself from prairie bandits, he raised little ghosts to scare them off, gradually earning a reputation. No one dared trouble him anymore.

Until a few days ago, some Mongolians came to him, bringing a magical artifact made from infant bones, asking him to extract some souls from it. Though he found it odd, business was business, and he couldn’t turn away money. He followed instructions and drew out one soul and two spirits. The Mongolians saw only a wisp of blue smoke drawn out, didn’t bother to count, left some gold, and departed. The extracted souls remained with him. The old man didn’t know if those Mongolians would want the lost souls, so he kept them nearby. When Dustless flew in from outside, it startled him, thinking a powerful cultivator had come to punish him for his misdeeds. He immediately applied a concealment talisman and hid in an underground hole.

Dustless thought, “It must have been the shaman’s plan all along, knowing he might be no match for me—better to ensure I suffer in some way. Luckily, that fellow is dead and gone, or I’d have to watch out for a venomous viper every day.”

“Show me the concealment talisman you used,” Dustless said, curious. To evade his spiritual sense, it must be uncommon. The old man trembled as he produced half a talisman. Dustless was puzzled, “Why only half?” The old man replied, tearful, “It was a full talisman, but your thunder spell burned away half.” Dustless was speechless, almost pitying the old man. Could such misfortune be the result of his lack of karma?

Dustless examined the talisman closely; the technique was orthodox and the design archaic—he had never seen its like before. After studying it for a while, he could glean nothing and set it aside. Looking at the old man, Dustless mused, “I can’t stay on the steppe forever. Once my temple is established, this old man’s minor skills make him the perfect candidate to manage it. But I must ensure he behaves.”

With that, he grabbed the old man without a word, soared into the air, and flew to a nearby hilltop. By the time they arrived, the old man was nearly faint with terror. Dustless tossed him onto the grass and, with a peach-wood sword, traced over his neck as if considering where to cut, frightening the old man so badly he wet himself, weeping heartbreakingly, tears and snot streaming down as if he were truly about to die. Dustless found it both amusing and pitiable.

Seeing the old man was genuinely afraid, Dustless spoke slowly, “If you wish to live, there is a way. I plan to build a temple here and need someone to preside over it. You seem quite suitable—do you accept?” The old man, believing his death was imminent, suddenly heard this offer and, elated, replied, “I accept, I accept!” Dustless looked at him, well aware of his cunning, and said coolly, “Don’t rejoice too soon. I have conditions.”

The old man quickly nodded, “Yes, yes, please tell me.”

“This temple isn’t a gift—it will be a branch of our Xuanguang Temple of Mount Qingcheng. You’ll only manage it, nothing more. Get that wrong, and it’ll be trouble. There are rules: first, you must never again raise little ghosts or evil spirits. The temple is a pure place, not to be sullied with filth. Second, you’ll be an outer disciple of Xuanguang Temple. Third, I’ll build a Hall of Infant Souls here and entrust it to you. You are responsible for reciting scripture daily to help those souls move on, until their grievances dissipate and they enter reincarnation. Remember, you must recite at least thirty chapters a day, personally. If you miss even a word, I’ll know. Then you’ll learn what it means to regret your choices.” Dustless paused.

The old man was unhappy, “Thirty chapters—can’t it be less?” Dustless’s expression darkened, “This is how you accumulate karma. Look at your misfortune—aren’t you afraid of ending up in the oil cauldrons of hell?” The old man dared not argue further; Dustless was right.

Dustless continued, “Fourth, no betraying teachers or ancestors—even as an outer disciple. Fifth, no evil practices. If I find out, I’ll personally send you to the Blade Mountain in the Underworld!” At this, the old man’s face went pale, genuinely believing Dustless could do just that.

“Sixth, you must cultivate diligently, study Daoist scriptures daily, and not slack off. I’ll check at random. Seventh, no profiteering—what use have those outside the world for worldly possessions? They only tarnish the Daoist heart. Eighth, you must spread the Dao and help the people of the steppe. If you do well, in ten years when I return, I’ll take you back to the mountain and teach you true methods of cultivation.”

Hearing the last condition, the old man trembled with excitement. With that promise, what couldn’t he do? He immediately knelt and kowtowed in thanks. Dustless smiled, “Whether you obtain the methods of cultivation depends on your own diligence.” The old man quickly pledged, “Disciple will do his utmost.”

Dustless neither affirmed nor denied, standing atop the hill to watch the fiery dawn before sunrise. He took out a folded paper crane and tossed it into the air, where it transformed into a white dove, wings beating as it flew across the lake. The old man watched in awe and yearning.