Chapter Ten: A Midnight Fright

In the latter half of the night, the guest room of Zhang Tiger’s house was filled with the deep slumber of the swift hands, their snores rising and falling in the darkness.

He Chang’an, however, could not sleep.

Before laying down, he had taken the opportunity to visit the outhouse and, as was his long-standing habit, scattered numerous ‘little contrivances’ throughout Zhang Tiger’s courtyard. This good habit, cultivated over many years, had saved his life seven or eight times in his previous existence, allowing him to survive countless episodes in those blood-soaked, stormy days.

He now sat cross-legged in the innermost corner of the room, eyes resting on his nose, nose on his heart, palms facing upwards, diligently practicing the Qi Ingestion Technique. At the same time, a thread of his consciousness remained vigilant, monitoring the sounds outside.

Upon advancing to the second layer of the Qi Ingestion Technique, his senses—sight, hearing, smell, taste, and mind—were vastly enhanced. Even with closed eyes, he could perceive every whisper of wind and rustle seven or eight yards away with startling clarity.

The moon had shifted west, its light scattered and mottled. In the dilapidated courtyard, apart from the faint rustle of wreaths and paper offerings stirred by the breeze, the most prominent noise was the chorus of snores from the swift hands.

At the second quarter of the Hour of the Ox, all was as before.

At the first quarter of the Hour of the Tiger, the wind picked up.

After a while, the rooster would crow its first call, awakening everyone to feast heartily before setting out with the coffin toward Black Pine Hill, south of the city.

Suddenly, a mournful cat’s cry pierced the night, startling He Chang’an as he circulated his qi, nearly causing a mishap.

A black cat appeared silently in the yard, its eyes glowing green in the moonlight. It stretched languidly, baring two ghastly white fangs.

“Cats or rats alarming the coffin—a dire omen…” He Chang’an recalled the customs of his home on Blue Star. The arrival of this black cat at such a time was most inauspicious; it must not approach the deceased’s body, lest there be a corpse awakening or soul disturbance.

He quietly sent out a strand of his spirit, locking onto the black cat, and a bamboo dart appeared in his hand without a sound.

“In my previous life, specialized training and bodyguard work made mastery of hidden weapons a basic requirement. Now, with the second layer of the Qi Ingestion Technique, my accuracy and power should be even greater.”

He Chang’an was uneasy. This Tang Dynasty was steeped in mystery, its beginning already the first circle of hell—monsters rampant, ghosts hunting for food. Who knew if this black cat possessed any cultivation?

The cat remained unconcerned, swaggering toward the thatched hut where Zhang Tiger’s body was laid, uttering a strange, rumbling sound.

As it was about to step over the threshold, He Chang’an made his move.

A bamboo dart, thrown as a hidden weapon, flashed in an instant and appeared beside the cat’s ear. Then, five or six more darts shot forth.

Given his current cultivation, a single bamboo dart would fell even a wild boar or tiger. But, fearing the cat might be a demon with magical powers, he unleashed his deadliest technique.

The first dart pierced the cat’s neck; the others followed in rapid succession, striking vital points. The cat collapsed silently, without even a brief cry.

“My hidden weapons are this formidable?” He Chang’an was stunned, then shook his head with a bitter smile. “It was just an ordinary black cat, struck by seven or eight darts—how could it survive?”

Just as he was about to rise and dispose of the cat’s body, a chill swept over him, raising the hair on his neck.

“What’s happening?!”

Before he could stand, a sinister wind swept through, making the old locust tree in the yard rustle wildly. The two white candles before the spirit hall flickered and went out.

A soft cracking sound followed.

He Chang’an listened intently. The thin coffin containing Zhang Tiger… split open with a seam, as if someone inside was coughing or sighing. The sound was eerie, especially at this midnight hour.

Another crack echoed, as though a hand was straining to push out, nails scraping desperately.

He Chang’an felt calamity looming and suddenly regretted ever volunteering to keep vigil. In this chaotic, uncanny Tang Dynasty, to hold onto notions of brotherhood and social custom was courting death!

He called out in a low voice, waking all the swift hands.

Hu Fourth and the others, roused from sweet sleep, scrambled up, shivering and fumbling for their knives, asking, “Chief, what’s going on? Is there a thief?”

“There’s a thief!” He Chang’an said gravely, stepping behind the door, blade in hand, adjusting himself to peak readiness.

He had neither time nor need to explain further. For his men, monsters and ghosts were mere sources of terror; knowing more would only sap morale.

He dared not charge out recklessly, for he did not know what awaited outside, nor what grade of ghost would emerge from this corpse awakening.

Thus, to hold out until the rooster crowed might be their only chance…

The cracking of the coffin lid quickened, growing louder. The corpse of “Zhang Tiger” emitted an angry, low growl as a wave of resentment swept through the courtyard.

Hu Fourth, Ma Six, and the swift hands soon realized the gravity of the situation, each facing the threat as if at the gates of hell, their faces pale, eyes filled with terror and despair.

“Chief… we’re doomed this time,” Hu Fourth quavered, lips trembling.

“No matter. I am here,” He Chang’an replied calmly. “Let us unite and press forward with courage.”

In truth, his heart was in turmoil. He had already examined his own dantian, where the little black rod he cherished was trembling—was it fear, or terror?

Coward!

The “Ghost Catcher’s Manual” offered only vague descriptions of ghosts arising from corpse awakening: simply classified as “Returning Corpses,” “Obsessed Corpses,” “Resentful Corpses,” and “Fierce Ghost Corpses.”

If it were one of the first three, it would be manageable, akin to a White-Robed Ghost’s strength, attacking only the weak or sick. With his current abilities, He Chang’an could still fight.

But a “Fierce Ghost Corpse” was another matter—transcending the concept of corpse awakening, formed from a fierce ghost refining a corpse to return to life, terrifyingly powerful, at least at the Yellow Register Ghost level…

He Chang’an suspected he was about to face a “Fierce Ghost Corpse.”

“If it’s a Fierce Ghost Corpse, then it’s a corporeal ghost. My previous preparations should have some effect, right?”

With this thought, he quietly activated the traps, snares, and mechanisms he had set up, resolving that if he survived tonight, he would develop stronger techniques against ghostly entities.

This passive suffering was intolerable.

Thus, as everyone stood at the ready, the lid of Zhang Tiger’s coffin finally gave way with a thunderous bang.

A deep, violent howl reverberated, making the old locust tree shake, its palm-sized leaves falling as if swept by autumn winds—bare in the blink of an eye.

The howl was a spiritual assault, like a sharp blade stabbing repeatedly into He Chang’an’s skull.

His face turned pale, blood seeping from his lips, yet his grip on the blade remained steady. He clenched his teeth, standing firm behind the door, not retreating for an instant.

To survive, one must stand where death threatens.

To retreat was death, to fight was death—so better to hold fast for a few breaths, perhaps there remained a sliver of hope…

For he sensed someone approaching.