Chapter Eight: The Whimpering Creature
At first glance, this small hollow in the hills appeared utterly ordinary, as did the ring of gentle slopes encircling it. He Chang’an examined his surroundings carefully—he sensed no discomfort, save for a faintly chill wind drifting from one direction. Nothing seemed dangerous.
A sudden impulse stirred within him, prompting him to stride forward a dozen paces.
Within his spiritual sea, located in his lower abdomen, the ‘little black rod’ twitched, growing excited—it seemed to thicken and lengthen ever so slightly...
Could it be...
He Chang’an felt certain that something hidden within the hollow was causing this strange reaction in his spiritual sea; perhaps, it was a small stroke of fortune.
“You lot, rest for a bit, and then start digging.” He called back instructions to his companions, then advanced another ten or so steps.
Sure enough, the ‘little black rod’ grew even more animated, churning his spiritual sea, which grew increasingly hot, almost scalding.
He Chang’an quietly gathered his spiritual power, channeling it through his body, while his hand rested steady on the hilt of his waist blade.
He opened his spiritual sight.
Ghosts...
Masses of them, crowded together, trembling and huddling—all ghostly entities!
The hollow concealed hundreds of grey ghosts, each with slanted brows and fierce eyes, necks drawn in as they pressed against one another, their gaze fixed upon He Chang’an, wide-eyed with terror...
So many ghosts!
He Chang’an felt dizzy. He wasn’t particularly afraid of ghosts or monsters, but he was certainly afraid of dying. Against such creatures, physical weapons—blades, ropes, fists—were utterly useless. How was he supposed to fight?
The Ghost-Hunting Manual advised the most straightforward method: recite a few obscure incantations, draw out a thread of spiritual energy into a charm, then throw it at the ghosts...
He had only just begun his cultivation, not even a day into his journey; barely half a day had passed since his promotion to squad leader, and he was still unfamiliar with the path ahead. Who would have guessed that the first outing would bring him face-to-face with a swarm of ghosts!
Careless—far too careless...
Yet, these ghosts seemed frightened—could ghosts actually fear humans?
Grey ghosts... in broad daylight...
He Chang’an swiftly searched his memory for information about ‘Grey-Hearted Ghosts’ from the Ghost-Hunting Manual, feeling somewhat reassured.
It appeared that during daylight hours, these Grey-Hearted Ghosts dared not attack humans.
That made things easier.
He could simply retreat.
But what was causing the disturbance in his spiritual sea? Was he meant to charge in and confront the ghosts head-on?
As He Chang’an vacillated, caught in his wild thoughts, a female ghost, hair disheveled and blood trickling from her mouth, seemed to reach the brink of desperation—and suddenly went mad...
She lunged straight at He Chang’an, claws bared, nails long and sharp, crusted with dirt and faint traces of blood.
He Chang’an was startled, instinctively slashing out with his blade.
His strike, precise in force and angle, would have felled any martial artist—a deadly blow at his best.
Yet it was utterly futile.
The blade flashed, but the ghost’s form didn’t ripple; she barreled straight into He Chang’an...
A faint, eerie cry sounded, and He Chang’an felt his spiritual sea flare—hot, sour, tingling, and slightly itchy—before the ghost dissolved into a wisp of blue smoke and vanished.
She was... absorbed?
He Chang’an’s heart raced. He gripped his blade and retreated seven or eight steps, face pale as he stared at the hollow and the crowd of Grey-Hearted Ghosts.
Why did they seem even more panicked than him?
Indeed, the ghosts trembled violently, crowding together in terror, emitting weak, plaintive cries...
If he hadn’t seen their spectral forms, he might have mistaken those sounds for the whimpers of tormented toys from a foreign land...
He Chang’an swallowed hard.
His spiritual sight faded, and he quickly checked his spiritual sea, discovering, to his astonishment, that the ghost who had collided with him now resided within!
And, well, it was rather brutal.
The previously indistinct ‘little black rod’ had transformed into two miniature millstones, grinding the ghost slowly between them...
From the depths of his soul, faint cries echoed, sounding rather painful.
Soon, the ghost’s wails ceased, and a thread of pure spiritual energy flowed from the millstones into He Chang’an’s spiritual sea.
At the same time, the small millstones grew ever so slightly, lazily flipping over and reverting back into the ‘little black rod’.
Was this a magical artifact, or some external power?
He Chang’an, unfamiliar with the world of ‘superstition’, was bewildered—was this the result of cultivating the Qi-Absorbing Technique, or the so-called golden finger of a transmigrator?
Still, he sensed a new understanding: by wielding the power of his soul, he could direct spiritual energy, and thus command the little black rod to attack within a radius of three or four yards.
Any further, and it would be beyond his reach.
No matter—it was useful enough.
With that experience, the rest should be easier.
He Chang’an rested briefly, waited for his spiritual sight to activate, then cautiously approached the hollow.
Activating his spiritual sight once more, he saw the ghosts grow even more terrified, nearly ready to flee from the oppressive force of his ‘yang energy’.
Since there was no real danger—and since these ghosts were nourishment for his spiritual sea—he couldn’t let them escape.
He gathered the power of his soul to the utmost, unleashing the little black rod upon the crowd of Grey-Hearted Ghosts.
Plaintive cries erupted...
The ghosts, caught off guard by the rod’s sudden assault, were terrified, their whimpers making He Chang’an feel itchy and irritable, wishing they would just be quiet.
He aimed for the nearest ‘whimpering ghost’, intending to slay and refine them one by one.
But once the rod left his spiritual sea, it became uncontrollable, swelling in the wind... In the blink of an eye, it shrank to the size of a toothpick, stabbing straight into the densest cluster of ghosts.
More cries echoed...
His spiritual sight faded, obscuring the details, but the cries and wails persisted for ten breaths before gradually subsiding.
He Chang’an, who had only just reached the first stage of the Qi-Absorbing Technique, was still weak—he could barely withstand such stimulation, his face pale, eyes unfocused, sweat pouring in beads.
He staggered, collapsing to the ground, gasping for air.
Nearby, the quick-digging workers finally noticed something was amiss with their ‘Chief He’, and rushed over with shovels and picks.
“Chief, what happened? Are you feeling unwell?” Old Hu, ever attentive, hurried to knead He Chang’an’s shoulders and legs, clumsily pinching his philtrum.
“I’m fine.” He Chang’an gradually recovered, waving them off.
Damn it, Old Hu’s pinching was useless—what was the point of the pressure point if you didn’t use inner force...
“Chief, have some water, catch your breath.” Quick-handed Ma Liu unhooked his water gourd and handed it to He Chang’an.
He Chang’an laughed, “All of you, get lost—I’m not that delicate. I just spent too long last night listening to songs in the brothel, played until the rooster crowed...”
“Chief, you mean the duck crowed,” Old Hu teased, winking.
Yes, everyone understood—whether it was the rooster or the duck crowing three times, the brothers all knew what that meant.
“All right, all right, get back to digging. We still have to bury Chief Zhang tomorrow. I’m really fine.” He Chang’an sat cross-legged, speaking with utmost seriousness.