Chapter Thirty-Five: Soul Enticement

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That night, Chen Jianchen was weighed down with worries. He lay on his bed early, lost in thought, and did not, as he usually would, practice the “True Record of the Three Pillars.”

Now, Nie Xiaoqian had appeared as well…

Could it be that this world he found himself in was truly one of those strange realms from the tales of Liaozhai? Or perhaps, it was merely an absurd parallel plane, bearing a close resemblance.

As he understood it, the original Liaozhai stories were a collection of bizarre and fantastic anecdotes, fragmented and lacking any overarching plotline, much less a complete worldview or set of rules. As the old saying goes: “Speak if you must, listen if you will; beneath the bean trellis and melon arbors, rain falls like silk. Grown weary of worldly talk, one delights to hear ghosts recite poetry on autumn graves.” So it went.

Yet the world he had entered was rather different. Though all manner of ghosts and monsters roamed here, there were countless deviations from the original tales—one could not simply follow the script, nor fit the pieces neatly together.

Ah, never mind. Since he was here, he ought to make peace with it. The nature of the world was already an unchangeable fact; what could be changed was only himself, his capacity to adapt and grow. Only by doing so could he hope to survive in this strange time and place.

Wherever one may be, life is never an easy matter—especially here, where the slightest misstep could mean disaster beyond redemption…

A chill wind arose. Suddenly, before his eyes, two sinister deities appeared. One had the head of an ox and the body of a man, with hooved feet and bulging muscles, gripping a gleaming steel pitchfork in his hand. The other bore the head of a horse and the body of a man, clutching a heavy iron chain, his features twisted and grotesque.

They were the very image of the legendary Ox-Head and Horse-Face wardens of the underworld.

The ox-headed warden pointed at Chen Jianchen and barked, “Brazen scholar Chen Jianchen! For your offense against the netherworld, we have been ordered by the City God of Jiangzhou to seize your soul and bring you for punishment as a warning to others!”

The horse-faced warden shook his iron chain and said, “Scholar, do not struggle, or you will only suffer more.” Saying this, he moved to slip the chain around Chen Jianchen’s neck.

Startled and enraged, Chen Jianchen cried, “You petty underworld minions, how dare you act so presumptuously?”

Seeing that he would not submit like a docile scholar, Ox-Head lunged forward, grabbing Chen Jianchen’s head with a massive hand. Horse-Face, swift and deft, threw his chain and ensnared him.

Try as he might, Chen Jianchen could not break free.

The “True Record of the Three Pillars” states that a true Confucian cultivator must have no fear of gods or ghosts—neither believing, serving, nor fearing them. Only then does one tread the proper path. Yet, his days of practice had been short; he had not yet cultivated even a wisp of righteous energy. By virtue of his identity, he found it easy enough not to believe or worship, but confronted suddenly by these fierce spirits, even he could not help but feel some fear.

And that fear weakened his spirit, making his vital energy chaotic and leaving him vulnerable to the oppression of these underworld beings.

In the end, it all came down to a lack of strength. Without the power to stand firm, in speech or action, one was inevitably at a disadvantage—let alone before the ghosts and gods, where weakness could only be magnified.

But Chen Jianchen was not one to bow and scrape. Forced by circumstance to be meek among the living, he could endure it; but to be tormented repeatedly by the underworld for accidentally breaking a clay idol’s head, to be dragged off for punishment—that was intolerable, an outrage beyond endurance.

“Enough!” he shouted, eyes wide, his voice booming like spring thunder.

Ox-Head and Horse-Face, having already ensnared Chen Jianchen’s soul and begun to drag him away, were taken aback by his sudden shout. Before they could react, a flash of white light blazed before their eyes, dazzling as the sun, burning painfully against their ghostly forms.

To their horror, they saw that within the white light was an enormous jet-black writing brush—so large it seemed to be the legendary “Brush as Thick as a Beam.”

“That’s—” Ox-Head and Horse-Face blanched. “Could it be that Brush…?”

In that instant, terror shattered their courage. Dropping pitchfork and chain, they turned and fled in panic.

The great brush swept through the void, swift as lightning, the white light slashing down like a bolt from the heavens.

A wail rang out as both underworld wardens were struck, their massive forms shattered to dust, vanishing without a trace.

The brush shuddered, as if spent of all its energy, rapidly shrinking until it regained its ordinary form—then, with a soft whoosh, it too disappeared.

Chen Jianchen awoke with a start. He opened his eyes to find the oil lamp on his desk had gone out and the room was shrouded in utter darkness, so deep he could not see his hand before his face. His drowsiness had vanished, replaced by a mix of shock and anger.

That underworld is insufferable! One day, when I have cultivated righteous energy to perfection, I shall storm the eighteen layers of hell myself and see what manner of place it truly is!

Suddenly, he thought of Sun Wukong in Journey to the West, who was dragged unwittingly to the underworld in his sleep, then, in a fury, beat even the King of Hell and turned the netherworld upside down. If only he, too, possessed such earth-shattering power—instead of being a frail, impoverished scholar.

He must cultivate righteous energy as soon as possible.

He resolved silently: the demon-dispelling brush could not always come to his rescue. Once its energy was spent, it would fall silent, unable to be summoned again.

External tools, after all, are only external.

…

Jiangzhou, City God’s Temple.

A faint, wailing voice echoed through the darkness. It was Horse-Face, having fled back, weeping as he complained, “Lord City God, that scholar is too fierce! With a single stroke, he tore apart our ghostly forms. Poor Ox-Head could not escape and is now gone forever, his name erased from the Book of Life and Death!”

“What? That scholar has such power?” The City God was astonished.

Horse-Face pleaded, “Lord City God, you must seek justice for your humble servant!”

“Tell me exactly what happened,” the City God commanded.

So Horse-Face, sobbing and sniveling, recounted the entire affair, exaggerating and embellishing as he went. It was clear that ghosts and gods were little different from ordinary folk—full of petty schemes and little tricks.

“Hmph, it can’t have been that brush,” the City God mused. “If it truly was, how could you have escaped? Not just you—even I, should I encounter it, would be reduced to ashes. Besides, how could a mere frail scholar come by such a treasure? I suspect, rather, that in his studies he inadvertently cultivated a trace of righteous energy, lending his brush some power. Such cases are rare, but not unheard of.”

Horse-Face asked, “Then what should we do?”

After a moment’s thought, the City God replied, “I shall report this to the underworld authorities for the Lord’s decision. For now, you may claim fifteen merits and be dismissed.”

“Thank you, my lord!” Horse-Face replied, departing with joy.

“Righteous energy in a scholar’s brush? Such a thing has not been seen in many years. This is no trivial matter—I must report it to the Judge at once…”

Muttering to himself, the City God’s voice faded, swallowed by the endless darkness.