Chapter 109: The Old Immortal

A faint scent of burning hair mingled in the air as the talisman ignited by itself without any external flame—such occurrences typically signaled a supernatural anomaly. Taoist talismans, when affixed properly, could suppress evil energy for a thousand years without decay, even if made from ordinary yellow paper. But when an anomaly arose, the rising malevolent force could break through the talisman's restraint, causing it to deteriorate.

Sure enough, when the doctor arrived and checked, the man was still convulsing on the ground, blood flowing from his nostrils and mouth. Cha Wenbin quickly pressed on his philtrum point and instructed me to bring the stretcher to transport the man. Although he still had breath, his breathing was rapid and shallow, on the verge of collapsing at any moment. Saving him was the priority. Fortunately, the elevator was finally operational, and a group of people hurriedly carried the man out. Since this was a forensic hospital, medical expertise was abundant, so our involvement ended there.

The surveillance footage captured everything clearly—the doctor’s strange behavior needed no explanation; everyone silently agreed he was likely possessed. After this incident, the entire judicial building was engulfed in fear. Rumors circulated, emboldening some to dismiss their fear, but the event had been broadcast live. Suddenly, news of a haunted Hong Kong police station spread like wildfire, and the pressure was immense.

Back at the villa, Cha Wenbin insisted on cremating the corpses immediately. Yet, proper procedures could not be bypassed; until the causes of death were determined, some police officers insisted on preserving the evidence—typical stubborn Hong Kong mentality. There was no choice but to covertly ask Cha Wenbin to handle the aftermath.

A specific request was made: move the corpses here, where fewer people were around and the space was wide open. If anything went wrong, it could be promptly addressed.

I recall the corpses were still in the same box when delivered, but the seals on the box had long vanished. On the second floor of this house was a makeshift operating room, and that box was placed there. Hong Kong was a place of fastidious customs; Cha Wenbin quickly procured all necessary items. Incense, candles, and joss paper were ordinary goods, but they even managed to get horsehair bristles and a few slices of black donkey hooves—rare items not easily found in our area.

Then came the clearing of the scene. Everyone present, including myself, was driven out. It was around four or five in the afternoon; only a delivery person brought food and placed it outside the door, but Cha Wenbin didn’t eat. Late at night, the room’s light remained on. Outside, the police and I smoked cigarette after cigarette until the ground was thickly littered with butts.

I stared at that window, uneasy. After so many deaths and no clarity on the situation, about an hour later, the light suddenly went out. Soon, a dim yellow glow flickered again—a candlelight. The archaic and intricate chanting drifted down to the courtyard; they were incantations.

After about ten minutes, a sudden "crack"—the second-floor window shattered. I looked up to see Cha Wenbin on the windowsill, his body straining to reach outward but quickly retreating. His expression was one of agony, his hands flailing wildly, and then, suddenly, he vanished.

"Something’s wrong!" I shouted to the nearby men. "Go up now!"

Like a whirlwind, we rushed to the second floor. The door was locked from inside. A police superintendent drew his pistol and fired twice at the doorknob before forcefully kicking the door open with a classic breaching move.

Inside was chaos. Incense and candles lay scattered on the floor, talisman papers and offerings cluttered every corner. Turning on the lights, we saw Cha Wenbin collapsed in the northwest corner, curled up and motionless.

I hurried over to check. His brow was furrowed, white foam bubbling from his mouth. I touched him and shouted to the police superintendent, "What are you waiting for? Call an ambulance!"

There was a clear red mark around his neck, about the thickness of a copper wire—this was the only injury found by the hospital. Then came the high fever and convulsions. His neck swayed uncontrollably. Though his eyes were shut tightly, the eyeballs darted side to side in pain.

The hospital couldn’t identify the cause. Cha Wenbin was accompanied by a senior superintendent, so they pulled together some of Hong Kong’s best doctors for a consultation. Hours passed. I remember Cha Wenbin’s fever rose, not dropped. Normal body temperature is about 37°C, but his soared to 41°C. Experts warned that if it continued, he wouldn’t survive.

Coincidentally, early that morning, a nurse was pushing an elderly man past the ward. I had been crouching in the hallway all night, eyes bloodshot and fuzzy, thinking of going downstairs to buy cigarettes. I accidentally bumped into the old man and immediately apologized.

"Sorry, sir, I hope I didn’t hurt you," I said.

"No harm done," the old man replied in Mandarin—a rarity in Cantonese-speaking Hong Kong. Seeing he was fine, I bowed slightly in apology and turned to leave. But just before the corner, the old man, pushed by the nurse, called out, "Young man, wait."

I turned back. The old man stroked his white goatee and said, "You don’t look well. If your health is failing, this hospital might not be able to help. Have you encountered something troubling recently?"

"Sir, my health is fine. I’m not here as a patient but visiting a friend," I replied.

The old man smiled slyly—just the sort of trickster I’d seen many times in my travels. As expected, he said, "I’m only warning you—if you’re unwell, go see me at the Wuliang Temple in Ciyun Mountain."

I was annoyed but decided to play along. "Can you tell what’s wrong with me?"

He beckoned me closer. The nurse didn’t rush him, surprisingly courteous. I wondered if everyone here knew this old man or if the nurse was a trickster as well.

"Give me your hand."

I extended it. The old man placed my palm in his, closed his eyes, and traced circles with his right hand. His fingers were unusually soft and smooth, unlike the rough hands of most elders. Then he asked me to turn and squat before him, pressing his hands on my head. I felt a sharp pain and exclaimed, "What are you doing?"

I noticed a few strands of hair in his hand—clearly pulled from my scalp moments ago. He separated them and held one up. "You’ve recently encountered some unclean things and have been cursed. Have you touched anything dead?"

"No!" I denied. "Are you trying to scam me for a red envelope? I’m a poor country boy from the mainland—no money here."

He wasn’t angry. Pointing to the hair, he said, "There’s an old saying: great calamity begins at the head. Look at this hair; it splits into three branches. That’s three fires atop your head. Two red, one black—means one of your lights has been extinguished. If the other two turn black, your life will be over soon." He patted his thigh and added, "I’m an old man halfway in the grave. No need to scare you. Young man, take care of yourself."

Having long worked alongside Cha Wenbin, I could catch some meaning behind his words. The old man’s diagnosis seemed uncannily accurate. As the nurse pushed the old man further away, I looked at the hair in my hand—three forks, two red, one black—and hurried after him.

"Forgive me, sir, but may I ask if you know something about the Tao?"

He nodded. "I dare not claim mastery. My ancestors came from Qingcheng, Sichuan. I entered Chongyang Palace at eight years old and left the monastery at twenty-five. During the chaotic war years, I married once but was widowed and never remarried. When the Kuomintang retreated to Taiwan, Chiang Kai-shek wanted me to go with him. I refused and came here to Hong Kong, finding a quiet place to build a small temple. Now I am old..."

"Chiang Kai-shek?" I asked.

"I was once his spiritual adviser for a few days. Don’t be surprised—every emperor had such advisors. But he ruined the Republic and deserved to fall."

Whether true or not, I wasn’t concerned. I treated this as a last resort and grasped his arm. "Sir, I have a friend in trouble, lying in this hospital. Could you please help?"

He glanced at his watch. "Only ten minutes. I’m due for dialysis. My kidneys are failing; I don’t have much time left."

"Alright, alright," I said hurriedly, guiding him toward Cha Wenbin’s ICU room. Family normally couldn’t enter; doctors guarded the door. I pushed open the door, naturally stopped.

"Only doctors allowed inside," a young doctor said.

I ignored him. "Just a moment. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility. I’m family."

The nurse with the old man also said, "This is ICU. Visitors aren’t allowed."

"Move aside!" I shoved the doctor and charged in. Of course, I didn’t understand modern hospital rules. The alarm rang, and several security guards rushed in.

The commotion drew the senior superintendent who had come down for breakfast. Seeing me, he explained to hospital staff, "He’s one of us." Just as he was about to pull me out, he glanced at the old man in the wheelchair and politely said, "Mr. Zhang, you’re here too?"

The old man smiled, apparently knowing the superintendent. "I came to see my young friend’s friend."

The superintendent promptly called over a hospital official. "Open the door. Let him in. This is our procedure."

With his order, the staff reluctantly complied, mumbling about not being responsible if anything happened. When the coast was clear, the superintendent whispered to me, "How did you manage to bring out this old immortal? Do you know him?"

I said nothing, only thought: I had gone out and returned.