Chapter 111: Zhou Wu’s Resurrection Technique

The old man’s health was very poor; after finishing the task, he was visibly exhausted. Half-sitting on the ground, he coughed repeatedly. I wanted to help him up but stopped myself, recalling his earlier words: “Remember, you promised me—you must send my ashes back home.”

Hearing his insistence, I wondered if the old man knew his time was near. It is said that those with Taoist cultivation can foresee life and death. Judging by his condition, this venerable immortal could hardly endure such toil. I recalled what Cha Wenbin had told me: performing such rituals, which may seem like mere games to ordinary people, actually drains one’s spirit and vitality. After such an ordeal, one must rest for a long time to recover.

This yin-yang method involves traversing between the realms of the living and the dead, glimpsing celestial secrets, and manipulating the five elements, inevitably harming one’s own energy. Dealing with gods and ghosts, exterminating demons and malevolent spirits, also contaminates the practitioner with malignant and yin energies, which eventually recoil upon their vital force. This explains why many skilled Taoists meet tragic ends—constantly walking by the river, how can one avoid wetting their shoes? No matter how advanced the art, the body remains mortal, and the yin’s consumption and heavenly retribution ultimately claim their lives.

In light of this, my respect for the old man grew. I straightened up, clasped my fists solemnly, and said, “Honored sir, I bow to you. Whether my brother returns to his original state or not, I dare not fail your wish.”

“Good, good,” he replied. “Help me grind this. No matter what, ensure this ink never dries, and the script remains unbroken.” With that, he handed me a strangely shaped inkstone. It wasn’t the usual black stone but a translucent white, octagonal and slightly larger than a palm. The central ink pool was red, mottled and worn, clearly very old.

The grinding stone was a blue cylindrical piece, topped with a carving of a snarling demon, grotesque and terrifying. Holding it, I felt a chilling cold seep into my very bones. As I was about to add water to the ink pool, the old man cautioned, “Boy, be careful. Don’t stop. The blood in this pool must never dry.”

Then, surprisingly, he drew a jet-black dagger from his robe, grinning with a mouthful of darkened teeth. With a single hand, he slowly withdrew the dagger from his palm. Blood dripped heavily into the ink pool in my hand. “What are you waiting for? Grind!” he ordered.

“Ah, yes…” I obeyed, wondering if he could endure this. His lips were already turning pale.

“Sir?” I hesitated. He hastily tore a strip of cloth from his garment, wrapped it around his palm, then pulled out a brush and dipped it into the blood. Motioning me to stand beside him, he began to draw around Cha Wenbin’s body.

The pattern was exquisite, resembling the swirling thunder motifs on ancient bronzeware, connected in flowing sequences. Large red blossoms bloomed across the design. By the time he finished half the drawing, much of the blood in the ink pool had been used. The old man paused to unwrap the cloth and add more blood. I stirred constantly to keep it from coagulating. Despite his age, his hand was deeply cut, the flesh on the wound peeled back, yet he seemed indifferent to his injury, focused solely on the pattern beneath his feet.

After some time, the head of a human figure had taken form, followed by limbs. The figure’s torso was absent, seemingly borrowing Cha Wenbin’s body as its frame. Flowers adorned the figure—somewhat like lotuses but not quite—with each flower connected by a bloodline that twisted like vines around the figure’s form. Though drawn in blood, the design carried a certain sacredness, utterly devoid of any sinister aura.

I was captivated, oblivious to the subtle change in the room’s atmosphere until a chill ran through me. The old man had finished, the process taking nearly half an hour.

He coughed twice, gasping for breath, then said, “Boy, come help me up.”

I quickly set down the inkstone. When the old man was pulled to his feet, he swayed twice before steadying himself. He smiled weakly, “Old now, not much use left. Help me sit in the west corner. Then close the door and go outside.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, concerned by his frailty and worsening pallor.

“An old bone,” he chuckled. “You watch the door. In about half an hour, your friend should wake. Then bring him back for proper care, and he’ll be fine. Tell him this—what harmed him is beyond his control. He can send that evil thing to my humble Taoist temple, place it beneath the Three Pure Ones statue, and recite the Tao Te Ching three times daily—morning, noon, and night. After seven days, burn down the temple along with it, and it will be ended.”

“Burn it? Then where will you live?”

He laughed heartily, then said, “Don’t forget your promise: you must send me back home.”

“Of course. A gentleman’s word is his bond, especially to someone who has helped me,” I replied, about to say more, but he waved me off. “Go now, don’t let anyone disturb an old man.”

Soon, outside the door, a strange fragrance wafted out, accompanied by a language I could not understand. The old man softly chanted some kind of ballad. I, a common man and uncultured in melody, was unexpectedly drawn far away by the song’s allure.

The faint scent transported me to a misty mountain valley, blooming with myriad flowers, surrounded by celestial beasts and birds. In the haze, a figure dressed in azure gently plucked strings on a musical instrument, while maidens lit incense, its smoke curling upward.

Drawn by the enchanting melody, I approached the figure, mesmerized and filled with inexplicable peace. Yet, the figure remained veiled behind the mist, his face unseen. No matter how fast or far I walked toward him, he maintained his distance.

“Mr. Xia?” I heard someone call faintly. Startled, I snapped awake, realizing I had been leaning against the door and fallen asleep.

I struggled to rise. He Zhonghua was outside; he had waited long, anxious at the silence.

“What time is it?” I asked.

He glanced at his watch. “A quarter past five.”

“Damn!” I thought. The old man said Cha Wenbin would wake in about an hour, but I’d slept for nearly four. I hurried to the window to peer inside.

The old man still sat in the west corner, where I had left him. He watched me, smiling faintly. Relieved, I called outside, “Sir, are you all right?”

No answer. I knocked twice and said, “If you’re well, we’ll come in.”

Still no response.

He Zhonghua looked at me with a trained cop’s intuition. “Something’s wrong.”

I felt it too. We exchanged a glance and kicked the door open. As I pushed inside, I saw the old man’s body slowly collapse to the side. I tried to catch him, but it was too late. He Zhonghua checked and shook his head: “No breath. Death likely occurred three hours ago. How’s Mr. Cha?”

“Better—the fever’s down, but he’s still unconscious.”

“Take him to the hospital, now!”

That night, if my memory serves, just after midnight, Cha Wenbin woke. His first words were, “Is he all right?”

Strangely, Cha Wenbin had never seen the old man. He had been unconscious with a high fever the entire time. Had he partially awakened without us knowing?

“Are you asking about the man who saved you?”

Cha Wenbin sat up, yanked out the IV, and shouted, “Where is he?”

At the foot of the mountain stood a white building. In the first-floor hall lay the coffin recently brought in. Inside, yellow brocade lined the casket. Someone had already dressed the old man in his burial clothes. He rested quietly in the coffin, a faint smile lingering on his lips, as if merely asleep.

“Thud!” Before entering, Cha Wenbin knelt. Step by step, he crawled forward, bowing every three steps, each prostration striking the marble floor like a bell toll.

“Don’t do this,” He Zhonghua tried to pull him up. “You don’t know your own health, and tormenting yourself like this wastes Mr. Li’s efforts.”

Cha Wenbin shook off his hand. “A life saved can never be repaid!” He continued bowing until Mr. Li Yunfeng’s funeral was over. For three full days, he neither ate nor drank, kneeling by the coffin.

Only then did I learn the old man’s name: Li Yunfeng. From the mourners, I heard bits of his past. Many were powerful figures who had once sought his aid. He had passed peacefully, as if to tell the world he could finally rest at home.

Many noticed the young man who knelt continuously. Li Yunfeng had no children or disciples; Cha Wenbin had become the one to carry his ashes.

I repeated the old man’s final words to Cha Wenbin, but he only gritted his teeth and said, “This isn’t over.”

Later, Cha Wenbin returned with me to the room where the old man had saved him. Looking at the blood pattern still on the floor, Cha Wenbin knelt again, bowing, “Your great kindness, I will never forget.”

He told me the pattern was called “Zhou Wu’s Resurrection,” said to have been created by King Wu of Zhou. The caster must draw their spirit into the blood, using their three souls as a guide and the seven spirits as a bridge, to save someone and reverse fate. Cha Wenbin had never seen it but heard from his master, Ma Sufeng, that the caster always dies from exhaustion of their essence and blood—a life for a life.

But what exactly happened to Cha Wenbin to require such a sacrifice? That, dear reader, shall be told in the next chapter.