Chapter 112: Beyond Yang Pass, No Old Friends Remain

The box now rests beneath the Three Pure Ones statue in the Taoist temple where Li Yunfeng once lived. This was a week after his passing, following the completion of his seven-day mourning period. His ashes were brought here along with the box, and both I and Cha Wenbin took up residence in the temple.

Zhu Zihao had sold off many items over these days, earning a considerable sum. Though he knew the money felt tainted, he frequented the temple daily, spending lavishly as usual—chicken, duck, fish, and meat piled high on the offering table. He also brought news: he had spent a night at the old family estate recently, and the ghostly disturbances had quieted. Moreover, he had gleaned some information from one of his grandfather’s old subordinates about certain family matters.

His grandmother’s full name was Jiang Yu, originally from Yangguan in Gansu Province, an ancient key point on the Silk Road and a significant military stronghold, historically a fiercely contested battlefield. It was located near the famed Dunhuang.

The Jiang family was a prominent and wealthy clan in the region, primarily engaged in trading horses, stone, and spices. Zhu Zihao’s grandfather met Jiang Yu through business—he had intended to purchase a batch of military horses but lacked funds. To support the war effort, the Jiang family had donated over a hundred warhorses to the government free of charge and received commendation from Chiang Kai-shek for their generosity.

Jiang Yu was the only daughter and sole heir of her generation. Zhu Zihao’s grandfather, a dashing and cultured military man, married her. She brought a substantial dowry at marriage—eight fully loaded horse-drawn carriages, including a portrait of a general.

That portrait was said to be a treasured heirloom of the Jiang family, passed down through generations. By Jiang Yu’s time, only one vine remained, so it was included as part of her dowry. During the wedding, one of Zhu Zihao’s grandfather’s men was tasked with carrying the bridal sedan chair, and the bride held that very item in her hands. If we want to find more about it, we would have to return to Yangguan in Gansu and inquire if any relatives remain.

“I’m the third generation now, and since my grandmother was the only child, it’s likely there aren’t many relatives left over there. I’m giving you that painting as a token of brotherhood for all the trouble,” Zhu Zihao said.

Cha Wenbin turned sharply and said coldly, “So many have died for your greed. How do you explain that to them?”

I sensed Cha Wenbin’s displeasure, but blaming Zhu Zihao entirely wouldn’t be fair—he was a prodigal but loyal. I tried to reason, “No one wanted this to happen. Even if we hadn’t found those old relics, wouldn’t we have to help clean the estate anyway?”

Cha Wenbin, clearly frustrated, suddenly stood and shouted at me, “Clean it up? If I’d known it was like this, I’d have burned it to the ground! Do you even know what’s inside that box?”

I shook my head. He bellowed louder, “It’s an evil curse! That damned ancestor of his did something morally rotten!”

The term “ghost fetus” has many interpretations. Commonly, it refers to a woman who carries a full-term pregnancy beyond the due date by six months or even a year, yet the fetus is neither stillborn nor delivered—it’s called a “ghost fetus” in folk belief.

Many causes are cited for a ghost fetus, but the most widespread is the belief that conception occurred between a human and a ghost. Because yin and yang do not harmonize, the child cannot be born to the earthly realm; the fetus cannot see the light of day. Such pregnancies typically end with the death of both mother and fetus, and what was in that box? Four fully grown ghost fetuses.

In the Maoshan Taoist tradition, there is a dark technique reportedly invented by a third-generation disciple named Liu Zhonghe. This man was exceptionally talented in the Taoist arts. One day, he was called to handle the funeral of a pregnant woman who died in labor; although the infant was delivered, its life was tenuous. The tragedy deeply saddened the family, who entrusted Liu with the matter.

At the time, Liu Zhonghe was researching an ancient forbidden technique called the Soul Transference, said to have been created by the master Tongtian, but banned for its malevolence. By chance, he realized that although the infant was dead, it had died within the womb without ever inhaling the yang air of the living world. From an alchemical perspective, the infant’s body was purely yin, possessing only two of the three souls—it lacked the vital life soul. The two souls of heaven and earth merged, while the seven spirits remained intact.

Liu reasoned that such a soul could not enter the cycle of reincarnation even through ritual deliverance; it would be left to decay as dust. He wondered if transferring the infant’s soul into a plant might allow it to live in another form, offering the family some solace.

After burying the woman, he added a layer of soil, created a small pit for the child’s burial, and planted a vine cutting into the earth. Using the Soul Transference ritual, he performed daily rites—lighting incense in the morning and burning paper offerings at night. After seven days, the vine sprouted and flourished.

Years later, as the vine grew, Liu made a breakthrough. He transferred the infant’s soul into the vine, cut a segment, and carved a small wooden doll from it. He painted the doll’s features and internal organs with cinnabar and ink, inscribed the infant’s birthdate and time on its back, and secretly kept it in a jar beneath his altar.

Every day, Liu bit his finger to drip three drops of blood into the jar and performed offerings as if worshipping a deity. After forty-nine days, the wooden doll, now transformed into a little ghost, could communicate and obey him.

Though Liu invented the technique, he never publicized it, fearing misuse. He ultimately burned the wooden doll himself but recorded the method in Maoshan Taoist texts under the name “Soul Hooking,” deeming it a forbidden art.

Later, the technique was stolen by a disciple and spread to Southeast Asia, where it evolved into the widespread practice of raising “little ghosts.”

The ghost fetus technique shares similarities with Soul Hooking, both involving infants who have never experienced yang air and are controlled through sorcery. This practice is extremely malevolent. A ghost fetus, still dependent on the mother’s blood in the womb, is a double tragedy—two lives lost, multiplied resentment. When matured, the ghost fetus is forcibly extracted and enshrined, its power far surpassing that of the Soul Hooking technique.

Cha Wenbin was convinced Zhu Zihao’s grandfather bore the greatest guilt. Why else would he have four concubines who bore no living children, and those children who did survive were turned into ghost fetuses? When Cha tried to open the box to perform a ritual to dispel the spirits, all four ghost fetuses emerged simultaneously, breaking his talisman and nearly costing him his life. Had we not intervened in time, he would have perished on the spot.

“These ghost fetuses are incredibly powerful. Even if my master were here, he might not break them. Fortunately, Taoist Li Yunfeng sacrificed his life to perform the Zhou Wu Resurrection, saving me. These things have been formed for decades; they are fully evolved spirits. The ones who raised them are likely long dead. Without their masters, the ghost fetuses have gone wild, harming indiscriminately. Zhu Zihao, your grandfather was truly cruel—no tiger would devour its own cubs, yet he used his own children to forge ghost fetuses.”

Zhu Zihao disagreed. “Mr. Cha, are you sure it was my grandfather? From what I know, he cared deeply for his concubines. He was a soldier from the Whampoa Military Academy, studied in Germany early on. There’s never been any talk of dealings with such sorcerers.”

I added, “But that doesn’t rule out hiring someone else. Hong Kong is close to Southeast Asia, where such dark arts thrive—even now, some still raise little ghosts.”

Zhu Zihao sighed, “It’s a pity my family is gone; we can’t verify anything now. But Mr. Cha, since this matter is settled, to show my remorse, I intend to fund the expansion of this temple to honor those who died because of this. What do you think?”

“That sounds good.” Cha Wenbin produced a matchbox. Looking up at the sky, he sighed, “To the ancestors above, I offer my respect.”

A great fire swiftly engulfed the small temple. Later, a new temple was built on the site, named “Mystic Valley Hall.” Even now, one can often see a figure there—a man named Tong Hetu.

After leaving Hong Kong, Zhu Zihao came back with us. This trip, rather than easing his mind, only unsettled it further. The painting was brought along too. No matter how I looked at the figure in the portrait, he seemed a fat man. Even if he wore armor or a veil like an Arabian woman, I could still recognize those shifty, thievish eyes.

Hence, to uncover the painting’s origin, we decided to head straight to Yangguan in Gansu—under the guise of a family visit.

Zhu Zihao had transformed into a Hong Kong businessman. In those early days of burgeoning GDP, wherever a Hong Kong merchant went, even local county officials would personally invite them to dinners. Securing foreign investment meant political capital. With him along, our search for relatives would surely be easier.

Yangguan lies southwest of Dunhuang County, about sixty or seventy kilometers from the town center. There’s a place called Nanhu Township nearby, bordering the northern desert, now barren and lifeless. The entire township has barely a thousand households, mostly herders. Hearing that county officials would accompany a Hong Kong businessman looking for family—and possibly investment—there was great excitement, with sheep and cattle slaughtered for a feast. We arrived at the local township office.

Northwesterners are straightforward and genuine. Upon hearing Zhu Zihao’s grandmother hailed from Yangguan, the township secretary was delighted. We were accompanied by the deputy county magistrate in charge of investment promotion. Glasses were raised in turns, and Zhu Zihao, unaccustomed to such hospitality, soon warmed up, bragging about his grandfather’s closeness to Chiang Kai-shek—tales I could no longer bear to hear.

Still, the matter of Jiang Yu was quickly clarified. Before liberation, there was a village called Yangguan in Nanhu Township, situated strategically by water and known as “Antique Beach” due to frequent discoveries of ancient relics—bronze arrowheads, old coins, stone mills, pottery cups. The Jiang family was indeed prominent there. The area was being prepared as a cultural relic protection zone, but no one lived there anymore. Most elders had died or moved away; the environment was no longer suitable for habitation.

“Yangguan is a fine place!” The township head, now tipsy, boasted, “Founded during Emperor Wu of Han’s Yuanding era, it was one of four commanderies in Hexi, guarding two passes, complementing Yumen Pass to the south and north. It was a fortress on the Silk Road, housing tens of thousands of troops. In Han times, it was the seat of the Yangguan Commandery; during Wei and Jin, it became Yangguan County; in the Tang dynasty, it was renamed Shouchang County. Its glory peaked alongside Dunhuang’s development, but after maritime trade flourished in the Song dynasty, Yangguan declined, with population dwindling. When I took over, only seven hundred households remained—smaller than a single village in the south.”

Cha Wenbin lifted his teacup gently toward the township head and recited, “Morning rain in Weicheng moistens the light dust, the inn is green with spring willows. I urge you to drink another cup—west of Yangguan, there are no old friends. Though I do not drink, here at Yangguan, I must borrow the flower to offer Buddha—toasting you all with tea instead.”

“A cultured man!” The township head beamed, raising his cup. “A fine verse indeed. Come, everyone, for the arrival of our good friend, let’s drink!”

That day, I ended up vomiting profusely. I don’t know how, but someone carried me out. Zhu Zihao was sent directly to the county hospital for intravenous fluids and wasn’t brought back until the next day. The local officials were terrified—if anything had happened to a Hong Kong merchant, the entire deal would have been lost.

After a period of despair, loss, and searching, a glimmer of hope has returned.

A familiar style, a familiar voice—“The Taoist Sect” is ready to begin anew.