Chapter Seventy-four: The Ghost Beneath the Umbrella

This talisman was neither for warding off spirits nor for summoning deities—it was meant for himself, for Cha Wenbin alone.

“Bring me a bowl and some water,” he instructed.

I watched as Cha Wenbin poured half a bowl of clear water. Then, he bit his middle finger and let three drops of fresh blood fall into the bowl, stirring it with his finger. What happened next was so swift I could barely catch it: he held the talisman between his fingers and set it alight, swiftly moving it in circles above the bowl. The burning talisman paper was consumed rapidly, its ashes constantly dropping into the water below.

The water inside the bowl began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until it formed a small whirlpool. Eventually, even the bowl itself started to move with the vortex. Throughout the entire process, Cha Wenbin kept his eyes closed, yet the burning talisman never strayed beyond the bowl’s rim. Again and again, he traced perfect circles over the water’s surface. When the last of the talisman was consumed, a fiery ember, no bigger than a fingernail, dropped into the water with a hissing sound.

He still did not open his eyes. Instead, he squeezed out another drop of blood. And then, something astonishing happened; I was certain this was no parlor trick.

The water’s rotation gradually slowed, and the last drop of blood he had squeezed in did not disperse. Instead, it and the last ember of talisman paper began to drift apart within the bowl. The blood was red; the burnt talisman, black. Originally, the two colors had mingled in the water, but now—miraculously—they separated, forming a sharp divide: one half of the bowl was red, the other black. Even more wondrous, in the center of the red half was a single black dot—the last piece of talisman; in the center of the black half, a red dot—the final drop of blood.

A bowl of water: one half red, one half black, with red within black and black within red.

At that moment, he drew his middle finger lightly across the surface, tracing a perfect S-shaped curve. I was stunned.

The bowl now presented a flawless Taiji diagram—a perfect yin-yang—quietly suspended within. A single touch would scatter and merge the pattern, yet there it remained, undisturbed and unbroken.

Alas, I barely had a chance to admire this perfect image before Cha Wenbin raised the bowl and drank it down in one gulp. That was it—he drank the water himself. This was the unity of the Dao and the self, the merging of man and the Way, the very essence of Taiji.

The Three Pure Ones Talisman is used to open the Dao heart within a person. What is the Dao? The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao. Everyone possesses it, you and I alike; the difference is that the mundane world has clouded our hearts, leaving it so veiled we can no longer see clearly.

This bowl of water was a sacred draught to cleanse his soul, to wash away the dust of the past three years from the heart of a devout Daoist disciple. He was coming back—he would once again be the Cha Wenbin of old.

It doesn’t matter if a hero drinks water or wine; it’s the spirit with which he drinks that counts. Down in one gulp! With a sudden crack, he smashed the bowl on the floor. Three years—he had indeed suffered much, especially that final glance from Yuan Xiaobai.

A gust of wind slammed the door against the wall with a heavy thud, and the candle’s flame was stretched long and thin, shadows dancing crookedly on the walls. Two large copper coins, tied together with red string across the bridge of his nose, instantly became a pair of “glasses”—a device said to allow one to see spirits, albeit only the lesser ones.

“Close the door!” Cha Wenbin pressed something pitch-black into my hand. I had no idea what it was, but Fatty and I each took a side and shoved the door shut. The wind was so fierce that we had to brace it with our backs to get it closed. Glancing outside, I saw my elder uncle’s corpse already half-buried in snow, transformed into a “snowman.”

A bronze mirror was placed before the candle. Cha Wenbin kept adjusting its angle, a faint light spot drifting across the wall. Sometimes the spot would vanish, prompting more adjustments. Only then did I realize—it wasn’t that I couldn’t see it, but that what looked like a pale yellow glow was actually a ghostly green.

Ghosts have no shadows. Humans possess three souls—heaven, earth, and man—as well as seven spirits. As long as they are intact, a person is alive. When death comes, the lamp is extinguished, yin and yang dissipate, and the three souls part ways; light casts no shadow then. The same goes for mirrors: a living person will see their reflection, but a ghost will not, which is why mirrors have always been used to ward off evil.

My “yin-yang sight” had already faded—I could no longer see such things. But Cha Wenbin could, even though he lacked the true “yin-yang eyes”; he could borrow their power.

On the eastern wall, the mirror’s reflection settled on a chair in the corner.

“Stone, come and hold the mirror!” he called.

Fatty obeyed, freeing Cha Wenbin to squat down and scoop a handful of ash from the incense burner. He slowly approached the corner. When he was still a meter away, he tossed the ash into the air. Strangely, not a single speck landed on a patch of the chair exactly the size of a person’s backside.

It isn’t hard for a common person to see a spirit—Daoists have many methods, though it all depends on one’s courage. Fatty and I had already seen our share, even encountering the underworld’s escorts. What was a new ghost to us? As Fatty would say, “Wouldn’t even need Cha Wenbin’s help—I could handle it myself.”

The Seven-Star Sword was now unsheathed. In those days, it was known simply as the Seven-Star Sword—half a meter of gleaming blade, its cold light fierce and unyielding. Some said it was stolen by Ling Zhengyang from elsewhere, others that he received it from his master, the reclusive Master Yin. Regardless, this sword had outlasted the history of the Heavenly Truth Sect. Over the years, it never rusted or dulled; it seemed unremarkable, yet radiated a chilling aura, having dispatched countless wandering spirits and fiends.

“Show yourself!” Cha Wenbin commanded the chair.

If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would have thought these Daoists were just charlatans performing tricks to fool the gullible. But when you see something with your own eyes—something clearly not of this world—you realize: Oh, so this is what it means to truly see a ghost!

Unlike a living person, it was almost transparent—a shifting, greenish mass through which you could see the wall behind. Yet, no matter how strange, you could not deny its presence.

Ghosts are beings of yin; humans, of yang. Like two paths moving in opposite directions, yin and yang occupy different realms, and yet some persist in crossing the divide.

Put mathematically: a living person’s yang energy is 100, a ghost’s yin energy is 99. Normally, a ghost would avoid contact, unable to withstand the yang energy. But some ghosts are filled with deep resentment—their yin energy might reach 150 or even 200. Encountering one like that, you’re in serious trouble.

Forcing a ghost to reveal its true form takes extraordinary skill. Once manifested in the world of the living, the yang energy of even three adult men in a room is overwhelming. The ghost’s own yin energy is eroded simply by being exposed—there’s no need for Cha Wenbin to do anything further; it’s already doomed.

I’d assumed the ghost would be my deceased elder uncle, but something about the figure didn’t match. Glancing up, I saw a memorial portrait hanging in the main hall. Looking down again—my God, wasn’t that my great-uncle?

“I was wrong…” The shadowy figure uttered this and crouched on the floor, its faint sobbing barely audible.

Ghosts can speak, but their voices are entirely unlike the living—drawn out, hollow, spectral, unable to truly pierce the air. If you ever hear someone call your name in such a voice, it’s best not to answer.

“Who else did you intend to take with you?” Cha Wenbin demanded.

“All my own sins,” the figure replied. “I watched him die with my own eyes, but he was my son, after all.”

“Who did it? I know it wasn’t you.”

My great-uncle’s next words left me in confusion: “I cannot say… If I speak, none of us will live.”

“And his soul?” Cha Wenbin pressed.

“It was taken—when the coffin overturned.”

Cha Wenbin sheathed his sword with a sigh. “If you truly won’t say, I cannot protect the others. He’s your son—those who deal in souls do so only to further their own cultivation. It is a torment: endless fires will burn his soul to ash, draining every last drop of yin energy. He won’t even have a chance to reincarnate as an animal in the next life.”

“How could it come to this…” The shadow collapsed in despair.

Then Cha Wenbin turned to me. “Xiao Yi, would you be afraid to let your great-uncle spend the night with you?”

My face turned white as a sheet. I stammered, “You’re joking, right, brother…”

“Come here.” He beckoned, and I could only steel myself and step forward.

“Open the umbrella.”

Only then did I realize I was holding a black umbrella—an old-fashioned, foreign-made one, worn and shabby.

“Where did this come from?” I asked.

Cha Wenbin took the umbrella and said, “It probably belonged to him in life.” He covered the chair with it, reciting, “Clear-bright umbrella, clear-bright umbrella, nether umbrella opens, open the umbrella and enter the underworld!” I couldn’t see how he completed the ritual, but with a flick of his wrist, the umbrella spun around the chair in midair. Then he closed it and shoved it into my hands. “Take it. Remember to put it under your bed tonight.”

As I took the umbrella, I felt an urge to throw it as far away as I could. But Cha Wenbin added, “If you throw it away, it will follow you for the rest of your life.”

I was speechless.

He said:

Good night.