Chapter Twenty-Four: The Jackal, the Sacrificial Beast, and the Malignant Spirit Behind

Clang—!

The ring-handled saber, gaping like a jackal’s maw, was at last drawn in full. Its gleaming blade was painted in blood-red with ghastly visages of vengeful spirits and tormented ghosts, each more dreadful than the last.

Wei Zhong smeared blood from his fingertip across the blade, tracing from the swallow-shaped hilt to the very tip. The already prominent demonic patterns along the steel began to glow one after another, coming alive with bared fangs and claws. They swiftly surged from blade to body, crawling over him in a tide of malignancy.

The leader of the Bladebearers, whose posture was upright and proud, now seemed to bear a crushing weight. His back bent as if burdened by a thousand pounds, and his face twisted in unnatural agony. Gritting his teeth, he endured the pain, which lent him an even more savage aspect.

“Something’s wrong—he really is carrying something on his back!”

Wang Cheng ignited the Lamp of the Heart, illuminating a radius of nine yards in every direction. He could now see things invisible to ordinary eyes. While others merely sensed a chilling cold and saw their breath mist in the air, he perceived layers upon layers of horrific entities clinging to the Bladebearer’s back: pale, blood-soaked, putrid and grim, with twisted and broken limbs.

Face after face, each wearing a grotesque, chilling smile, turned toward him. In his ears, echoed sharp, hallucinatory voices:

“Where is the fugitive? The one wanted by the Imperial Court?”

“Where is the fugitive?”

“Where?”

In that moment, Wang Cheng felt as though he had returned to that accursed royal barge, packed with unclean spirits. Only this time, the scale was far smaller. Yet he was certain: these Yin creatures could not see through his disguise as “Wang Fugui” to discover the true self hidden beneath. The ghosts, in truth, were staring at everyone without discrimination.

Screech!

An ear-splitting sound, like claws raking over shell, filled the air. Wei Zhong, wielding a blade whose technique combined offense and defense, stood rooted like a jagged rock as he carved a brutal path through the spectral shrimp and crab soldiers conjured from the mist, splitting the oncoming tide with force alone.

He single-handedly held back the ghostly ranks conjured from the fog.

Even ordinary onlookers could now vaguely discern the sharp spectral claws outlined at the mist’s edge.

“Coward, living off your ancestors’ blessings—die for me!”

This was not the Bladebearers’ chosen ground. The “Honey Badger,” Wei Zhong, attacked at once, aiming straight for the enemy leader.

With a host of savage spirits clinging to his back, he strode toward Huang Yuanzhou, who still knelt and kowtowed serenely to his “godmother.”

Yet the latter looked up without haste and offered a calm praise:

“A fine Bladebearer. You’ve mastered this ‘Back Spirit’ technique well. I’ve heard that your profession draws its power from the first omen of Frost’s Descent in the seventy-two phases: ‘The jackal sacrifices beasts.’ There is some kinship between that and our own reliance on the ‘Otter Sacrifices Fish’ as Whiteshore Men.”

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Each omen confers different strengths to those who serve beneath it. When deploying certain arts or secret techniques, the effect can be doubled—or even exceed one’s limits—while in other arts, the results may be inferior to mere sleight of hand, or entirely ineffective.

The “Back Spirit” technique cultivated by Bladebearers was notorious. All the enemies slain by their hand were carried upon their backs as spirits; the more fugitives they had cut down, the stronger their Back Spirit’s power.

Their individual strength outstripped that of Whiteshore Men who practiced the “Sworn Kin” rite, but at a terrible cost. Without a strong enough fate, one could not shoulder such Yin spirits; even if one could, eventually the burden would break them.

The secret to neutralizing the Back Spirit’s side effects was held by the authorities—otherwise, the officials would never trust these childless, solitary wolves.

Wei Zhong’s saber whirled like a windmill, carving a bloody path through the spectral crustaceans. The other Bladebearers surged after him.

Yet chubby Huang Yuanzhou flashed a sly grin.

“You’ve trained your Back Spirit well, but I’ll wager you’re nearly at your limit. I, this so-called wastrel living off my ancestors, may or may not die today—but you, for certain, are close to death.”

He reached to the two rice sacks at his waist, grabbing a handful of bright white rice in one hand and golden millet in the other, flinging them toward the giant mirage clams within the mist.

He called out, “Godmother, brothers and sisters, eat and drink well!”

This secret art, when mastered, held further mysteries. Coastal fishermen regarded the “Passing Lords” with both awe and fear: they could shatter ships, but also bring bountiful harvests. For the “Passing Lords” did nothing but pursue schools of fish.

In the flood season, to see fish and shrimp leap in terror from the sea foretold a Lord’s approach. When the Lord passed, casting nets would guarantee a full catch.

Fisherfolk believed all marine life descended from the Lords. Scattering rice symbolized the white roe of squid and octopus; scattering millet, the yellow roe of yellow croaker and shrimp. When the Lords saw their descendants flourishing, they would bestow blessings.

Now, as the rice and millet, each blessed upon the ritual altar, touched the water, the thick mist surged, flooding half the dock in an instant.

Before the Bladebearers, everything twisted and warped. The hard-won path beneath their feet took on a fleshy texture, as if they trod the filtering membrane of a giant clam.

Gurgle, gurgle...

Even those not within the attack’s range—Wang Cheng and his companions—could hear the sticky bubbling and smell the acrid tang of digestive acid.

Soon, the ground itself rolled with living flesh, seeking to engulf every Bladebearer in a single sweep.

“Hah!”

The Bladebearers shouted with thunderous force.

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Suddenly, a pair of ghastly white hands stretched from behind to cover the leader’s eyes, skillfully employing “Ghostly Blindness” to dispel the illusion’s effects.

The writhing flesh before him reverted to mist, inflicting no real harm save for a few corroded patches on his clothes.

At the same time, the multitude of Yin spirits upon his back let out wailing shrieks. Some leapt to the backs of other Bladebearers who had not yet been initiated, their toes lightly tapping to complete the possession in an instant.

Faces turned ashen, eyes rolled white, and together they charged with sabers drawn, their aura rivaling even the temple’s ghostly troops.

Only a handful, their minds invaded by the mist, could not distinguish reality from nightmare. They screamed as they dissolved into the clam’s membrane, leaving behind only their clothing and weapons.

Huang Yuanzhou, as a Whiteshore Man, was ill-suited for land battle—he could not muster even half his power away from water. Yet here, on home ground he had ruled for three years, he would not flinch before these outsiders. Besides, a smoldering rage burned in his chest.

“Pah! Only a fool would believe these Bladebearers came to Yuegang on their own. More likely, like the Waterworks Directorate, they have powerful backers.”

“The old boatmaster is dead. Who knows how many eyes are watching our Five Peaks Banner, waiting to bite off a piece of our maritime trade, to send us to the bottom. Whether or not our young master has met with disaster, unless we retreat entirely from the imperial coast to our island stronghold, Five Peaks cannot give an inch.”

“Push me too far, and I’ll order my fleet to open fire. The red-barreled cannons and heavy falconets I bought at great expense could use a little luck. Even if it means betraying our elders’ wishes and turning pirate, so what? From now on, I’ll rob only the government ships!”

No one who made a name on the treacherous sea was born to suffer meekly. Huang Yuanzhou steeled his heart, caring nothing for the deeper meaning behind the Bladebearers’ brazen provocations. With a gesture—two fingers pointed as if holding a sword—he signaled his own followers, whose numbers far exceeded the Bladebearers.

“Go! Leave none alive!”

Whoosh—

The shrimp and crab soldiers conjured by the mist plunged into his elites, transforming their aura. Shadows flickered behind them, a cold fishy scent clinging to their bodies. Their strength and defense surged, and drawing their blades, they charged at the Bladebearers.

Two sinister tides crashed against one another.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Steel struck steel, sparks flying, cries of battle filling the air as blood began to flow in rivers.