Chapter Seventy-One: Hauntings in Moon Harbor – Bones Frozen by the Road

There is a problem: the more sluggish a lifeless object’s spiritual essence, the deeper the imprint belonging to others, and the harder it is to awaken. The abilities of a seventh-rank official are still somewhat limited; for now, I can only try to awaken one or two objects with abundant spirit. To turn a whole warship into a “ship demon,” I’ll have to wait until I reach the upper third rank.

Having already succeeded once with the seabird, Wang Cheng felt eager for another attempt. He turned his gaze to the Lionhead Plate, the warding artifact still affixed to the bow of the Zhang Fushun, not yet transferred to the Qingyi. It was the most spiritually potent object on board.

Taking advantage of the fresh wound on his finger, he pressed another drop of blood onto the golden horn protruding from the Lionhead Plate’s forehead.

A thunderous lion’s roar exploded in everyone’s ears, shaking the entire ship. From the plate leapt forth a phantom golden-maned lion, its body a yard long, emerald eyes burning with incense smoke. It circled the deck like a lord surveying its domain, then lowered its head to nuzzle Wang Cheng’s leg, docile as an oversized housecat.

Wang Cheng stroked the lion—no, judging by its golden horn, it was a suanni. The carpenter had shaped it as a suanni, but failed to imbue it with a dragon’s essence; its fierce appearance wouldn’t affect its actual combat prowess.

Even so, this “Guardian Spirit General” was no less formidable than the strongest tsukumogami that had emerged when Wang Cheng grasped fate during his coming-of-age ritual, from a heap of ancient relics. Moreover, this spirit could wield the warding artifact’s own powers: Authority and Ghostwind, vastly enhancing its battle agility. It was as if the ship had gained another official.

Even a pride of real lions would be easily subdued by it.

“Excellent, excellent. I’ll move you to the Qingyi in due course,” Wang Cheng nodded, satisfied. He then repeated the process on his treasured blade, the Chiwen.

Immediately, illusory blue-green scales shimmered along the edge, and a gold-green vertical pupil blinked open, gazing at Wang Cheng with adoration. The blade felt perfectly balanced in his hand; each flash of its keen edge seemed alive, slicing gold and jade with effortless grace.

Should it ever fall into enemy hands, it would surely betray its new owner with a fierce backstab!

Having successively awakened a white-headed eagle, a suanni, and a chiwen, Wang Cheng felt he still had energy left—perhaps enough to awaken an ocean monster, a local “grand lord.” Ideally, he could awaken the leader of a group of sea creatures, getting several for the price of one.

“So these are the methods of a divine official? Turning decay into wonder—our shipmaster truly is a god!”

“Even immortals are no more than this!”

The fishermen, limited in their knowledge, couldn’t grasp the mystery, but their hearts burned with longing, wishing to be the next to receive the ritual and join the ranks.

Especially Zhang Wu, the “Forgotten Mill Fate.” Inspired by Wang Cheng’s promotion, he resolved to reach pure yang in his lifefire as quickly as possible.

Having missed the chance to become a Whitewater Lad, he had decided to take up the post of Saltman, the salt-boiler’s job held by the imperial salt workers.

Three sufferings in this world: salt-boiling, iron-forging, tofu-grinding. In the coastal salt regions, the main method of producing salt was still the boiling process.

Saltmen spent their lives exposed to fierce winds, and in summer, to the cruel sun. When tsunamis or storms struck, their tools were destroyed, leaving them destitute and forced to start over.

During production, they endured heat, high salinity, humidity, and corrosion. Their eyes grew dry, their vision impaired; some became blind in old age. Cracked, ulcerated hands and feet were common occupational hazards…

Yet this grueling, exhausting official post suited Zhang Wu’s “Forgotten Mill Fate” perfectly: granting the strongest vitality, endurance, and tolerance for hardship, as well as an endless supply of suffering.

The only consolation: “The more I endure, the stronger I become.”

Saltman corresponded to April’s full yang, the third pentad of the Beginning of Summer—“King Melon Sprouts,” with its red hue, symbolizing the peak of yang.

Unlike Wang Cheng, who spared no expense with monkey brains and sea urchins, Zhang Wu’s quest to reach pure yang lifefire in three months was daunting. Yet he was spirited and determined:

“Brothers, train harder with me. Practice the ‘Eight Waves Blade’ routine a hundred times. Fail, and you’ll swim a hundred laps around the Zhang Fushun!”

His brother, Zhang Wen, with the “Lucky Good Fate” and spared from hardship, couldn’t just stand idly by, so he joined in, practicing the Yaksha Staff.

The other crew followed suit. The whole Qingyi Fishing Guild was swept up in Zhang Wu’s fervor—some training internally, others practicing sail, cannon, or musket formations.

Worst of all, Zhang Wu shouted as he trained: “Only those who contribute nothing to the Qingyi Guild need rest. We, the pillars of the fishermen, cannot be idle! The future of the fishermen is in our hands.

“At your age, at this stage, how can you sleep easily? From now on, every morning at four, I’ll lead extra drills.

“If you can’t give your all, don’t call yourself my brother!”

Those who’d grown up with him groaned in protest.

Wang Cheng, however, was deeply gratified to have such a brother as his deputy; not only did he push everyone, he took the blame on himself. Wang Cheng immediately decided to name Zhang Wu the guild’s exemplary leader for the year, promising him a generous bonus at year’s end.

“Besides this basic awakening method, I must hurry to petition Father for the complete ‘Favorable Winds Guide to Ritual Law.’ Then Zhang Wu can choose any technique he likes.

“The big promise must not only be painted, but actually baked—otherwise, these honest people’s suffering would be wasted, costing me my virtue.”

…

While Wang Cheng was officiating rituals outside, only ten days remained until the final deadline for “Nine Dragons Spitting Pearls,” the second day of the second lunar month.

Though the port had been turbulent, it enjoyed a brief calm around New Year. Before the locals could rejoice that the monstrous “Year Beast” hadn’t descended on Xiangzhou Prefecture, unrest returned.

“Didn’t check the almanac before leaving—missed the hour again. What a miserable day,” grumbled Song Xiaoliu, helper at the Wanfu Restaurant in the port, tasked with delivering meals to clients.

Daytime deliveries were fine, but at night he often missed the proper hour, returning home after dark.

Tonight was no different. Seeing the rising yellow moon, Song Xiaoliu clutched the peachwood talisman hidden in his sleeve, anxiety gnawing at him.

“Have I wandered into Green Willow Alley?”

He realized he’d taken a shortcut home and entered a lane lined with a few large willows. He recalled that three months ago, at the end of winter, he’d passed here while delivering food, only to have his meal stolen by local toughs.

Luckily, the customer hadn’t blamed him, even tipping him a silver coin for his trouble.

“Such bad luck!”

He lowered his head and hurried past the weed-choked doorway. Whether from nerves or genuine cold, he felt icy drafts creeping up his neck.

He tightened his clothes and cursed, “Ghost weather.”

Spring had officially begun, and the second solar term—Rain Water—had arrived, but the lingering chill of the deepest winter still enveloped the port.

It seemed spring had never arrived; they remained trapped in last year’s great cold.

As he walked, Song Xiaoliu suddenly noticed the warm yellow glow of firelight behind a willow at the lane’s end. The sight alone sent a surge of warmth through him.

Drawn irresistibly, he approached and found a group gathered around a bonfire.

Among them were two familiar faces who greeted him warmly:

“It’s Xiaoliu, what a coincidence.”

“Come warm yourself by the fire before you head home.”

He recognized one as Old Hu, the neighbor who had drunkenly frozen to death on the roadside before the New Year. The other was Old Shi, a childless, elderly beggar, also found frozen stiff during the coldest days.

Since they were acquaintances, Song Xiaoliu let his guard down and joined them. He set down his bundle and meal box, squeezed in with the others, and sat by the fire.

Bathed in the cozy glow, he felt himself growing warmer and warmer, until he couldn’t resist loosening his collar.

“This fire is truly wonderful.

“Since I live alone, I’ll save tonight’s fuel, and tomorrow I’ll take the month’s saved charcoal to my parents in the countryside.”

He sat by the fire all night.

By morning, residents of Green Willow Alley found a naked corpse lying on the ground, pallid and emaciated.

Judging by the scene, the deceased had grown too hot before death and stripped off all clothing.

There was indeed a heap of extinguished ashes nearby, but upon closer inspection, it was clear the fire hadn’t been wood, but a pile of dried human bones.