This chapter, though modest in length, numbers but seven thousand words, for another tale awaits tonight.

Lu Tai gestured towards the courtyard gate, declaring that he had affixed the Treasure Pagoda Demon-Repelling Talisman. Beyond that threshold lay the swirling currents of the Jianghu, but within, they trod upon the hallowed ground of the mountain itself. He then confessed to Chen Ping’an a thirst only drink could quench.

And so, Flying Eagle Castle stirred with a newfound vibrancy, a warmth that banished the previous chill of somber isolation. A sense of ease settled upon its inhabitants, for two foreign masters had graced their halls. They were not the wandering heroes nor the renowned figures familiar to Flying Eagle Castle, but beings of arcane and mystical power. Even Master He, himself a figure of peculiar repute, seemed ordinary in their presence, replaced by an air of refreshing strangeness.

The middle-aged man, invited with courtesy by the Castle Lord, rode a white horse through Flying Eagle Castle’s winding streets. On either side of his saddle hung great bundles of pine and cypress boughs. Each time, the man, wielding a whisk, ignited a branch not with flint, but with the mere snap of his fingers. Flames bloomed, releasing fragrant smoke that spiraled into the air.

Those of Flying Eagle Castle who watched from afar, particularly the white-haired elders with memories of bygone days, began to impart their learned lore. This, they proclaimed, was “Tingliao,” a wondrous immortal technique capable of dispelling evil spirits and cleansing defilement. For pine, being the longest-lived of all trees, was known as the “Eighteenth Duke,” akin to a Duke of the Imperial Court. Cypress stood second only to pine as a Marquis. The pine and cypress of sacred mountains, in particular, possessed great nobility, and their burning, combined with immortal incantations, could aid in the understanding of spirits.

Compared to the tall man and his noble steed, the other master, a slovenly old man, seemed altogether common. His methods were rustic and unrefined, and few within Flying Eagle Castle sought his company. It was said that he was the master of the young Taoist Huang Shang, a mountain hermit who had encountered the old Castle Lord in his worldly travels. The old man, upon consulting the heavens from his mountain abode, had divined that Flying Eagle Castle faced dire straits. Thus, he had descended to offer blessings and ward off calamity.

The slovenly old man wore neither Taoist robes nor did he scribe talismans or conduct grand rituals. Instead, he had captured seven or eight roosters, suspending them at the gate of Flying Eagle Castle, the entrance of the ancestral hall, the mouth of the well, and even the practice grounds. He would spend his days watching over these feathered creatures, a millet bag slung around his waist filled with glutinous rice, and a pot of clear water beside him. The water was not drawn from the castle’s well, but brought by his disciple Huang Shang from the purest springs of the distant mountains.

Chen Ping’an and Lu Tai parted ways. Lu Tai found amusement in the spectacle of the so-called Taiping Mountain Immortal Master, indulging in illusions, while Chen Ping’an sought to discern the true nature of the old man’s methods. A layman sees the show; a master sees the skill. Chen Ping’an lingered somewhere in between. Though the intent of the Taoist’s actions remained obscure, he observed that after the hanging of each rooster, the malevolent energy of the Yin Wind seemed to abate, just like two armies facing each other, one side avoids its edge, but this kind of force retreat, there will be no casualties, and hides in the Just accumulating momentum in the
The old man’s brow furrowed deep as he offered the rooster glutinous rice and clear water. He knew, as the weathered Taoist knew, that the auguries were grim, a shadow cast long before the eclipse.

Meanwhile, the whisk-wielding charlatan swaggered through the market, a smugness plastered on his face as if all the devils of the Netherworld would scatter before his brandished broom. Huan Chang and Huanshu, the dutiful pair, walked beside him, spreading his hollow pronouncements like seed.

Tao Xieyang, pale and consumed by a persistent cough, clung close to the old Taoist, Huang Shang at his side.

Lu Tai spoke little of their respective levels of attainment, only that the swaggering one was no disciple of the esteemed Taiping Mountain in Tongyezhou. The humble old man, however, was a true hermit of the mountain, adhering to the Way hidden within nature, a blend of benevolence, wisdom, and peace nestled amongst the soaring peaks and rushing rivers.

Taiping Mountain was the foremost sect of central Tongyezhou, surpassing even the Spiritual Sect in power, yet they remained secluded, almost weary of the world. Masters of internal and external alchemy, their name echoed faintly in the Middle Earth God, though their renown paled compared to the more boisterous orders of Tongye and Yugui.

Two more days of uneasy calm passed.

Even the denizens of Feiying Castle, who dwelt in the shadowy alleys, felt the oppressive weight of the coming storm.

At dawn, when the sun should have painted the sky in hues of gold and rose, black clouds, thick as a dragon’s scales, writhed above Feiying Castle. They pulsed and shifted, resembling monstrous claws tearing at the very sky, crushing the hearts of all who looked upon them. Old He Ya, the weary manager, declared, “No schooling today! Send the children home at once!” Elated, the children departed in boisterous groups, pointing at the writhing darkness above. One saw a centipede, another a monstrous buffalo, but then a child shrieked, pointing at a face, cruel and female, etched within the churning clouds. Terror seized them, and they scattered, racing home, their laughter swallowed by the encroaching gloom.

Chen Ping’an, practicing his stances in the courtyard, had felt the shift in the celestial currents long ago. Lu Tai sat at the stone table, his face a mask of serene concentration as his fingers danced in arcane calculations.

The early morning, robbed of its light, felt like the dead of night. The sun, a distant memory, could not pierce the encroaching darkness smothering Flying Eagle Castle.

Then, from the labyrinthine alleys, Chen Ping’an heard it again – the chilling laughter, a disembodied echo swirling on the wind.

He ceased his practice, rushed to open the gate, and gazed upwards. The ordinary demon-banishing talisman, once vibrant, had grown dull with age and the slow seepage of its spiritual essence. The once-bright yellow paper, like a year-old spring blessing, was faded, creased, and riddled with splotches where the protective ink had bled away. No wonder the vile spirits dared to show themselves, to mock and provoke.

Lu Tai emerged from the courtyard, his sleeves billowing in the unnatural wind. He stood beside Chen Ping’an, both gazing at the decaying talisman. “In the distant age when talismans held true power,” Lu Tai murmured, “even the least amongst the sorcerers, those barely beyond the realm of the seventh-level martial artist, could weave potent wards. Only those with the strength of the Nine Realms were considered truly worthy of the craft. And those talismans, imbued with such power, were undeniably formidable. Among them, the ‘Mr. Sanshan Jiuhou’ is spoken of as the source of ‘authentic talisman’. Sadly, we, their descendants, know not if this is a person, a title, or some forgotten secret.”

Chen Ping’an stood on tiptoe, removed the talisman, and tucked it carefully into his sleeve.
A hush fell, sudden and complete, as if the very air had been stifled. From the muddy ruts of the alley, a cloying fog exhaled, snaking its way upwards. First it grazed ankles, then climbed to knees, and soon, it lapped at the waists of those unfortunate enough to stand within its reach.

For Chen Ping’an, it was akin to lifting the lid from a steaming pot – the alley instantly filled with the oppressive mist, though unlike the comforting aromas of rice and coriander from a cookstove, this fog reeked of damp earth and a faint, unsettling fishy tang.

He turned, his gaze sweeping the narrow space. Thankfully, the spectral tide had yet to breach the wards of the courtyard gates. Yet even as he watched, the vibrant images of door gods – martial saints and gilded deities of wealth – flickered, emitting a faint, desperate squeal. The meager vestiges of spiritual power that had once shielded the homes now waned, offering no further protection.

Then he saw them, at the alley’s end: the pair in white, one towering, the other diminutive. The child, his face a canvas of ghastly pallor, fixed Chen Ping’an with a stare. From the depths of his crimson eyes, rivulets of blood spilled forth, trickling down his cheeks. But the blood did not fall. Instead, it writhed upon his skin, twisting like earthworms in and out of the boy’s empty sockets, transforming them into gruesome nests.

The adult, looming beside the child, bore no features at all. His face was a blank expanse of white, as if shrouded in a thick, seamless cloth, devoid of eyes, nose, mouth, or ears.

And they were not alone. From the shadows, other horrors emerged, drawn by the pall. A crone with eyes like dead fish scrambled along the wall, her frail limbs moving with unnatural agility. She fixed Chen Ping’an with her gaze, a constant whisper escaping her cracked lips: “I hunger for flesh…”

Beneath the wall, huddled in despair, sat a gaggle of children. They pressed their faces into their drawn-up knees, emitting low, keening whimpers that danced on the wind. Their cries, fragmented and lost, hinted at untold sorrows, stories too ancient, too vast for their young tongues to articulate.

Despite the macabre spectacle, Chen Ping’an felt no fear. This was not the bravado of ignorance, but the quiet courage forged in solitude and strange encounters. Had he not, as a child of five, dared to wander the forbidden grounds of the Immortal’s Grave, braving wind and rain? He had seen stranger mountains and rivers on his journeys to Tongyezhou. Was he now to be cowed by such a paltry display?

The pair, adult and child, had drawn near, now standing before the courtyard gate. Yet Chen Ping’an remained unmoved, stepping forward to the edge of the stone steps, as if poised to greet them.

The child, his bloodied gaze never wavering, finally spoke, his voice slow and deliberate. “Your meat… it smells so sweet. Might I have a bite? Just a taste of your…heart. Would you mind if I just took your heart?”

He spoke with unnatural cadence, each word a venomous caress, yet continued to move forward. By the time he uttered “heart,” he had turned his back to Chen Ping’an, though his head remained twisted around, his blood-slick tongue flicking out to taste the air.

With a guttural shriek, the crone on the wall launched herself forward, a grotesque parody of a leap, intent on tearing at his flesh.

Chen Ping’an barely glanced at her. With a single, effortless stride, he descended the steps. His boot had not yet touched the alley’s floor when his fist shot forth, a precise and terrible blow that connected with the crone’s skull. The impact shattered the wall behind her, reducing it to rubble. No sound escaped her lips, no final, desperate wail.

Witnessing their comrade’s swift demise, the shadows erupted in a chaotic surge of dark energy. Tormented spirits, fueled by bitter resentment, surged towards Chen Ping’an, a ravenous wave of unholy hunger.

Calmly, Chen Ping’an tucked one hand into his sleeve, facing the onslaught with only his right hand. The power of his fist remained coiled, a silent storm gathering within his arm.
The qi within him, though compact and unswollen, held a devastating power, each punch a hammer blow against the denizens of shadow. For Chen Ping’an in those days, summoning this nascent strength was akin to drawing water from a bottomless well, a laborious task.

But to the eyes of the lurking darkness, the boy’s white-robed arm was a sliver of sun, a searing brand against the endless night, burning with impossible light.

In the span of a few heartbeats, the narrow alleys teemed with seven or eight hundred specters, a swarming tide of the unliving.

Lu Tai, perched upon a nearby stoop, watched with folded arms and a knowing smile playing on his lips.

A wraith-child, who had earlier vowed to devour Chen Ping’an’s heart, slipped free of a spectral elder’s grasp and darted forward. With a phantom hand sharpened into a blade, it aimed to pierce the boy’s back, seeking to rip the beating organ from his chest.

Swift was the blow, yet even as the child tasted imagined triumph, it shrieked in agony. Contact with the white robe was akin to striking a forge’s heart. The spectral snow melted, stopped not, and a considerable portion of its spectral limb vanished in a wisp of smoke.

Chen Ping’an, heedless, kept his left hand casually behind his back, his gaze fixed on a featureless horror. He leaned back, delivering a swift, elbow strike to the charging child. The robe, imbued with the golden essence of potent wine, brushed against the wraith, and it dissolved like wax before a flame, becoming a wisp of acrid smoke. Chen Ping’an, spinning with unexpected grace, smashed the insubstantial smoke with a fist.

“A bit unsporting, wouldn’t you say?” Lu Tai chuckled.

Chen Ping’an merely curled his lip. “It was barely a soul.”

Abruptly, Chen Ping’an’s head snapped around, his gaze piercing the darkness at the alley’s end.

From a nearby well, whose waters were as black as pitch, a malevolent force stirred. It crept up the well’s inner walls, shrouding the meager Yang energy of the street with its chilling mist. Spilling over the lip of the well, it poured into the alley, and upon “seeing” Chen Ping’an’s subjugation of the wraith-child, it hesitated, then retreated back into the depths.

From Chen Ping’an’s sleeve emerged his right hand, twirling a brand new pagoda demon-suppressing talisman. He muttered a silent command, addressing one known only as Fifteen. From the gourd at his hip, a verdant, nimble flying sword soared. It flashed behind him, its tip pinning the yellow paper talisman, dragging a golden trail in its wake.

The talisman, intended for the vengeful wraith, was now aimed elsewhere. Having secured his flank, Chen Ping’an felt emboldened, and resumed his spectral boxing.

With the foulness in the well having shown its hand, Chen Ping’an commanded Fifteen to plant the demon-banishing talisman, cutting off its retreat and cleansing the tainted water.

Swift as the well water flowed, it was no match for the winged speed of Flying Sword Fifteen.

Arriving at the well, haunted by the sorrowful sobs of a wronged woman, the sword plunged into the wellhead, impaling the golden pagoda talisman upon its rim.

It then ascended, circling the well’s opening.

The waters within churned, revealing a grotesque face of resentment and hate. A tendril of the black liquid, refusing to be contained, attempted to flee as smoke, but was quickly extinguished. The talisman remained steadfast, radiating holy light. The tormented water coalesced, forming a towering, ten-foot-tall figure, vaguely humanoid, its form writhing with the power of a restless sea. It remained, a specter of the deep, unbowed and defiant.
Flying Sword Fifteen, perceiving this watery mockery, responded with swift judgment. It pierced the forehead of the water-formed being, then, as if savoring the insult, spun and ripped through the spectral flesh again, emerging from its back in a cruel, looping dance.

Never, perhaps, had the water spirit encountered such potent sword-will. The newly formed humanoid faltered, its form dissolving into a thin veil that scattered across the alley, desperate to flee.

Fifteen paid no heed to these evasive tricks. The tip of the blade continued to dart and prick, relentlessly harrying the fleeing essence.

Across the alley, the puppeteer who sought to bind the water spirit to his will recoiled, a flicker of fear in his eyes. His desire for battle with Chen Ping’an vanished; he turned instead to flee into the dead end.

But Chen Ping’an, with surprising speed, crossed the distance, planting his palm firmly upon the seemingly solid wall.

Another talisman, shimmering with righteous power, flared into existence.

Instantly, the wall shed its illusion, revealing its ghastly truth: a grotesque tapestry of bone, intertwined with the brittle skeletons of children, some still bearing the marks of a brutal, premature birth.

At the wall’s base, the huddled specters of children, clutching their heads in silent terror, whimpered and choked, their spectral forms shrinking in on themselves.

A surge of righteous fury flooded Chen Ping’an’s heart.

As the manipulator attempted to ascend and escape the alley’s confines, the enraged Chen Ping’an seized the featureless face with a grasping hand. His fingers, like steel hooks, sunk deep. The sleeves of his robe, embroidered with the Golden Lily, rippled with power, radiating the warmth and solace of a thousand-year-old shrine. The captured entity issued a keening wail, a prayer for oblivion from the depths of its tormented soul. Clenching the spirit in his right hand, Chen Ping’an unleashed a furious blow with his left, the entire arm glowing with golden light, fueled by his own righteous intent and the potent spirit liquor he consumed.

He twisted his right arm, tearing a gaping hole in the spirit’s heart.

Unsatisfied, Chen Ping’an commenced a brutal, deliberate unraveling of the entity’s soul. With precise control, he peeled away sliver after sliver, like the agonizing punishment of flaying. Each fragment of soul was drawn into the depths of his robe, the Golden Lily amplifying its torment, inflicting upon the wraith the agonizing sensations of a living being torn limb from limb.

Lu Tai, witnessing the spectacle, rose and whispered, “Chen Ping’an, enough.”

Chen Ping’an drew a deep breath, releasing his grip with his left hand. He yanked his right hand from the ruined heart of the spirit, then crushed the remaining essence with a single, decisive blow. With a mighty sweep of his sleeves, he gathered the fragments and cast them out, the ashes falling to the ground like a mournful rain.

He looked to the base of the wall. The spectral children remained, huddled and trembling, awaiting their inevitable doom. They whimpered and sobbed, uttering fragmented pleas, trapped in a cycle of perpetual suffering.

Chen Ping’an turned and swiftly tore the demon-suppressing talisman from the gruesome wall.

He strode several paces forward, then knelt beside a child curled into a tight ball, its head buried in its arms. It was no older than three years. Chen Ping’an extended a hand, striving to suppress the force of his righteous anger and the potent liquor swirling within him, willing his robe to appear as ordinary cloth. But still, the child trembled violently.

Chen Ping’an quickly rolled up his sleeves, baring his arms to the shoulders, and gently patted the child’s head.

Words failed him.

Everything felt insufficient.
A babe’s innocent cries, a world awash in sorrow – even if bound by the iron chains of karmic debt, should it not wait until a child has known a few sunrises, grasped a little understanding?

Chen Ping’an felt the injustice of it, a wrongness deep in his bones. For he knew empathy as keenly as a blade.

He withdrew his hand, brushed his eyes with the back of it, and turned to Lu Tai, hope flickering in his gaze. “Is there a way?”

Lu Tai’s steps were slow, the usual playful breeze absent from his demeanor. He nodded. “Are you not master of the lamp talisman, weaver of yang energy? Reverse its flow, and it becomes a beacon for the yin. I shall then sketch a ferry talisman of the underworld, a vessel to carry these small souls. Your inverted talisman will whisper to these lost fragments, urging them to rise and walk by instinct. My talisman will open a door, show them the path to follow.”

Chen Ping’an called upon Fei Jian Shi Wu in his heart.

The flying sword obeyed, streaking back from the alley’s mouth.

Chen Ping’an drew a square of yellow talisman paper from his pouch, along with a small grindstone, and settled cross-legged. Pen in hand, talisman paper balanced on his knee, he began, under Lu Tai’s tutelage, to attempt the first inversion of yang to yin. But his heart was troubled, his hand faltered, and the talisman failed. Lu Tai offered no word, simply observed. Chen Ping’an took a deep breath, drew another sheet, and tried again. Failure. A thing almost unheard of for Chen Ping’an, so disciplined in his practice.

A shadow of confusion clouded his face.

Lu Tai sighed softly.

For within Chen Ping’an’s heart, one of the fractured mirrors of his soul was trembling.

Lu Tai unfurled his bamboo fan and sniffed at it lightly. He did not look at Chen Ping’an. “Do not try to wear every shoe, young friend. Learn to stand apart.”

“Worry not about the talismans. I have endured ages. Surely, these little ones can wait a moment longer.”

The land spirit fanned a gentle breeze, coaxing the yin clouds to dissipate within the alley, beckoning the yang energy, filtered and thin from the dark clouds above, to return. He spoke softly, “Once this matter is settled, I shall go directly to the bamboo estate, to the castle lord’s wife. Chen Ping’an, you need not accompany me. I require your aid in dispersing the dark clouds and whatever foul magic hides within them. The sorcerer behind this is no mere dabbler. Worry not for me.”

Chen Ping’an nodded, his face grim.

Lu Tai tilted his head to the heavens. “I can guess at the truth now. The slow decay, the ebb of yin and yang within Feiying Castle, these last decades, has been orchestrated. All to nurture the castle lord’s wife, a vessel born with a soul steeped in yin, so that within her heart, a ghost child, a horror unseen in centuries, might gestate. Fed not by the womb, but by the very qi, the blood, the life force of the woman, draining her for years. They say a heart brimming with ghosts is a terrible thing, and indeed. The wife of the castle lord, untrained in cultivation, lacks the vitality to withstand this. And so the castle suffers alongside her, strange things afoot. To prolong her suffering, to prolong the baby’s feast, is to condemn her to a living death. And after, no peace awaits. Truly, a tragic fate.”

Chen Ping’an’s brow furrowed.

Lu Tai continued, his voice low. “According to the ancient texts in my library, such a thing, upon its birth, possesses the six realms of cultivation. A creature of immense power, difficult to bind, easy to lose. A task most daunting lies ahead.”
“Unless slain with a single, decisive blow, the Ghost Infant is nigh impossible to vanquish. Its foul appetite demands the internal organs of the living, and unchecked, it needs scarcely a century. A mere handful of cities, the consumption of a hundred thousand souls – such gruesome feasts grant it ascension to the Nascent Soul Realm. So dreadfully difficult is its hunt, that naught less than three Earth Immortals, united in purpose, stand a chance of its undoing. A lone cultivator of the Nascent Soul Realm, daring to trespass within its domain, would find himself naught but bait for its depraved hunger.”

Lu Tai scoffed, “Such horrors are mere trifles in the blessed isles of Middle Earth, yet here in Tongyezhou, they are deemed a grave threat.”

He ceased his words, snapping open his bamboo fan, a gentle breeze caressing his face.

Chen Ping’an remained silent for a moment, then spoke softly, “Continue thy crafting of talismans.”

Lu Tai cast a sidelong glance at Chen Ping’an, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

At last, his purpose would be fulfilled! Chen Ping’an wiped sweat from his brow, preparing to sheathe the Yin Qi Guitar. Lu Tai, bewildered, questioned, “What dost thou?”

“The material of these paper strips is base, fit only for practice…” Chen Ping’an replied.

Lu Tai snatched the talisman from his hand, indignation blazing in his eyes. “Thou fool! This charm is more than sufficient for these wretched shades. Nay, it might even stir avarice within them! Continue to weave them between the veils of Yin and Yang. These lost souls are a blight.”

Chen Ping’an nodded, first offering the small cone of frozen sweetness to Lu Tai. Before drawing forth more talisman paper, he inquired, “Thy ferry talisman, meant to breach the boundaries of the Underworld, differs greatly from this simple guide. Does the efficacy of the latter then, increase with the quality of the material?”

Lu Tai’s lips parted, then closed, leaving the question unanswered.

Chen Ping’an understood, drawing forth a sheet of golden talisman paper.

Lu Tai did not reach for it. “Is it worth the cost?”

Chen Ping’an nodded, his answer resolute.

Lu Tai shook his head. “I deem it not.”

Chen Ping’an turned his gaze upon the rows of pallid faces, their eyes vacant, lining the wall. He faced Lu Tai, a grin splitting his face, determination etched upon his features. “Thou need only wield this paper, but let no error mar its crafting.”

Lu Tai sighed, closing his eyes a moment, composing himself. He gripped the snow cone tightly, then with solemn breath, opened his eyes and began to draw the ferry talisman of the Underworld upon the golden canvas. This sacred sigil, unique to the Yin-Yang Family of Middle Earth, depicted a solitary boat, an old man clutching artemisia upon its deck, flanked by strings of ancient, arcane seals.

Chen Ping’an trusted in Lu Tai’s skill. He turned his attention back to the children.

Once, in Yang’s shop, he had overheard the damning phrase: “Not worth it.”

Now, he gazed upon these children, seeing within them echoes of himself, awaiting an answer.

After a tense moment, Lu Tai smiled. “The deed is done!”

He offered the snow cone back to Chen Ping’an. Both rose to their feet. Chen Ping’an lifted the Yin Qi Guitar, imbuing it with a sliver of pure True Qi. The talisman pulsed with spiritual light, a gentle luminescence quite unlike the sharp glare of the Yang Qi Guitar. As the guide talisman was revealed, the children beneath the wall stirred, lifting their heads in a daze, their eyes fixed on the talisman in Chen Ping’an’s hand, filled with longing and joy.

Lu Tai flung the ferry talisman, crafted from golden paper, toward the wall of corpses at the alley’s end. The talisman adhered to the wall, and golden lines erupted, tracing the edges of each frame. The center of the paper began to unravel, as if unweaving itself from existence.
A thread of gold, spun from purest starlight, unfurled endlessly, weaving itself into a majestic archway – a portal shimmering with untold possibilities.

“Tread carefully, Master Chen,” Lutai instructed, her voice barely a whisper, urging the young man who clutched the Guide Talisman forward. “A measured pace will serve you well.”

The children, little wisps of ethereal ointment given form, stirred and rose as one. Drawn by the talisman’s magic, they trailed behind Chen Ping’an, their silent procession leading them down the shadowed alley towards the gate of shimmering gold.

Lutai, perched upon the weathered stone steps of the courtyard, rested her chin in her hand, her gaze fixed on Chen Ping’an’s back.

Following Lutai’s precise instruction, Chen Ping’an gently placed the Yin Qi Guiding Talisman before the gate, hovering just above the threshold. A soft hum resonated, the air crackling with nascent energy.

One by one, the children danced and skipped, older siblings leading the younger ones, as they passed through the golden archway.

As they crossed the threshold, each turned, their faces squeezing together in the narrow space, their eyes fixed on the boy in white standing outside. They offered smiles, unsettling and radiant, a paradoxical innocence blossoming from creatures of shadow.

Lutai could not discern Chen Ping’an’s reaction to this spectral farewell.

Disguised in a man’s blue tunic, she, who was truly named Lu Fu and in defiance of her ancestor Lu Chen, watched as Chen Ping’an simply waved goodbye to the fleeting figures, sending them on their way.