Chapter 22: The Woman in Red

Zhang Shouzheng opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. He struggled with all his might to move, only to find his body utterly immobilized—as if shackled by some invisible force. Alarmed beyond measure, he realized he was entirely at the mercy of whatever held him, like a fish laid out on a chopping block.

The shadow sat motionless atop his waist. Though blurred, its shape revealed a woman—her hair cascading down, draping over Zhang Shouzheng’s body like a curtain of black serpents, slithering and coiling around him, slowly wrapping him tight. Wisps of black mist seeped from the strands, and the room’s temperature plummeted.

A chilling yin energy seeped gradually into his body, intent on breaking down his resistance bit by bit. The hair, disturbingly substantial, was no illusion; it wound around his flesh with dreadful reality.

His Qiankun Pearl, which he’d tucked into his pocket after changing clothes, was growing hot—but blocked by the fabric, its effect was stifled. He realized he was being pinned down by a female ghost. How laughable—he, a disciple of the Azure Dragon branch of the Celestial Dao Sect, being pressed under a ghost in the night! The thought filled him with bitter frustration.

If his master had not passed away, these demons and ghosts would not dare approach the temple. Now, injured and his yang energy depleted, he was an easy target. Still, cultivators’ vital essence far surpassed that of ordinary people, making them particularly tempting prey for powerful malevolent spirits, who often targeted the weaker disciples of the Daoist sects.

This specter was at least of the Qi Absorbing level, he reckoned. Even uninjured, he might not be her equal. Moreover, she was likely a ghost native to this mountain—her presence felt oddly familiar.

Though the room adjoined the main hall, strictly speaking, it did not belong to the Azure Dragon Temple proper; thus, the ancestral statue’s protection did not extend here. The statue had been blessed daily by his master, but now that his master was gone, the blessings would soon fade, reducing it to nothing more than ordinary stone. If the blessings had continued, the statue might have birthed a spirit of its own, just as the stone lion at the gate had once done.

Now, more strands of hair wormed beneath his clothes, coiling around his bare skin. Zhang Shouzheng could only watch, speechless. Suddenly, the ghost moved, emitting a chilling, girlish cackle that made his blood run cold.

Her features sharpened in the gloom, and upon seeing her face, Zhang Shouzheng’s heart quailed. Her skin was ghastly pale, yet riddled with cracks like porcelain ready to shatter. Her nose was aquiline, her eyes burned a demonic red, and most terrifying of all was her tongue—over a foot long, preternaturally agile, dripping viscous saliva that splashed onto his face.

A hanging ghost!

Zhang Shouzheng’s horror deepened as the ghost’s features became clearer. Her clothing also became distinguishable: a tattered red jacket.

This was no simple case of sleep paralysis. Hanging ghosts were the vengeful spirits of those who died by their own hand, usually driven by utter despair and consumed by resentment that lingered past death. The red attire signified that, in life, she’d possessed some rudimentary knowledge of Daoist arts—she knew that dying in red would yield a more powerful, baleful spirit, one whose energy was greatly magnified.

The red-clad ghost licked his face with her grotesque tongue, leaving behind a fetid, foul stench that invaded his nostrils, and a frozen patch where her saliva touched. The entire room had turned to ice; a thin frost coated the bedsheets, and even the table had grown slick with rime.

He shivered uncontrollably, but there was nothing he could do. He was well and truly ensnared.

Though his cultivation was at the Night Roaming stage, the ghost, being at least Qi Absorbing, could be challenged with Azure Dragon secret arts. Yet this one, he feared, was of the Day Walking rank—one level higher, making her an overwhelming opponent.

Suddenly, the ghost’s hand shot out, gripping his chin and forcing his mouth open. She smiled with a chilling grin, her voice sharp as a knife scraping porcelain.

“Shouzheng, I’ve waited so long for this chance. Once I’ve devoured your yang energy, I’ll recover my Manifest Yin form, and then I’ll finally be able to leave this place and seek vengeance on those who wronged me.”

“You… you know me!” Zhang Shouzheng found he could speak, though his body remained paralyzed.

“Of course I know you. My bones are buried in Azure Dragon Mountain, and your master tried to help my soul find peace. Naturally, I know who you are,” the red-clad ghost replied, her voice drifting through the air.

“Good elder sister, look at me—so weak. Wouldn’t it be better to let me recover, and then you can take my yang energy?” Zhang Shouzheng’s eyes darted about as he spoke, searching for anything in the room he could use.

“Smack!” The red-clad ghost struck him hard across the face, her anger flaring. “You little brat, trying to trick me? Do you think I don’t know you? If I wait for you to recover, how could I catch you so easily?”

The slap set his cheek ablaze, and fear gripped his heart. This ghost was nearly at the Manifest Yin stage; otherwise, she could not have harmed his physical body. She dared not draw his blood, however, clearly aware he bore Pure Yang blood—a bane to all evil spirits.

Those with pure yin or pure yang constitutions rarely lived long. Many died young, often victims of ghostly mischief. But if such a person pursued the Dao, these dangers could be averted. For fourteen years, Zhang Shouzheng had survived only under Qingxu’s protection.

The red-clad ghost, unwilling to hear another word, retracted her tongue and twisted her head with a grotesque creak of bones. Her hair grew wildly, tearing his clothes apart with a cacophony of ripping fabric. Suddenly, with a startled cry, the ghost’s form dissolved into a cloud of black mist.

The Qiankun Pearl fell to the floor, blazing hot and shining brightly in the gloom. Freed at last, Zhang Shouzheng wiped the slick saliva from his face, snatched up the searing pearl, and hurled it with all his might at the coalescing ghost, shouting, “Get lost, you hag!”

The pearl blazed with golden light, dispersing much of the ghostly mist. The red-clad ghost screamed, an ear-piercing wail, and fled.

“Zhang Shouzheng, with all that pure yang energy in your body, I will never let you go!” Her shriek echoed with fury, lingering in the night air.

Zhang Shouzheng collapsed onto the bed like a deflated balloon, his body drenched in sweat as if he’d just been hauled from the river. After such an ordeal, there was no hope of sleep.