“Ahh!” Wang Weizhen, covered in blood, red-eyed and furious, grabbed the neck of the Hanba with one hand, and brutally shoved coins into its mouth with the other. But in the next instant, that very arm separated from his body and slowly soared into the air…
Puchi…
A spray of blood spewed from his mouth, yet Wang Weizhen burst into wild laughter.
Puchi…
The Hanba’s hands pierced straight through his body, splattering blood and internal organs—some even scattering onto the ground, including coils of dark purple intestines.
Yet Wang Weizhen, with his last ounce of strength, clung tightly to the Hanba, refusing to let go.
“Quick! Strike now!” Wang Weizhen pointed at his own chest and shouted.
“You… why must you do this!” Zhang Enpu, sword in hand, hesitated, unable to bring himself to strike.
“Do it! If you don’t strike now… it’ll be… too late…” Wang Weizhen groaned through the unbearable pain.
“Fine!” Zhang Enpu gritted his teeth, tears filling his aged eyes. “Mr. Wang, your merit shall never be forgotten. I, Zhang Enpu, will always remember.”
With that, the sword shot forward, piercing the spot Wang had pointed at.
With a dull sound, the blade passed effortlessly through Wang Weizhen’s body and pierced the Hanba behind him, leaving a gaping wound.
As the corpse’s qi escaped through the wound, the Hanba was no longer impervious to weapons. This was its fatal weakness. With a flick of his sword, filled with boundless hatred, Zhang Enpu severed the Hanba’s head.
With a loud thud, the Hanba’s body finally collapsed to the ground, motionless at last.
Zhang Enpu exhaled heavily, slapped a talisman onto the Hanba’s corpse, and shouted to the people hiding outside the house, “Carry this out and burn it completely to ashes!”
“As for those bitten by the Hanba, apply a poultice made from aged sticky rice mixed with snake medicine externally, and take three or two cups of realgar wine internally. They’ll recover in three days.”
The people outside nodded in agreement and carried the Hanba away. Zhang Enpu shook his head, squatted down, and grasped Wang Weizhen’s hand with a sigh, “Why must you do this?”
“Hehe… you wouldn’t understand…” Wang Weizhen spat out a bit of blood. Everyone knew there was no hope left for him now.
“Sigh!” Zhang Enpu tightened his grip on Wang’s hand.
“Old Wang, Old Wang…” Liu Dashao shook his arm, his voice choked with sobs.
“Dashao… can I ask one last favor from you?” Wang Weizhen struggled to keep breathing, clearly unwilling to pass on without fulfilling his final wish.
“Just don’t die, okay? I won’t call you an old fraud anymore. I’ll even find you a wife…” Liu Dashao cried out.
“After I die… bury me… next to… your Aunt Fan…” His final words were barely out when his eyes rolled back and he breathed his last.
Liu Dashao understood. Wang wanted to be buried beside Aunt Fan, so they could chat in death and make up for the neglect he’d shown her in life.
Actually, even if he hadn’t said it, Liu Dashao would have done it anyway.
Wang the Fortune Teller’s hand was ice cold, just like Liu Dashao’s heart.
“Dashao, grieve later. We still have things to do,” Zhang Enpu said, gently patting his shoulder from behind.
“Isn’t it all over now?”
“Haha,” Zhang Enpu shook his head. “This isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning!”
“What do you mean?” Liu Dashao looked up in shock.
Zhang Enpu waved his hand. “Let the villagers carry Mr. Wang’s body out first. Come, let’s go to the courtyard—I’ll explain everything to you.”
In the courtyard, a few villagers were tidying up the mess. Bai Erlai and Hei Shan lay on stretchers, being bandaged by others. Village Chiefs Tian and Zhao were chatting while smoking pipes. Seeing Zhang Enpu come out, they immediately stood up, their gratitude evident.
Zhang exchanged a few polite words with them but said little else, merely instructing them to prepare a respectful burial for Master Wang.
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