Chapter 216: Seven Corpses Revealed, Eternal Life Achieved

No matter how loudly Yi Miao shouted, the fire grew fiercer. He felt his life slipping away.

The temperature in the alchemy furnace climbed, its copper walls unyielding no matter how hard he struck. In such moments, people often recall their life’s moments.

Yi Miao, only thirty, had little to boast about. As his life neared its end, both joyful and sorrowful memories flooded his mind. Two regrets stung deeply.

First, his master had warned him not to cling to the mortal world and to focus on cultivation for a chance at ascension. Yi Miao ignored this, diving into the secular world, only to find it lonely. He occasionally fought evil, catching toad spirits, spider spirits, or fox spirits. Now, he realized his master was right.

Second, he never repaid the seven yuan he owed the widow who ran the guesthouse at Wudang Mountain. Yi Miao prided himself on never owing anyone, especially a woman—let alone a widow. The thought of dying with this debt, branded as untrustworthy, pained him.

These two regrets gnawed at his heart.

Sweat dripped from his forehead as he shouted, “Why have I become a torch?” He found it bizarre—how could a person turn into a flame? Was his hair on fire?

Indeed, touching his hair, it was burning. What a cruel twist. Unable to jump anymore, he felt his body ignite, certain death was near.

Exhausted, he collapsed, passing into a dark world. There, countless centipedes crawled—some vividly colored, others pitch-black and hideous. Some played, stacking into pyramids; others formed two soccer teams of twenty-two, aiming to outdo China’s national team. Some philosophized about life. Then, a terrifying event: a massive, rainbow-colored centipede descended, devouring all the others.

The giant seven-colored centipede writhed, exuding loneliness.

After it vanished, several grotesque ghosts appeared, reeking oddly. They’d toiled bitterly in life, and in death, chained, unable to move, they wailed about society’s injustices and heaven’s blindness. Despite their suffering, they eventually departed.

In a haze, Yi Miao saw seven ugly ghosts, each with a centipede shadow on their ankles.

Time blurred. When Yi Miao opened his eyes, he thought the furnace’s heat should’ve reduced him to ash. Yet, touching his face, it was intact. Pinching it, he felt pain. His hair was still there.

He thought, I’m such a fool. Who says ghosts don’t feel pain or lose their face and hair? I must be a ghost now, and the Black and White Impermanence will drag me to hell soon.

Standing, he pushed with force and realized the furnace lid was already open. He emerged, still in the thatched hut, alone, the sky dim. Reflecting, he concluded he’d likely fainted from inhaling the fumes of hallucinogenic minerals in the furnace.

In the Wei-Jin period, nobles bought Five Mineral Powder from Taoists, inducing visions as a way to escape political darkness while preserving integrity. Like poppies, it caused euphoria and flushed skin, explaining the loose robes of the era.

Yi Miao examined the hut’s stones, likely used for elixirs. Overuse would be fatal—eating stones as immortality pills was a death sentence.

With the sky dark and only a few stars above, Yi Miao decided to rest in the hut until dawn.

Recalling his dream of centipedes and seven ghosts, it felt eerily real, as if it had happened.

Alchemy required coal and dry wood, especially in the crisp autumn. Yi Miao gathered some, lit a fire, and sat smoking, pondering the furnace’s oddity.

He recalled Master Zhenyangzi at the Sanqing Taoist Temple mentioning Gu Rechang, who fled to this place to escape worldly humiliation. Lin You had investigated Gu, suggesting he had hidden motives.

Yi Miao made a torch and inspected the fallen furnace, finding only the eight trigrams, nothing unusual.

Near dawn, after a few hours’ sleep, he woke to see a tiny seven-colored centipede on the threshold. It vanished instantly. Chasing it, he stopped as it slipped into a hidden cave, obscured by vines, pitch-black and potentially dangerous.

Armed with his golden-thread whisk, Yi Miao made two torches and entered. The cave was shallow, about five or six meters deep, with stone walls and a stone coffin adorned with strange patterns.

Dust covered the coffin. Lighting several eternal lamps, he saw the cave clearly.

One wall was smooth white marble, with a human shadow inside. Initially thinking it a ghost, Yi Miao touched the coffin and realized the shadow was from someone meditating before the marble for years, their silhouette etched by light from the entrance.

A rotting cushion lay before it, proof of long meditation.

On another wall, eight small characters read: “Seven Corpses Emerge, Immortality Attained.”

Yi Miao couldn’t recall their exact meaning but found them odd. Was this like Dragon Ball, where gathering seven pearls grants a wish? Absurd.

The wall also had smaller text about Gu Rechang: born in the late Qing dynasty to a poor family, sent to a Taoist temple, he learned the arts and fought for justice. As a youth, he captured a starving ghost from the underworld. At seventy, a tragedy disheartened him, leading him to cultivate here. His first disciple was Ji Ruyue, and at nearly ninety, he took a second, Gu Xiulian.

Yi Miao wondered if Gu Rechang had ascended or wandered off. Taoist cloud-wandering was common, but in modern times, planes made it less meaningful.

As a fellow Taoist, Yi Miao respected Gu. He bowed three times to Gu’s shadow, saying, “Senior Gu, you did great things in your youth. Fighting the Eight-Nation Alliance in Beijing? I admire that. Your disciple’s a jerk, but that’s not on you—I’ve dealt with him. You must’ve been heroic back then. If I had the chance, I’d fight alongside you.”

Yi Miao admired and pitied Gu, a complex figure. He thought of his own master, unseen for years, possibly gone. Guilt gnawed at him.

His eyes caught the seven-colored centipede again, like the one tied to Ji Ruyue’s Flying Centipede, but smaller.

Its venom was likely potent. A bite in this remote cave could leave him rotting undiscovered for centuries. With six more colors than a black centipede, it seemed clever.

Whisk in hand, Yi Miao approached. The centipede stood on a translucent, glowing stone.

As he neared, it retreated two meters.

Touching the stone, Yi Miao felt his strength drain.

Where the centipede stood was a pile of white bones, including several human skulls.

Yes, human skulls. Seven atop a pile of bone fragments. His vision was clear—no hallucination.