Chapter 182: In the Realm of Illusion and Vagueness

Dong Lingzi said, “The reason why the thirteenth-generation disciple Ye Guyi rose so swiftly and excelled in power is because our Ghost Sect’s conflict with the Abe family was fundamentally rooted in the strength and prosperity of our nation. Before the late Qing Dynasty, Japan was merely an insignificant ant. Whenever the Abe family challenged us, they did so sneakily. Yet, during times of peace and prosperity in our land, though the Ghost Sect was passed down through a single lineage, we naturally had support from all sides. However, in the fifty years following the late Qing Dynasty, Japan invaded, using military force to slaughter the Ghost Sect’s allies. At that time, Ye Guyi, alone, roamed the world amidst endless warfare and rampant zombies. While slaying the undead, he also had to face the threats of the Abe family, who brought over a hundred Japanese zombies. It was precisely these trials that forged his rapid rise.”

I asked, “Did he surpass all his predecessors?”

Dong Lingzi nodded. “Indeed. As they say, the times create heroes.”

I hadn’t realized Ye Guyi was so formidable. In the book *Compendium*, his annotations were the most numerous, likely due to the era he lived in.

In the early years of the Republic, warlords clashed first, followed by the Japanese invasion, which left countless civilians dead. This inevitably led to a surge in zombies, far exceeding any other period in history.

After the fall of the Ming Dynasty, the Qing Dynasty’s stagnation gave rise to an era of zombies emerging en masse.

These two types of zombies—one hastily created, the other unearthed after centuries of dormancy—along with the Abe family’s hundred Japanese zombies, made the danger far greater than what I face today.

The hardship he endured is unimaginable.

I had to admit, after hearing the Grandmaster’s words, the sheer brilliance of the Ghost Sect’s thirteenth-generation disciple Ye Guyi was beyond description.

Such a figure could only be called a legend.

Perhaps even “legend” wasn’t enough.

I sighed in admiration, “I can’t find the words to describe him.”

Dong Lingzi said, “And it was precisely in Ye Guyi’s era—because he was beyond words—that he slaughtered countless Japanese zombies raised by the Abe family. Moreover, fifteen members of the Abe family died by his hand.”

I gasped, “Fifteen people?”

Dong Lingzi replied, “Exactly. Killing a hundred wouldn’t have been too many. Those wolves with insatiable ambitions caused countless deaths among our people. The eight-year War of Resistance ended in a bitter victory for our nation. The Abe family actively schemed and must bear the sins of war. Now they come seeking revenge. If every Chinese citizen sought vengeance in Japan, how many of us would go?”

I shook my head. “At least several hundred million. Which family doesn’t have a grudge against the Japanese?”

Dong Lingzi said, “Yet we don’t go. Because our ancestors taught us to repay hatred with virtue, to forgive others.”

I nodded.

Suddenly, Dong Lingzi’s robes flared as he raised his voice, “We repay hatred with virtue, yet they come to kill us! Even an old man like me can’t stand it. Xiao Qi, what do you say we do?”

I clenched my fist and swung it. “Fight them.”

“Today’s situation is more complex than Ye Guyi’s. Back then, enemies were clear, and we could act without restraint. But in your era, it’s more complicated. They come for revenge, but those blinded by money don’t even know they’re here for revenge—because they bring wealth.” Dong Lingzi looked disheveled, but his words struck deep.

I bowed with both hands. “Exactly. Right now, I’m overwhelmed. Grandmaster, do you have any brilliant methods to help me?”

Dong Lingzi said, “I bribed Bai Wuchang with ten beauties to summon you here. I’m going to teach you some extraordinary techniques.”

I asked, “What are they?”

Dong Lingzi replied, “Though the Ghost Sect is passed down through a single lineage, it doesn’t mean we stand alone. I’ll teach you how to call upon allies. There are three families whose descendants will surely aid you.” He whispered instructions in my ear, warning me not to forget, lest it become impossible to send another dream. Favors can’t be used endlessly—even Bai Wuchang has superiors.

I nodded, indicating I’d remember.

Dong Lingzi added, “The last three volumes of *Compendium*—read them as soon as you wake. Though I despise Yang Junsong, his genius surpasses mine by miles. The three volumes I wrote contain his profoundest insights. Mastering them will help you crush the Abe family.”

I nodded again, promising to study them upon my return.

Finally, Dong Lingzi warned, “These secrets must never be shared with a third person. Even in the underworld, I’m bound by rules. Understood?”

I nodded solemnly, vowing to keep silent—not even to ghosts.

Dong Lingzi stared at me, sensing I had more to ask. “Beyond this, I won’t answer other questions—like how Kennedy really died, or whether aliens exist in America. Such secrets cannot be spoken.”

I steeled myself. “Grandmaster, take me to the River of the Dead. I want to see someone.”

Dong Lingzi frowned, shocked by my request to visit the underworld’s river.

For reasons unknown, he eventually agreed. Changing his robes, we followed a mountain path flanked by endless void, with ghostly officials lining the way.

At the summit, a cliff loomed before us.

Beyond it stretched a sea of red spider lilies—enchanting yet despairing. The River of the Dead, 1,314 meters wide, flowed into the distance. Was that the world’s end? Countless coffins drifted upon its waters, packed so densely they rivaled Beijing’s morning traffic.

Some coffins were grand, adorned with dragons and phoenixes, their occupants well-fed, nibbling black melon seeds. Others were small and thin, like that of a sweet, clever little girl clutching White Rabbit candies. Some were mere straw mats—burial shrouds for the destitute, now bobbing peacefully on the river.

Village elders say coffins are humanity’s final cradles, ferrying souls to the world’s end.

Dong Lingzi explained that while the river seemed close, it lay a hundred thousand miles away. Coffins cascaded over a titanic waterfall beyond the cliff, marking their end, while a ferry waited at the shore. Boarding it meant…

From the distant river, a pure white flower floated into view, radiant and sacred, bearing a figure obscured by petals.

From below, ghostly voices called:

“Lingyu… Lingyu…”

Dong Lingzi clamped a hand over my mouth. “What you see now is neither real nor false, neither black nor white, neither solid nor void.” With a sudden shove, he sent me tumbling into the abyss.

Was the woman on the flower Xie Lingyu? Or just my delusion?

“Ah—!” I jolted awake. Uncle Datan rubbed his eyes. “Xie Lingyu. You called her name seventy-two times in your sleep. She must owe you a fortune.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s me who owes her—a debt I’ll never repay.”

Uncle Datan asked, “Do you think love needs a reason?”

I countered, “Doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” he pressed.

“Doesn’t it?” I repeated.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

With that, Uncle Datan rolled over and slept.

I gazed out the window—dawn had yet to break.

The next day, Uncle Datan said we couldn’t stay. The piglets weren’t bought, so it was time to return home and resume slaughtering.

—

The last three volumes of *Compendium* focused on geomancy—terrain and feng shui layouts. The art of Qimen originated from ancient military formations, later incorporating divination and prediction. Modern businesses often use it for decision-making, with surprisingly effective results. Zhuge Liang of the Shu Han and Liu Bowen of the Ming Dynasty were masters of Qimen Dunjia, figures capable of manipulating cosmic forces. The final volume, *Celestial Extremes*, was an arcane text, nearly indecipherable. Only the sections on geomancy and Qimen offered practical help.

The first challenge was the feng shui layout of Meng Xiaoyu’s department store—a grand scheme now in decline. The wealth-attracting formation had been sabotaged, likely by Abe Chun’s hand. As the saying goes, “Reading ten thousand books is not as good as walking ten thousand miles.” After surveying Meng’s stores, I found peculiarities—blocked prosperity gates, severed wealth channels.

The intricacies couldn’t be unraveled in a day. My grandfather Long Youshui once said that when Yang Junsong was trapped in Ganzhou, he pinpointed the emperor’s qi, earning the local ruler’s wrath. Such knowledge is best left untouched. For now, I could only grasp fragments to dismantle Abe Chun’s scheme.

Grandmaster Dong Lingzi spoke of three guardian families for the Ghost Sect.

The next day, I placed a newspaper ad: “Brother Dong is gravely ill, nearing his end. Old friends are urged to visit.”

Uncle Jianguo called, urging me to find Xia Jinrong’s son, Xia Baorui.

Though Xia Jinrong deserved death, Xia Baorui was innocent.

I drove my battered Wuling to fetch him, then picked up Xia Jinrong’s wife, Huifang, to visit Jiangcheng No. 1 High School. Huifang pleaded, “You must save my son. He’s innocent. His heartless father is to blame.”

Xia Baorui was tall for a high schooler, already 1.7 meters. Lately, he’d been pestering Huifang for an iPhone—prime time for creativity, romance, and chasing girls. But when I saw him, his eyes were sunken, his body drowsy even while standing.

Uncle Jianguo asked, “What’s wrong with this kid? Can he be saved?”

Taking Xia Baorui’s hand, I sensed two strange energies writhing inside him, along with worms in his colon. Saving him would cost me dearly.

And Gu Xiulian seemed to be waiting for just this moment.