Chapter 162: Difficult Growth

Little Rascal seemed to understand that Xie Lingyu wouldn’t be there, nor would the Jade Corpse. Everything now depended on me, Little Rascal. He stuck out his warm tongue and licked my face twice. Struggling to my feet, I silently made my way back to my place.

In the morning, I pulled open the curtains, shaved clean, and trimmed my hair with scissors. Still as handsome and dashing as ever, I gave Little Rascal a bath and dried him with a blow dryer. After carefully packing the peachwood figurine, jade ruler compass, and scroll, I took Little Rascal to Lei Honghong’s noodle shop for some hot dry noodles.

“Sis, hot dry noodles, soy milk, four fried dough rings, and two eggs,” I called out.

Soon, steaming hot dry noodles arrived. Lei Honghong said, “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been? Doing alright?”

I replied, “Not bad. Alive and well, no illnesses, a bit of money, life’s decent, and my parents are healthy.”

Lei Honghong beamed. “That’s happiness. Let me ask you something—what comes to mind when you think of a patriot?” I deadpanned, “Patriot missiles, I guess.”

A bowl of hot dry noodles filled me with energy. I took Little Rascal to the flower shop. The morning sun cast its light, making the chilly dawn feel warm and cozy.

On the streets, an old man walked his grandson to school, pulling the boy’s hat down to cover his little ears. Volunteers waved newspapers, jogging back and forth, occasionally blowing on their hands for warmth. Commuters cursed the heavy traffic while squeezing in texts to their wives or parents: “I want braised pork for dinner tonight.” A beggar, having slept all night, began his new day of survival.

“Boss, another bowl of porridge,” a high school student in uniform said, carrying a steaming bowl with a mix of shyness and pride as he handed it to the beggar.

The beggar accepted the porridge and smiled at the vibrant student, revealing a row of slightly yellowed teeth. The student, heartened by the smile, thought to himself, *I’ll skip an egg at lunch—otherwise, I won’t have enough money for today.*

I walked on cheerfully.

“Beep!” A honk sounded as a QQ car pulled over.

“Xiao Qi,” a head popped out of the window, long hair cascading down, revealing a bright face.

“Who are you?” I was surprised to be recognized on the street.

“It’s Wu Shuang! I saw you at the airport yesterday but thought I was mistaken. Turns out it really was you. We’re having a class reunion on New Year’s Day—you have to come. Everyone’s been saying you work for some mysterious department,” the woman said with a slight pout.

I racked my brain. “Feng Wu Shuang? Weren’t you abroad? And don’t listen to their nonsense—I just run a flower shop.”

“Come on. I checked your flight details—you flew first class. Give me your number,” she insisted, eyeing me skeptically.

I groaned inwardly—*That first-class ticket was booked by the rich monk Hua Changsheng!*

Feng Wu Shuang refused to leave without my number, so I reluctantly gave it to her. After calling to confirm, she drove off, saying she had a flight to Shanghai.

I took Little Rascal to Bai Meng Flower Shop. Starting today, the shop would stay open during the day, with Yu Yuwei taking over at night. I also delivered more supplies to Yu Fan at the greenhouse. After a few busy days, things started falling into place.

Every noon, I’d take two hours to practice martial arts with Brother Jun by the lakeside behind Chu Han Avenue. At first, it was just basic kicks and punches, gradually forming combinations. Thanks to the five worms that altered my body and the blood spider, my agility had improved dramatically. What took others months to learn, I mastered in a week.

When Yu Yuwei took over in the afternoon, I’d train alone for another two hours. Sometimes, closing my eyes, I felt like I was sparring in a dream. Little Rascal’s training wasn’t easy either—to help him develop his yin-yang eyes, I tried various methods: hanging him up, blindfolding him, sending him into haunted buildings, even taking him to graveyards.

Dog eyes, being yin in nature, can see unclean things, but true yin-yang eyes require rigorous training. Little Rascal was close to a breakthrough—I could feel it coming.

After training, I’d replenish my energy with food. My stamina had noticeably improved.

At night, my bones ached from exertion, leaving me miserable. Only Little Rascal’s massages brought relief.

After all, growth is never easy.

Evenings weren’t for idling. I revisited the *Compendium*, knowing that survival demanded mastery of its secrets. These three years were my chance to grow—no longer relying on Xie Lingyu or Xie Xiaoyu.

The *Compendium* distilled folk magic and Taoist secrets. Rereading it, I realized Xie Lingyu’s insistence on study had paid off. The book was deliberately disorganized—ghost-catching sections overlapped with ghost-raising, corpse-suppression touched on corpse manipulation (driving, refining, and controlling), while monster-hunting included notes on *zao chu*—wicked methods of disguising humans as livestock using animal hides.

Marginal notes introduced obscure sects:

– The Maoshan school excelled in ghost-raising.

– The Lingfu Shenxiao sect dabbled in strange charms.

– The Chenzhou faction specialized in corpse-driving, using talismans to manipulate wandering souls.

– Northerners practiced *zao chu*.

In the *Demon Capture* chapter, Ye Guyi outlined ways to counter “Fanxi gangs”—a type of swindler prevalent in Republican-era Jiangcheng. Their elaborate scams bankrupted many. Whether his methods still worked today was unclear.

Disappointingly, the *Compendium* offered no clues about the Guo or Hua families. Had the Ghost School truly never crossed paths with them?

I longed to raise my own worm, but the book only detailed countermeasures, not cultivation techniques—frustrating.

Scattered knowledge rearranged itself when viewed from new angles. The core principle was *transformation*—the same method, varied, yielded different results. Even ghosts—starving, hanged, drowned—changed with environment and terrain. Traditional Taoist arts weren’t about rigidity but adaptation.

Grasping this, coupled with hardship, would cement the Ghost School’s reputation. Suddenly, a golden door seemed to open before me—it was time to step through.

—

After learning military boxing, Brother Jun taught me police combat and arrest techniques—simple principles: pinpoint strikes, overwhelming force, no chance for counterattacks. It blended the best of taekwondo and jeet kune do.

“In martial arts,” Brother Jun said, “nothing is indestructible except speed. But speed rests on power.”

After two days, he added, “Techniques are easy. Real mastery comes from fighting—bleeding, learning in battle. That’s eternal truth.”

I grinned inwardly—*Once I’ve fought zombies, I’ll spar with Brother Jun.*

But he warned me: “Don’t underestimate traditional martial artists. Chinese kung fu isn’t what TV shows. Remember the news about old Ip Man catching thieves during his morning run? Or Sun Lutang, who floored Japanese karate masters in one move? Baguazhang, Xingyiquan, Liuhequan, Bajiquan, Chuojiao—each has lethal secrets passed down generations.”

He recounted how a tai chi push-hands master sent him flying without even touching him.

*Literally flying.*

“True masters walk among us”—another eternal truth.

By Brother Jun’s estimate, my month of training equaled three years for a slow learner. Was that a compliment or not?

A month flew by. Winter Solstice approached—the year’s transition from yin to yang. Tradition dictated eating dumplings to prevent frozen ears. Like all holidays, spending it alone felt like Singles’ Day (except Tomb-Sweeping Day).

Worse, Winter Solstice heralded Christmas two days later, then New Year’s Day five days after.

The class reunion loomed. These events always ended with tears, breakups, or hookups—who knew what chaos awaited?

Feng Wu Shuang called twice, insisting I attend. The class QQ group was abuzz. We weren’t close—no unrequited crushes—so why her persistence?

We did share one oddity: our faces bore resemblance. Freshman year, some mistook us for siblings, causing awkwardness. Also, she shared my mother’s surname—Feng.

“If you don’t come,” Feng Wu Shuang threatened, “I’ll tell everyone you asked me out and got rejected.” Laughing, I surrendered. “Fine, I’ll go!”

Two other events occurred:

1. Zhong Li married a new colleague who treated her well. The monk called me, weeping. “She moved on so fast!” I snapped, “If you couldn’t commit, why begrudge her happiness?”

Gao Mo broke the news. I skipped the wedding—no place there. If Zhong Li saw me and thought of the monk, it’d ruin her day. I hoped my earlier prediction about her fate was wrong.

2. Ice-cold Chen Tutu got a boyfriend—a young, accomplished professor who claimed love at first sight, saying they’d met in a past life. Shockingly, she agreed.

Gao Mo gasped, “That frigid girl actually said yes!” I forced a laugh. “A perfect match—professor and forensic doctor.”

“Smells like jealousy,” she teased. I hung up.

*Who’s jealous?*

On December 20, two days before Winter Solstice, Uncle Jian—the self-proclaimed “Half-Immortal”—called urgently:

“Xiao Qi, emergency! Drive to Lügang Town near Jiangcheng. Bring a dictionary!”