The grave Bai Guangde mentioned was located on the hills behind Baishui Village. It belonged to Bai Jingren, the late husband of Widow Wang and the cousin of Bai Jingshui. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was connected, and if I didn’t check it out, I’d be left with an uneasy heart.
Carrying my grandfather’s lantern and leading the little black dog, I followed the mountain path toward the grave. My grandfather’s lantern was no ordinary one—it was more like a spiritual banner. There’s an old saying about carrying a lantern when going out: it serves as a marker, declaring one’s identity.
Having already experienced my first solo hunt for a water monkey, I felt a bit more confident this time. Still, examining the feng shui of this grave was like crossing the river by feeling the stones—I was feeling my way forward. From the back hill, I could see the small reservoir in the distance, and the night was quiet, with only the mountain breeze whispering through. A night like this would’ve been perfect for a romantic stroll with a girl.
*Ah, ahem, cough*—I was here to catch ghosts tonight, not daydream.
The little black dog and I walked along the mountain path, the chirping of crickets echoing from the grass. The dog sniffed around curiously, and strangely enough, it got along with me exceptionally well, as if we weren’t meeting for the first time.
We moved forward under the dark, moonless sky. The little black dog barked occasionally, scaring away any lurking spirits in the shadows. Truth be told, this dog wasn’t suited for guarding a house—its destiny lay in the wild.
It was the natural enemy of ghosts, the bane of demons.
Bai Jingren’s grave stood atop a tall hill behind Baishui Village, surrounded by a few large boulders and sparse, leafless trees that cast eerie shadows in the night. The cawing of crows, startled by our approach, faded into the distance.
The lantern only illuminated a few meters around me. Some might wonder why I’d visit a grave in the dead of night. The reasoning was simple—just as you’d visit a friend when they’re home, I had to visit the spirits when they were in residence. Hence, night was the best time.
But the once-green hills had turned pitch black. After a few steps, I heard someone calling my name—a trick of the mountain spirits. Most of these spirits were mischievous, born from ancient tree roots buried in the mountains over centuries. Harmless but fond of scaring people.
A few of them called out again. I spun around and shouted, *”You old bastards, get back to your rest! If you keep haunting around, I’ll dig you up, burn you to ashes, and dump you in the latrine till even your bones rot away!”* A strange, frightened noise came from the grass before they scurried off. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Being a feng shui master had its perks—sometimes, it led to amusing little encounters.
As we approached the hill, about a hundred meters away, I looked up—and immediately stumbled back two steps. The massive hill loomed like the gaping maw of a tiger, exuding an overwhelming sense of oppression.
A grave buried here was like being clenched in a tiger’s jaws.
The little black dog barked twice. I patted its head and murmured, *”Don’t be scared. Let’s go take a look.”* A cold wind blew past, and I muttered under my breath, *”Please don’t let me run into a ghost.”*
Ironically, I didn’t encounter any ghosts that night—but I did find something else.
The little black dog refused to go near Bai Jingren’s grave, tugging me back with all its might. The hundred-meter walk felt like a funeral procession, but I dragged it along anyway.
I knew that unless it sensed overwhelming yin energy, the dog wouldn’t react so strongly.
Finally reaching the grave, I tied the dog to a small tree and scolded, *”You little beast, what are you afraid of? If a ghost shows up, it’s me who’ll die, not you!”* I hung the lantern on a branch—its purpose wasn’t just illumination.
Placing it there sent a warning to any lurking spirits: *A feng shui master is at work here. Stay away, or you’ll be caught and boiled into soup.*
The grave had no tombstone, making it impossible to tell how long it had been there. Strangely, not a single weed grew on it. Spring had just passed, and everything else was lush and thriving—yet this barren mound stood untouched.
*Weird.*
I suddenly recalled a passage from my master’s book about the causes of corpse transformation:
Some were due to incompetent feng shui masters choosing terrible burial sites, turning the dead into mountain-dwelling corpses. Others happened when drastic changes in terrain turned once-favorable resting places into yin pits of extreme malevolence.
There were eighteen types of corpse transformation, but that’s a story for another time.
As for the terrain-induced transformations, there were nine main types—and Bai Jingren’s grave seemed to fit one of them: *”White Tiger Clenching a Corpse.”*
*The Azure Dragon of the East crouches in envy.*
*The White Tiger of the West sits with a corpse in its jaws.*
*Low on all sides, winds howl from every direction.*
*The once-pure hall now reeks of decay.*
*This is a land of ill omen.*
I had only been practicing for about ten days, so my senses weren’t sharp—yet even I could feel the grave’s overwhelming yin energy. The resentment of the deceased, combined with this treacherous terrain, left only one solution: *move the grave.*
Standing at the “tiger’s mouth,” I gazed down at Baishui Village. Most villagers retired early, washing their feet as soon as night fell. But with the spread of televisions, some now stayed up past ten.
It was around nine o’clock, and a few houses still had their lights on. Following the tiger’s line of sight, my eyes landed on—
*Oh no.*
The tiger’s maw was aimed directly at the ruined home of the long-haired madman, Bai Jingshui. It had been staring at that spot for years. A deep sense of foreboding rose in my chest—I’d felt it before, but never this strongly.
Some things were connected. And retribution came swiftly.
Just as I surveyed the village, a faint red corpse miasma seeped from Bai Jingren’s grave. If there had been light, it would’ve been unmistakably crimson.
Corpse miasma came in three types: the weakest was black, then white—but the deadliest was red. A single breath of it would kill within minutes. The easiest way to spot it was to squint and scan quickly—then the wispy, ghostly strands became visible.
The little black dog barked furiously. I laughed. *”Relax, there’s no ghost here.”*
But the red miasma slithered toward me like living vines, coiling around my body in eerie silence. At first, I only felt an itch—like ants crawling on my skin—and I swatted at it.
Then—
*Pfft.*
The lantern on the tree went out.
Goosebumps erupted all over my body as darkness swallowed everything. The only sound was the dog’s frantic barking, the chain rattling violently.
I brushed off the “ants,” only to realize—it wasn’t insects. A faint, creeping energy was flowing up my body. I knew then: *corpse miasma.*
It numbed wherever it touched.
And with the lantern extinguished, any lurking spirits would now see me as nothing more than a third-rate feng shui master—easy prey.
In the darkness, the red miasma thickened.
I had one last chance.
The jade ruler strapped to my back was a sacred tool against evil. But the miasma had already wrapped around my legs, slithered up my torso, coiled around my throat—some even worming into my mouth.
This was worse than anything I’d ever faced. My mind blurred, and I lost control of my bladder. One breath of that red miasma—
And I’d drop dead on the spot, rotting into a pile of bones.
Regret gnawed at me. *If only I’d listened to the dog and turned back.*
Just as despair took hold—
A shooting star blazed across the night sky, illuminating the heavens.
From somewhere deep within, I found strength. I threw myself forward, using my body’s weight to force the words from my lungs:
*”DAMN YOU, BAI JINGREN! I CAME TO PUT YOU TO REST, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?!”*
Life and death, victory and defeat—sometimes, it all comes down to a single moment.
Even the most terrifying red miasma wasn’t invincible.
It couldn’t hold me.
At the same time, a black shadow leaped through the air—
The little black dog, overcoming its fear for the first time, lunged at the wisp of red in the darkness.
That leap changed its fate forever.
It’s time I gave it a name.
*Xiao Bai?*
Just kidding. I wouldn’t name a black dog “Little White”—what if it started thinking it was actually white?
Since it was hard to kill, I called it *Xiao Jian*—”Little Rascal.”
Back to the matter at hand—
As I fell forward and the dog pounced, the red miasma recoiled.
I flung a prepared mixture—gecko, black dog blood, five-year-aged night soil, cooked glutinous rice, and firewood ash—a thick, black, porridge-like sludge.
The grave emitted a scorched, foul stench.
In the darkness, the red miasma vanished.
Later, someone asked me, *”What power did that shooting star give you?”*
I didn’t answer.
But in my heart, I thought of *her*—my first love, the one who dwelled in the softest part of my soul.
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