Life and Death Book

"If you pick the cup without poison, you can become my disciple."

In a dilapidated, abandoned temple, Zheng Que knelt on a prayer mat before the shrine. Seven bowls of murky liquor were lined up in front of him. Beside them stood an old man in a gray Daoist robe, his hair bound in a square topknot. With his hands behind his back, he spoke in a cool, detached voice.

Not far away, a dark, heavy coffin rested quietly in the shadows, giving off a sickly-sweet stench like a crouching beast.

Zheng Que stared at the seven bowls of cloudy wine, his thoughts churning.

This was a world of cultivation, where people could seek the Dao and attain immortality. He had been born into it and had now lived here for a full sixteen years.

In this world, there was no Underworld, and the dead could not enter the cycle of reincarnation. Their spirits could only linger among the living. As time passed, evil omens ran rampant and ghosts multiplied. For ordinary people, simply staying alive was an arduous task.

Zheng Que was lucky. Not only had he survived to the age of sixteen, he had also met a cultivator willing to take him as a disciple.

It was just that the cultivator's terms were rather unusual.

Of the seven bowls of murky liquor before him, which looked identical to the naked eye, only one held ordinary wine. The other six were laced with corpse poison that would kill anyone who so much as touched it.

As Zheng Que pondered, the gray-robed old man beside him continued, "If you choose the wrong one, you can still join my sect."

"Just as a Corpse Puppet."

As he spoke, the gray-robed old man flicked his sleeve. The heavy coffin immediately sprang open, and two dark shapes flew out, landing tamely in his hands. One was a complete set of skinning knives; the other, a burial shroud covered in various talismans and reeking of blood.

The old man glanced at Zheng Que, then briskly selected a slender, willow-leaf-shaped knife. He seemed ready to mark where he would begin, preparing to make a Corpse Puppet.

Zheng Que came back to himself. This was the rule the gray-robed old man followed when taking disciples.

Choose one of seven. Only those who survived would have the chance to enter the Dao.

Before him, many people had come seeking apprenticeship, drawn by the old man's reputation. Every one of them had died from the poisoned wine.

Today was the gray-robed old man's last day of accepting disciples in this town...

At the thought, Zheng Que took a deep breath and reached out. Pretending to hesitate, he let his gaze and fingertips wander back and forth over the seven bowls. After a few breaths, he seemed to grit his teeth and make up his mind, swiftly choosing the fourth bowl from the left.

He picked up the bowl without another moment's hesitation, tipped his head back, and drained it in one gulp.

The strong liquor burned down his throat like a sharp knife cleaving through it. In the blink of an eye, a rolling warmth seemed to rise from his lower abdomen, and his whole body came alive.

The gray-robed old man looked at the bowl Zheng Que had chosen, showing a hint of surprise. But soon, he nodded and casually waved his hand, recalling the skinning knives and burial shroud.

Then, without beating around the bush, he announced, "The Big Dipper governs death; the seven stars determine fate. Your luck is excellent."

"Since you've chosen the path of life, from this moment on, you are my disciple."

"It'll be dark soon. Go home and rest first."

"Come back here early tomorrow morning."

At this, Zheng Que was overjoyed. He immediately bowed. "Yes, Master!"

Daoist Qu said nothing more. He merely waved a hand to signal that Zheng Que could leave.

With a respectful expression, Zheng Que backed out of the temple. Outside was a small courtyard, long abandoned and overgrown with weeds, its ground carpeted in moss. The sky was still bright, and the faint rustling of snakes and insects could be heard.

A great tree, wide enough for a person to wrap both arms around, grew beside the courtyard wall. It had long since withered, but its branches still twisted and knotted, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

The treetop stood bare, with nothing in it. Yet a slender figure hung in its shadow, swaying like a pendulum. It was unmistakably a Female Hanging Ghost, its hair disheveled and feet bare.

The Female Hanging Ghost drifted with the wind like a swing, sliding back and forth over the threshold of the courtyard gate.

Zheng Que looked at the ghost's shadow and frowned. Without the slightest hesitation, he hurried to the low wall farthest from the dead tree and climbed straight over it, not even considering going near the tree's shadow.

After leaving the dilapidated temple, he hurried along for a while. Only when the chill behind him gradually faded did he silently breathe a sigh of relief.

But before long, a dense mass of fog rolled toward him, followed by the faint clamor of music and drums.

Zheng Que looked up. Deep in the fog, a procession of people dressed in bright red was approaching him, beating gongs and drums as they carried a red sedan chair. They were coming toward him in high spirits.

A gust of sinister wind swept past. The sedan's curtains parted halfway, revealing a graceful figure sitting upright inside, adorned in a phoenix crown and red wedding robes. She was so lovely and delicate it hurt to look at her. The maids walking alongside the sedan had pallid skin and bright red rouge on their cheeks. Their smiles looked painted on, fixed in everlasting joy, and their pitch-black eyes stared straight at Zheng Que. There was something indescribably eerie about them.

A Ghost Wedding Procession!

Without a word, Zheng Que turned and ducked into the nearest alley, quickly putting distance between himself and the procession.

Head down, he hurried on, relying on his familiarity with the town to wind through one street after another. Only after he had gone a considerable distance did the festive music behind him finally fade away, as if loath to leave.

After getting his bearings, Zheng Que headed for home.

The daylight was fading now, and dusk was gathering. A dim haze settled over everything around him, blurring it into indistinct shapes.

As he neared his home, the corner of his eye caught a group of children gathered in an empty lot not far away. Their bodies were drenched, water dripping constantly from their hair and clothes, but they seemed completely unaware as they played and shouted. The ground beneath their feet had been trampled into mud, mixed with scraps of red paper.

One child laughed. "The second son of the Zhao household only got married yesterday, but on his wedding night, he didn't even get to touch his bride's hand."

At that, one of his companions immediately chimed in, "That's what happens when Zhao the Second puts one shoe facing forward and the other backward. How was his bride supposed to find the bed?"

The other children eagerly agreed.

"Exactly!"

"How can you blame his bride?"

"Ehehe... serves him right... serves him right!"

Zheng Que kept his eyes straight ahead and paid the children no mind as he passed them. He reached his front door, pushed it open, and went inside. Without looking back, he pulled the door shut and slid the bolt into place. In the hollow silence of the room, he finally breathed easier.

This town was getting more and more abnormal!

The Lonely Ghosts and Wild Spirits wandering the streets now outnumbered the living.

And that was before the sun had even set...

If he hadn't succeeded in becoming a disciple today, he doubted he would have lasted much longer in this town...

With that thought, Zheng Que went straight into the inner room, opened his bed, and prepared to rest.

As he climbed in, he took special care to set his shoes down with one facing forward and the other backward. Only then did he lie down.

After a day of rushing around, Zheng Que was exhausted. His head had barely touched the pillow before he fell asleep.

He had no idea how much time passed. In a daze, he saw himself sitting in a Grandmaster Chair with one broken leg. Before him stood a pitted, uneven long table. The surroundings had once seemed to be a grand and spacious hall, but now only broken walls remained. A gaping hole had opened in the roof above, and icy, sinister wind howled through it, chilling him to the bone.

Zheng Que looked at the tabletop. An ancient-looking book lay there. On its yellowed cover were three unmistakable blood-red characters: Life and Death Book!