So That's How It Is

Shen Hui lay sprawled on the ground, the gaping hole in his chest letting in a chill draft, though it didn't hurt much anymore.

Probably because the pain had gone past its limit, to the point where even pain itself couldn't be felt.

He stared up at the pitch-black rafters overhead, a jumble of chaotic thoughts darting and crashing about in his mind.

Like a swarm of headless flies.

Buzzing, buzzing—can't catch them, can't shoo them away, truly infuriating.

There was a beam in the kitchen roof, a rafter on the beam, a tile on the rafter, a star on the tile... no, the tile was covering it, you couldn't see the star.

That star must have been from his dizziness.

Was that tile bluish-gray or grayish-blue?

—He thought he'd seen it during the day. It was bluish-gray.

Which looked better, bluish-gray or grayish-blue?

—Seemed about the same.

He figured his brain must have taken a heavy blow in the earlier scuffle and was probably nothing but a pot of paste by now.

Cooked paste, at that!

He wanted to look down at the hole torn open in his chest, but he didn't have even a shred of strength left to lift his head.

Forget it, forget it.

Just lie here and wait to die...

What a pity he'd only just arrived and hadn't yet gotten a proper taste of this world.

What a pity that Heart-Lamp Method—he'd only just learned it, and now he'd have to take it with him into the coffin.

What a pity...

Shen Hui's thoughts were wandering wildly when suddenly—BANG!

The kitchen door was kicked open!

The night wind howled in, carrying a stench of blood and rot.

Shen Hui lay motionless on the ground, only able to slant his eyes toward the doorway.

Several dark figures stood there. By the faint light spilling in from outside, Shen Hui could barely make them out.

Bodies covered in red fur, bald heads, faces wrinkled like dried tangerine peels, and a mouthful of fangs jutting out, as if looking for something to gouge into.

Yaksha.

Those two words surfaced in Shen Hui's mind.

Not the majestic, ferocious guardian yakshas from murals, but the wild yakshas from storybooks that feasted on human hearts.

Red fur, bald pates, hideous faces, with drool dripping from the corners of their mouths, drip, drip, drip.

The lead yaksha strode in, spotted Shen Hui lying on the ground at a glance.

It grinned, revealing a row of jagged yellow teeth, then raised a hand and clawed at the air.

Shen Hui immediately felt his body lighten, and then he was flying through the air, landing straight in that yaksha's palm.

The hand was rough and cracked, its nails long and black, digging into his neck with a sharp, grinding pain.

Shen Hui's head lolled, too weak to even lift his eyelids. Through the slits of his eyes, he vaguely saw the yaksha's other hand reaching over.

In its claws was a fat, red worm, thick and wriggling.

The yaksha shoved the worm up to Shen Hui's mouth and squeezed hard.

Squirt!

A stream of greenish liquid shot out from the worm's rear, sticky and cloying, carrying a sweet, bloody smell, and poured straight down Shen Hui's throat.

Shen Hui had no time to spit it out.

The liquid slid down his throat, icy cold, like someone had poured a ladle of chilled water into his stomach.

The chill traveled down his throat, through his chest, past his organs, and finally gathered in his chaotic mind, paused, and circled once.

Shen Hui's eyelids twitched.

He opened his eyes.

Right in front of him, that wrinkled yaksha face was grinning at him, its fangs dripping with sticky drool.

The other yakshas behind it crowded in too, drool at the corners of their mouths, their eyes gleaming like dogs that hadn't eaten in ten days spotting a steaming pile of fresh shit.

That comparison was a bit crude, but it fit perfectly here.

Shen Hui looked at those hideous faces, and only one thought remained in his mind:

Even dying, you can't get any peace.

He had no strength to struggle, no strength to shout, not even enough to keep his eyelids open.

But he still mustered all his effort to move his lips, mumbling, as if trying to say something.

The leading Red-Haired Yaksha paused, then a look of delight spread across its face as it leaned in, likely hoping to hear what final words this dying man would utter—whether pleas for mercy, curses, or perhaps a confession about some hidden treasure.

If you can't find the book by its title, try searching by the author—maybe it's just been renamed!

Shen Hui's lips moved again.

The Red-Haired Yaksha pressed its ear even closer.

Then it heard a few lines of incantation—

"Bright illumination of the Li Cauldron, Divine Lord of the Fire Palace; Flying flames and crackling lightning, Sha-fire surging like a rainbow; Burning souls and refining spirits, crimson banners whipping in the wind; Forgetting form and cutting off thoughts, the fierce ghost breaks free from its cage."

"Fire, rise!"

The sneer on the Red-Haired Yaksha's face froze.

It hadn't caught the earlier incantation clearly, but the words "Fire, rise" rang sharp and true.

Before it could react, a spark burst before its eyes, and in the blink of an eye, it surged forward.

It was a Fire Ghost, over ten feet tall. Its body was crimson, flames roiling, its face hideous and terrifying.

Tongues of fire licked out, waves of heat rolled.

The few yakshas didn't even have time to scream before the Fire Ghost swallowed them all whole.

Shen Hui fell to the ground, and the kitchen fell silent.

The kitchen door stood open, the night wind rushing in, chilling the sweat on Shen Hui's body.

The gaping hole in his chest had stopped bleeding, and it even seemed to be slowly healing.

Shen Hui blinked.

Then blinked again.

He wasn't dead.

It seemed... he had survived.

After a while, Shen Hui mustered enough strength to open his eyes, then enough to lift his head.

He didn't move at first, just stared blankly at the roof beam, pinning down the chaotic thoughts racing through his mind one by one.

Once they were subdued, he slowly lowered his head to look at the hole the little ghost had torn in him.

There was no hole.

No blood either.

Shen Hui froze, then looked down again.

Still nothing.

His gray cloth Daoist robe didn't even have a tear, let alone a bloody wound.

He reached out and touched his chest, his stomach, his ribs—flesh and bone were all fine. Where was the injury?

Shen Hui lay on the ground, and the thoughts he'd pinned down began to stir again.

He struggled to grab them, to catch a thread and untangle this mess.

But every time he almost touched it, the thread slipped away, slick as oil, impossible to hold.

He refused to give up and kept grasping.

Finally, he caught a thread.

It was ice-cold, heavy in his hand, like an iron chain pulled from an ice cellar.

Shen Hui followed the thread, pulling it down, and the more he pulled, the more his heart crawled, the colder his back grew.

Suddenly, he didn't dare pull anymore.

Shen Hui timidly raised his head and looked toward where the yaksha had stood.

No one was there.

No—someone was there.

Standing there were his master and his five senior brothers and sisters.

The Old Taoist stood at the front, half his hair singed, his beard in disarray, his face streaked black and white, his Daoist robe burned pitch-black.

He looked like he'd just crawled out of a stove, not much better off than the Red-Haired Yaksha from before.

The other five were unharmed, but their faces were pale, lips trembling, staring at Shen Hui in sheer terror.

Shen Hui carefully studied each of their faces, then shifted his gaze to his master's pitifully ruined beard.

He looked down at his own intact chest, at the Daoist robe without a single tear.

And then, the tangled mess in his mind suddenly unraveled neatly, a thousand threads converging into one point.

He picked up that thread he'd always tried to catch but never could, and gave it a gentle pull—

So the mushrooms were poisonous after all.

If you can't find the book by its title, try searching by the author—maybe it's just been renamed!