A Chorus of Ghosts

The scene was enough to make one's scalp tingle.

"I'll bite you to death—"

A severed head flew through the air, soaring towards the paper sedan chair. Just then, a paper effigy, its face etched with sorrow, leaped forward to block the head's path.

"Don't get in the way!"

The swordsman's head roared, trying to push past. The paper effigy's face contorted with grief, and with a gentle wave of its right hand, a spiritual light burst forth. With a "bang," the head exploded, scattering into countless black and red bloodstains.

Beside it, another paper effigy held a paper lantern, its eerie green flame a ball of curse fire.

The paper effigy raised the lantern, and a ball of green phosphorescent flame shot out, landing on the bloodstains and evaporating them into scorched marks.

"Fool, your acting was too fake from the start."

He Ping snorted, thin, almost invisible threads dangling from his fingers within his sleeve.

"A normal person seeing my paper sedan chair and still daring to come for help must have a screw loose."

An ordinary person seeing a group of paper effigies carrying a paper sedan chair, moving with the speed of wind, would surely mistake it for a ghostly procession and flee, not run towards it for rescue.

He Ping wasn't stupid. A single glance told him the person was suspicious, and he immediately unleashed a "Milo Blade."

The Milo Blade, propelled by silk threads, could slice through gold and shatter jade within a hundred paces, let alone sever heads and throats. A single strike from afar had cleaved the swordsman into several pieces.

He Ping raised his eyes and glanced in the direction the slain swordsman had come from, a road in the center of the village.

"There's indeed the scent of a living person on this central road. It seems the Hu Ma Gang has some survivors. They must be trapped within the village."

Faintly visible on the ground were numerous scattered hoof prints. The tracks indicated that the group had circled this area several times.

"It seems the Hu Ma Gang has truly fallen here. Their chances of escaping this time are slim."

He knew very well that ordinary mortals who entered Wandering Soul Village were essentially doomed.

Wandering Soul Village had evolved into a ghost domain. Once ordinary people were trapped within, they couldn't escape, even if they tried. A restriction was placed around the village's perimeter, leading to a ghost wall at the dead end.

"Then you'll have to fend for yourselves..."

He Ping shook his head and ordered the sedan chair to take the road to the right. As for the people of the Hu Ma Gang, their lives and deaths had nothing to do with him; why would he waste energy saving them?

The paper sedan chair turned, slowly proceeding down the village road to the right. The ghost-fire-like emerald lantern receded into the darkness.

The moment the paper sedan chair departed, several pale figures slowly drifted out from the houses, from under the eaves, and from behind doors and windows.

These pale figures had translucent faces and indistinct forms. Their eyes glowed with a dim light as they gazed at the departing sedan chair, their faces filled with undisguised greed.

The specters in the village had caught the scent of living beings and, abandoning all pretense, began to reveal themselves one by one...

Halfway to their destination, He Ping felt he was being watched.

He found it amusing. He hadn't sought trouble, yet someone dared to court it.

"No, in a place like this, those who come looking won't be human."

As the sedan chair proceeded towards the ancestral hall, a faint glow began to float on the earthen walls lining the streets. However, this glow carried a seven-tenths ghostly aura, making the street darker rather than brighter.

"Halt the sedan."

At his command, the paper sedan chair stopped.

Just then, a mass of black air surged from the street in the darkness, and several indistinct ghostly figures blocked their path.

These strange figures stared intently at the paper sedan chair, their eyes shining like lamps.

He Ping lifted the sedan curtain and took a single glance. He knew the specters within the black air were almost corporeal, not ordinary ghosts but powerful, malevolent spirits.

He couldn't help but let out a cold laugh.

"...Bones from a tomb, daring to be presumptuous."

"Meow—"

From a corner of a thatched shed, a mournful cat's cry echoed. A monstrous creature with four furry paws, a monkey-like face, red eyes, and a green nose clung there like a spider.

Thump, thump-thump!

Inside a dark, empty house by the street, a red coffin sat. A strange knocking sound came from within.

"Hee hee hee..."

A chilling laugh emanated from beneath the coffin. A dark figure lying inside slowly extended a pair of emaciated claws, resting them on the bottom of the coffin. Its black, hooked talons scraped against the wood, leaving deep gouges.

On the other side, a large camphor tree outside rustled as a strange wind blew through. The camphor leaves swayed in the night breeze, and a human skin, clinging to the trunk like a cicada, suddenly inflated as if filled with air.

"The abandoned wife regrets too late~ Do you remember the joy of our phoenix-like union then~ Do you recall the broken vows and parting branches~ Do you know your old love has no place to rest~ Do you miss the orphan with no father and mother..."

From a dry well, a woman's voice singing opera could be heard. Immediately, countless black strands of hair snaked out from the well's opening like black serpents.

An eerie wind blew, and ghosts danced wildly.

In front of the sedan chair, the paper effigies carrying it moved stiffly, their faces shifting between crying and laughing, giving onlookers a chilling sense of the absurd.

The fierce aura emanating from the monsters was like wolves encircling them.

On the roof of the thatched shed, the Cat-Monkey licked its forked, snake-like tongue.

Beneath the red coffin in the coffin shop, a patch of pale green shadow burrowed into the earth.

The Tree Crawler on the camphor tree opened a pair of blood-red pupils, gazing through the leaves at the paper sedan chair.

The black hair in the dry well began to writhe rapidly, and half a head gradually emerged from the well, greediness and cruelty flashing in its decaying face.

"Seeking death."

He was extremely displeased. His right hand, tucked into his wide sleeve, gripped a silk string. With a violent flick, a piercing shriek tore through the dry, cold night air.

Chih-chih-chih-chih-chih!!!

Several thin gray lines sliced through the sky. This was the Immortal Puppet Sect's killing art, "Milo Blade," vibrating strings from afar, propelled by Formless String.

Instantly, a gale swept out from the paper sedan chair in all directions, shattering the tall grass and sending mud and stones flying.

The specters within the black mist let out a sharp, shrill cry. Struck by several Milo Blades, they dissolved into wisps of smoke and quickly dissipated.

The Cat-Monkey on the roof suddenly leaped up, like a nimble cat, pouncing through the air. However, it exploded under the astonishing wind pressure mid-flight, and large pools of green blood splattered everywhere.

The monstrous cat let out a piteous yowl, but it was more of a choked sound, its voice completely suppressed.

Bang!

A deep bass sound suddenly rang out as half of the rammed earth wall outside the courtyard collapsed from a single blow.

The camphor tree seemed to have been struck by knives and axes; its trunk, as thick as a bowl, was snapped. A flash of blood-red light appeared, and the blade-like wind that tore through the air had already sliced the blood-red shadow in half.

On the other side, from the direction of the ancient well, vast expanses of black hair surged towards the sedan chair like waves. The oily black strands writhed like snakes and worms, crawling forward, but they were intercepted by several paper puppets.

Three paper puppets stepped forward, their movements bizarre yet tinged with a hint of the comical.

They swung their lanterns, and the ghost-fire-like flames suddenly expanded, shooting outwards. They burned the large masses of black hair, causing it to curl and retreat with a "hissing" sound.

The Well Ghost, still injured, hastily retracted its wildly roaming hair. The hair that coiled back into the well's opening was like wounded snakes.