Old Zhou silently watched Lin Feng perform the rite. Several times, he straightened his fingers into a knife-hand, and each time, the dark shadows beside him swayed.
In the end, he sighed and clenched his hand into a fist. He took another two puffs from his tobacco pipe, swallowing the smoke along with his resolve, and seemed to wilt.
The Young Shrine Attendant kept his head down and said nothing, pretending not to notice the growing darkness around him, playing the fool.
Only Sour Confucian still wanted to speak. Judging by the way he rolled up his sleeves and held two fingers together like a sword, a torrent of words was about to pour from his mouth. Before he could utter a word, however, the bailiff behind him struck his head with an iron ruler. Blood ran down, and he passed out.
"Ah."
Seeing this, the Young Shrine Attendant sighed and crouched to tend to Sour Confucian. The bailiff said nothing either. As long as the old Sour Confucian kept quiet, that was enough.
Lin Feng was casting his rite.
He, too, saw countless black shadows spreading toward them—from gutters, from the shadows, from beneath the gravestones that suppressed them, from the mountains, the town, the Sea, and the docks.
The entire world seemed to turn black.
The people who had died in Fukou over the years were like earthbound spirits. They had never left Fukou at all.
They had become Water Wraiths searching for replacements, spirits lingering in the mountains to deceive the eye, and solitary ghosts walking the streets at night. More of them simply wandered aimlessly between heaven and earth, knowing neither where they were going nor where they would end.
Even the Hairy Moon overhead was stained by Lin Feng's darkness.
Gust after gust of sinister