Chapter Sixteen: This Green Is Yours

At this moment, as Chen Jin’s mind was settled and tranquil, he was able to perceive the ghostly apparition before him.

“Are you Lang Gaoda?” Chen Jin asked in a low, steady voice.

What appeared before Chen Jin was nothing more than a mass of inky shadow, barely retaining the vague outline of a human, all other features having faded away.

“Master Daoist, you are indeed no ordinary man,” the shadowy figure responded, its form slowly coalescing into that of a middle-aged man, dressed in the manner of a local resident. Yet, something about him was fundamentally out of place; his entire body—clothes and skin alike—was suffused with a pallid, ashen hue.

“Who are you?” Chen Jin asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Though the ghost’s appearance was not that of Lang Gaoda, the aura emanating from him was strikingly similar to what Chen Jin had sensed at the temple gate, allowing him to surmise that it was indeed this entity who had drawn him here.

“I am but a fragment of a lingering soul, wandering among these mountains and rivers, awaiting the time when I may reclaim my lost essence and descend to the underworld for reincarnation,” the ghost replied.

“Then why have you summoned me to this place?” Chen Jin pressed further.

“Last night, as I roamed the hills, I suddenly heard distant chanting. My spirit, drawn by a force beyond my will, drifted toward the Lang family manor. It was midnight, the hour when yin energy in heaven and earth reaches its deepest extremity. I could not help but take form, and in that state, I was seen by Lang Gaoda. The old man, already frail with age, was so overcome by fright that his life departed in an instant. His soul, tainted by the overwhelming yin energy, transformed immediately into a ghostly shade. Yet he remains dazed and confused, sometimes gnashing his teeth as if consumed by bitter resentment. From this, I suspect he died with a great injustice upon his heart.”

“Now and then, I heard him mutter about ancestral spirits revealing themselves. Fearing I had brought calamity upon him, I wondered if I might help restore him to life. Occasionally I saw pure energy rising from Gaoping Mountain and thought a virtuous cultivator must be there. So I resolved to draw you here, so that you might discern the truth and perhaps return Lang Gaoda to the world of the living,” the ghost related in a rapid, unbroken stream.

He spoke so swiftly, not needing to pause for breath, that only Chen Jin’s calm and keen mind allowed him to keep pace and analyze the information.

“Where is Lang Gaoda now?” Chen Jin asked.

“In the ancestral shrine at the rear of the Lang household,” the ghost replied.

“And where is this ancestral shrine?” Chen Jin now looked toward the group of Lang family members, all of whom trembled in terror.

None of the thirty or so Lang clanspeople could see the ghost, but hearing Chen Jin speak so authoritatively—and remembering the supernatural events they had already witnessed—left them deeply convinced of the ghost’s existence, and thus, deeply afraid.

Nevertheless, Lang Gaoda’s widow, still shaking, managed to raise a trembling hand and point Chen Jin in the right direction.

Of course, Chen Jin had no intention of proceeding alone. He offered the crowd a gentle smile. “I must trouble you all to accompany me,” he said.

Chen Jin’s gaze never left the face of Lang Gaoda’s widow. His intuition warned him that something was amiss with this woman; perhaps this was a case of a husband’s murder.

Yet her expression was indistinguishable from the rest—filled with nothing but fear and panic.

Under the pressure of Chen Jin’s scrutiny, the Lang clan slowly rose to their feet and filed toward the backyard, trailing nervously behind Chen Jin, while the wandering ghost led the way.

Arriving at the ancestral shrine, they found it shrouded in gloom, as though it were teeming with unseen phantoms.

The shrine was surprisingly spacious—larger, in fact, than the living quarters. But upon seeing the dense array of ancestral tablets, one quickly realized why: each ancestor’s spirit tablet required only a tiny space, so the ancestors had made do with little.

Lang Gaoda’s own tablet had not yet been placed, as his body had not been buried and the tablet still rested before the coffin.

The Lang family members cowered behind Chen Jin, unwilling to enter the shrine and standing only at the doorway, never considering that their ancestors would harm them.

Chen Jin entered, and the ghost vanished from sight. Knowing this was due to the limitations of his own spiritual cultivation, Chen Jin silently recited the Metal Qi Incantation, and soon a profound and mysterious sensation settled upon him. The ghost reappeared before his eyes, and now he perceived yet another spectral presence within the shrine.

This second ghost was formless, surrounded by swirling, ashen vapors.

Chen Jin lacked the depth of experience to identify what these vapors might be—perhaps the lingering incense smoke of the household, he guessed.

He watched the spirit, who seemed unable to meet his gaze, while the first ghost gently nudged it toward Chen Jin.

“Master Daoist, with your great abilities, can you restore him to life?” the ghost asked hopefully.

No man, especially one in Chen Jin’s position, would wish to admit defeat, yet he shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Then have I not committed a grievous sin? How will I ever find peace in the underworld?” the ghost replied, his tone dejected.

“Do you know whence came the voice that drew you to the Lang household?” Chen Jin asked again.

“If we can catch the true culprit, your sin may yet be absolved,” he added, hoping to ease the ghost’s mind.

Chen Jin himself was a novice on the path of cultivation. Without a master to guide him, there were many things he did not understand. Despite having read many ancient texts, without a teacher’s instruction, much remained unclear. Modern cultivators had only just begun their journey three years ago, and even those such as Zhang Hui, whom Chen Jin had consulted, were often at a loss.

Thus, Chen Jin knew that his progress would require slow, steady exploration. Fortunately, he possessed a special gift that allowed him to traverse into the mythic past and seek out the legendary adepts of old, such as Ge Hong, whom he came to Gaoping Mountain to find.

Truth be told, Chen Jin wished even more to seek out Xu Xun in the neighboring province—a figure revered as one of the Four Celestial Masters of Daoism, and far more powerful than Ge Hong. But not knowing Xu Xun’s precise whereabouts, Chen Jin decided to wait here for Ge Hong, especially as the Black Book tasked him with this mission.

Though still a novice, Chen Jin’s words were enough to calm the ghost, prompting him to recall the events of the previous night.

Chen Jin sat cross-legged in the ancestral shrine, waiting quietly for the ghost’s recollection.

By the time a stick of incense had burned away, the ghost had gathered his thoughts.

“Master Daoist, may I listen to their voices?” The ghost gestured toward the people outside the shrine.

Chen Jin nodded, then turned and called out, “If you wish your ancestor to rest in peace and cease disturbing you, please join me in reciting the Rebirth Sutra.”

It was, in fact, a well-known passage from the modern Taoist scripture, the Lingbao Sutra for Delivering Souls.

Chen Jin began the recitation. Yet as soon as he uttered the first line, the dim yellow oil lamps in the shrine blazed up with a sudden, eerie brightness; the flames burned with a blue-white light.

At this supernatural display, several in the crowd collapsed limply to the ground, while others shrieked and fled.

Most conspicuous was Lang Gaoda’s widow, who dropped to the floor in terror, leaving behind a puddle of yellowish liquid with a sharp, acrid smell. Clearly, her nerves had failed her completely.

But Chen Jin’s attention was fixed not on the commotion outside the shrine, but on the two ghosts within.

The ghost who had summoned Chen Jin here was gradually losing his ashen pallor, his form taking on the hues of the living.

As for Lang Gaoda’s ghost, though still formless, Chen Jin now discerned a faint glimmer of blue-green light within the swirling gray mist.