Volume 1, Chapter 30: Immortal Possession

My God, what kind of evil entity could drain a seasoned immortal-bound weasel of its life force in total silence?

"Master, don't tell us to leave. Tell us what we can do to save you!"

"Save... save... it cannot be saved. Go, quickly."

The old hunter and I did not give up. Strangely, the blood we splashed onto the withered tree stumps seemed to bring them back to life. Even the mushrooms growing on the stumps began to sprout at a rate visible to the naked eye. Gradually, the mushrooms actually blossomed—not by opening their caps, but by growing a blue flower from within the mushroom tissue.

It was less like a flower and more like a creature; the blue petals twisted and stretched, as if searching for something.

Suddenly, my heart began to race violently. I don't know if it was from blood loss or something else, but it felt as if my heart was about to leap out of my throat. At the same time, a strange thought took hold in my mind.

I picked up the dagger I had dropped, and sliced right into the roots of the Taoist's ears. Instead of blood, I pulled out a white, hair-like strand from beneath the skin on both sides—each over an inch long. They resembled translucent, fine noodles; they were soft, yet possessed incredible tensile strength.

The moment those white filaments were pulled out, the Taoist’s body went limp. The old hunter, quick-witted, grabbed the Taoist and dragged him toward the deep forest.

I scrambled to help. As I looked up, I saw a mottled civet cat, nearly as large as a dog, perched on a branch at the top of the tree. Its expression was a mix of a smile and a sneer, with a trace of malice hanging from the corners of its mouth.

There was no time to think; survival was all that mattered. We poured every ounce of remaining strength into dragging the Taoist into the deep woods. Due to the blood loss, I felt faint and weak, but I pushed myself as hard as I could.

I don't know how far we traveled into the forest before the old hunter and I both collapsed. My last memory was of gasping for air, followed by leaving it to fate. Sleep, just sleep; let’s gamble that the great beasts won't come to devour us.

When I woke, the sky was a sickly green. I couldn't tell if it was day or night, nor the hour. I hurried to check on the two old men; they hadn't awakened yet, but thankfully, they were still breathing.

I struggled to gather dead branches and leaves to start a fire. The blood loss left my mind a blank, void of any thoughts, and every movement sent the world spinning.

At that moment, the best course of action was to stay put and wait for the body to recover. I tried to stay awake, but exhaustion washed over me.

Without food or water, hungry and weary, it was that treacherous kind of fatigue where the more you sleep, the more you want to sleep.

I don't know how much time had passed when the Taoist woke me. The old hunter was sitting nearby, puffing on his pipe. I slapped myself in the face to wake up, then felt a surge of joy—they were both recovering. Aside from their pale complexions, their spirits had largely returned.

"Master, are you alright?"

"Grandpa, how are you feeling?"

The old hunter nodded slightly, and the Taoist said, "I am fine."

The heavy stone in my heart finally fell. The Taoist continued, "You plucked my root of wisdom."

"Master, I'm sorry, I..."

The Taoist interrupted, "I do not blame you. But without my root of wisdom, my connection to the immortal path is severed. You must work even harder from now on so that you can graduate as soon as possible. Do you understand?"

"Master, I, I..."

"Do not feel guilty. I have only lost my connection to the immortal path; my life was saved. Not only do I not blame you, but I also thank you. As for the root of wisdom, if one works hard enough, it can be regained."

"But..."

I didn't know what to say. I was used to the Taoist’s jovial nature, and this sudden seriousness made me feel afraid.

The old hunter coughed twice and said, "Lad, your master may have lost his immortal connection, but he still has his experience. You must be diligent; we cannot let the traditions of the deep forest die out."

"Grandpa, don't worry, I will definitely work hard."

After saying that, I asked, "Master, are you feeling better?"

"Rest assured, I am fine."

"What exactly was up with that patch of forest? It was too wicked."

The Taoist took a deep breath and began to recount it, piece by piece.

When he first saw that clearing, his immediate reaction was that it resembled the Sun Tombs of Lop Nur. The burial forms were similar: coffins stood upright, half-buried in the earth, arranged in rings.

The only difference was the low, windowless wooden hut in the center. Just as the Taoist was staring at the hut in confusion, a pair of invisible hands pressed down on his shoulders. The force was immense; he couldn't even shake his body.

The Taoist had tried to resist, but he never expected that the more he exerted force, the stronger that pressure became, as if it wanted to crush his body into a ball.

The blood the old hunter and I had splashed to ward off evil had been useless. It was a stroke of both luck and misfortune that I had plucked the Taoist's root of wisdom.

The Taoist said that what looked like a patchwork of rags was not a wooden hut, but a coffin—a coffin that buried the primary occupant.

The reason the boards were so colorful was that the coffin was constructed from "a hundred coffins." It was made by taking one board from each of one hundred buried coffins to assemble a new one.

This type of coffin is a standard "corpse-raising" vessel. It is said that when a body is buried in such a coffin, it will not rot for a hundred years and can be resurrected in a thousand.

As for the circles of logs that were as thick as a man, they were not just logs; they were also a type of coffin.

Before seeing those logs, the Taoist had thought the technique of hollowing out wood for coffins had been lost to time.

It is said that the technique of "hewing wood into a coffin" also comes from the *Book of Lu Ban*. A carpenter would select a locust tree as thick as a man, cut a notch three feet and three inches from the base, and insert tools through the small opening to hollow out a space in the shape of a human. Once finished, the carpenter would gradually enlarge the hole until a corpse could be stuffed inside.

There are several legends regarding how the corpse is inserted. Because of the antiquity and the fact that no one had used such evil arts in centuries, the Taoist wasn't sure which version was true—or if they all were.

The first theory is that it isn't a corpse that is stuffed inside, but a living young child. The carpenter feeds the child inside the tree daily until the child reaches the age of ten. Every few days, the carpenter would use tools to cut the bark at the opening to stimulate the tree's growth; the day the hole closes is the day the child dies.

The second theory is that a corpse is inserted, requiring a larger hole, followed by cutting the bark to stimulate healing.

The third theory also involves a corpse, but the body must first be de-boned, leaving not an inch of bone behind; only the skin and flesh are inserted into the tree.

Regardless of the method, the healed scar forms a black, striped "ghost face," which is why this evil art is also called the "Ghost-Faced Locust Coffin."

I felt a chill run down my spine...

The common thread among all three methods is that the locust tree must remain alive. Only after the cavity has been healed for three full years does the carpenter fell the tree and use the section containing the corpse.

It is said that this type of locust tree is truly "a ghost within the wood."

However, carpenters usually only used these sections to carve evil idols for worship; it was rare to hear of them being used for direct burial.