Chapter Twenty-Four: Old Master Hu the Third

Just as I was sinking into a reverie, the drop of Jiang Chen’s blood within me began to boil. Vaguely, in that trance, I saw the image of the old Taoist gradually dissolve into nothingness, replaced by the ancient demon ancestor Jiang Chen. He looked just as he had that day in the Shennongjia Mountains, only now he seemed even more obsessed and deranged, as if desperately trying to resist something.

Suddenly, darkness fell before my eyes, then a flash of light, and I found myself inside a pitch-black void. Before me was a coffin of deep purple-black stone, covered in incantations—far more numerous than the golden ones on my own wings. This vision was the first to appear since I had become the Golden Corpse King, and I did not understand why it drew me here. Remembering what Old Ma had said about the Mandate of Heaven, I wondered if it had something to do with the fate between Jiang Chen and myself.

I’d only seen such scenes in movies, and according to those scripts, if I approached the coffin, it would shatter and Jiang Chen would burst out. To be cautious, I crept closer. When my hand touched the purple-black glyphs on the coffin, something strange occurred. The coffin neither broke nor cracked open. Instead, it became shrouded in a layer of white light, and an old man appeared, holding a staff made of human bone, fixing me with a piercing stare and speaking words I could not understand.

Just as the old man was about to step down from the coffin, it exploded. The old man vanished, and Jiang Chen, wild as a ferocious beast, lunged out, a black hand wreathed in purple light reaching for me. I dodged desperately, but at last Jiang Chen’s furious palm struck my head. With a scream, I jolted awake from the terrifying vision.

To my astonishment, dawn had already broken, and I was drenched in cold sweat. I thought to myself, “What a strange dream. What could it mean?” But there was no time to ponder, for today was New Year’s Day, and I had to help my parents with the housework until the arrival of New Year’s Eve.

As soon as night fell, my family set off a string of firecrackers. Then we brought dumplings to my grandparents, and paid New Year’s calls to my uncles and aunts, the festivities lasting until midnight. From dusk till midnight, I witnessed firsthand the feverish excitement people had for the New Year, the sound of firecrackers never ceasing for a second.

After visiting the elders and exchanging New Year’s greetings, my mother insisted on pressing a hundred-yuan red envelope into my hand. How could I accept it, being over twenty years old? Wouldn’t it sound ridiculous if others found out an adult was still taking New Year’s money? I quickly protested, “Mom, I’m too old for this! Why are you still giving me lucky money?” But my mother’s few words left me speechless, and in the end, she forced the envelope into my hand.

After wishing my parents a happy new year, I retreated to my room to sleep. For me, the New Year was nothing more than routine. If every day were spent like this, wouldn’t the New Year be just another date on the calendar?

Lying in bed, I couldn’t make sense of it all. Old Ma was far away, so I decided to pay my respects to the household god—Lord of the Hearth.

I quietly opened my “demon corpse eye,” also known as the yin-yang eye, and slipped soundlessly into the kitchen, standing before the image of the Lord of the Hearth. I placed the food I had prepared in advance before the god’s likeness and softly called out, “Lord of the Hearth, come forth, I have something to ask you!”

Sure enough, the lure of food worked. A cloud of auspicious energy rose from the icon, swiftly taking human form—a white-haired, white-bearded old man appeared before me, dressed in bright new clothes. He strode to the offering and began to eat with gusto, saying between mouthfuls, “Dong-zi, what’s the matter? Your Grandpa Hu San will help you.” Hearing him refer to himself as Grandpa Hu San, I scratched my head in confusion.

Seeing my puzzled look, the Lord of the Hearth explained, “Dong-zi, I’ve long known your fate is extraordinary. But I’ve watched over you for over twenty years and know you’re honest and kind. All I can do is urge you not to stray down a path that harms the world. Still, I can’t let you be ignorant now that you’ve entered this life. Let me tell you about the household gods of the north and south!”

Grandpa Hu San, as he called himself, swallowed another mouthful before continuing, “Every household god has his own title. Our lineage is the Northern Ma-Hu branch, while south of the Yangtze it’s the Southern Mao-Huang clan. Household gods are different from the great deities; at best, we’re minor immortals, with little backing in the celestial realm. So we stay in the mortal world as household gods, giving ourselves grand-sounding titles.” With that, the Lord of the Hearth wiped his mouth and sat atop the stove, watching me.

Seeing him stare at me, I said, “Grandpa, we’re both surnamed Hu—you must help me.” Grandpa Hu San looked puzzled. “Dong-zi, what’s wrong?” I quickly replied, “Surely you already know my identity?” He nodded without a word.

But what I’d hoped for—that a god might save me by removing the demon corpse blood from my body—turned out to be a disappointment. Grandpa Hu San said the only solution was to surpass Jiang Chen and dissolve the demon corpse blood; this had never changed since ancient times.

With no other answers, I told him the dream I’d had the night before. Grandpa Hu San responded with calm indifference—“I don’t know!”—and then vanished into the shadows. Yet I caught a flicker of alarm on his face before he disappeared. Since he wouldn’t tell me, there was nothing I could do but return to my room in dejection.

That year passed just like any other—firecrackers, sleep, New Year’s greetings, lucky money. After over twenty such years, I was thoroughly weary of it all. Winter break is short for college students, only a few days. After the New Year, I soon dragged myself back to the archaeology institute in Z City. Before I left, my parents accompanied me to the bus, giving me a string of reminders before they finally let me go.

Upon arrival, I made straight for the suburbs to look for Uncle Mao. When I got there, I was utterly stunned. I truly wanted to cry out to the sky: “Are you kidding me?” I marveled at the efficiency of our people—after barely ten or twenty days away, the entire area had already been razed to the ground. Was it fate or some higher power toying with me? In any case, I could only return to the academy, crestfallen.

Back at the academy, the vast campus was nearly deserted, probably because there were no classes that day and everyone was out having fun. Only I was left, wandering the paths with my head bowed, troubled by my own affairs. It wasn’t until I accidentally bumped into a fellow student that I snapped out of my daze—I heard a startled “oh!” and saw a girl in front of me stagger backward, about to fall.

In that split second, I instinctively stepped forward, catching her around the waist with one arm, meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” I said. But our pose was straight out of a movie—far too intimate, though we were strangers. Still, I found myself captivated by her beauty: long, jet-black hair, and bright, sparkling eyes that seemed to send sparks into mine.

Flustered and blushing, I was at a loss for words when the lovely girl spoke with a coquettish look: “Handsome, want to spend the night? It’s cheap—five hundred for the whole night, everything included.” She playfully thumped my chest.

At her words, I was dumbfounded: so she was a prostitute. I immediately released her waist and let her reacquaint herself with the ground, turning away without a backward glance.

As I walked off, I heard her call out, “Four hundred, okay? Or three hundred… Hey, don’t go!...” I ignored her—she had toyed with my feelings. I hurried back to the dormitory. No one was there; I guessed they’d all gone to the internet café to play Counter-Strike. It suited me fine—no one to disturb my work.

I turned on the computer and logged into QQ. Seeing Old Ma’s icon lit up, I messaged him. For all his age, Old Ma’s username was quite something: “Kiss Your Lips.” I thought to myself, “This old rascal—at his age, who’s he still hoping to kiss?”

Old Ma’s QQ was added just before I went home, but he’d only been online a few times since, and I hadn’t chatted with him—who knows what he’d been up to. Now I messaged him, and he replied with a simple “hmm.” Our conversation quickly turned to business—I asked why Uncle Mao no longer lived there, and where he’d gone. To my surprise, Old Ma replied, “Who are you?”

After chatting for so long, he didn’t even know who I was? On second thought, I realized: of course! It had to be A Shuang. I’d seen with my own eyes that Old Ma had added me with the note “Xiao Dong.”

As I puzzled this out, another message popped up: “Are you Hu Xiaodong?” I replied, “Yes!”—and that was it. The signal cut out, A Shuang sent a curt “Get lost!” and Old Ma’s “Kiss Your Lips” went offline.

Since that tactic failed, it was clear I’d have to use my trump card.

...

(Dear readers, some foreshadowing in the story will be revealed later. Please be patient—I won’t forget any of it.)