Chapter Seven: The March of the Yang Warriors (Part One)

If someone had asked me at that time what the warmest moment in life was, I would have said it was that very instant—a moment that felt like home, with my wife bustling in the kitchen, preparing my favorite dishes.

Ashuang, full of excitement, carried a plate over, laughing as she announced, “Here comes the first dish—tomato and scrambled eggs!” She set the plate right in front of me, since the table was square and the first dish always ended up before my eyes.

I stared at the plate, puzzled. How was this tomato and scrambled egg so different? Except for a few intact pieces of tomato, the rest was a dark, unidentifiable mess—there wasn’t a single piece of egg! Looking closer, I thought to myself, “If my eyesight were gone, maybe I’d eat it, but a plate of blackened tomato and eggs is just revolting.” Of course, I dared not say it aloud, so I forced a smile and joked, “City folk sure eat differently. If Uncle Ma tried this, he’d definitely praise your cooking. I’ll dig in first.” Under Ashuang’s smiling gaze, I picked up a piece of tomato and popped it into my mouth, swallowing it in one go and exclaiming, “Delicious!”

That was a lie. Truthfully, even my little sister back home cooked better than this, but I couldn’t hurt Ashuang’s feelings. I could only grit my teeth and swallow my words, determined to eat everything Ashuang had made. Watching her fetch more dishes, I patted my empty stomach and said, “You’ve really worked hard today!”

Soon, a parade of peculiar, one-of-a-kind dishes appeared on the table. Ashuang sat across from me, face radiant with satisfaction as I praised her cooking. She, too, picked up an odd stir-fried mushroom and brought it to her cherry lips.

As soon as the mushroom entered her mouth, Ashuang dashed to the bathroom, retching. The sight left me uneasy, but I had no choice. My body needed energy, and these dishes weren’t nearly enough, so, under Ashuang’s astonished gaze, I ate everything, though my stomach didn’t even bulge.

“Still not full? Should I cook a few more dishes?” Ashuang perked up at the mention of cooking, but I shook my head like a drum, saying, “No, I’m full.” Though I said so, inwardly I thought, “If I eat your cooking again, I’ll really die.”

After I finished eating, Ashuang began tidying up. Just then, the door suddenly opened.

It was Uncle Ma. I greeted him with a smile, and he patted my shoulder, congratulating me on growing up.

I understood his meaning immediately. With Ashuang busy in the kitchen, I took the chance to recount everything that had happened yesterday to Uncle Ma—after all, he was the only one who could help me now.

Upon hearing my story, Uncle Ma hurriedly dragged me outside, instructing Ashuang to wait at home.

I followed Uncle Ma, watching his swift movements, thinking, “Who knew this old guy could run so fast!”

Uncle Ma ran to the underground parking lot, turned to me, and said, “Back in the day, your Uncle Ma was the city’s famous running champion.” With that, he opened a car door and motioned me inside.

“Yeah, right!” I scoffed at him, climbing into the sedan.

As the car left the parking lot, I asked, “Uncle Ma, where are you taking me?”

Uncle Ma’s face grew serious. “Kid, do you know what you are now? You’re the one-in-a-million Golden Corpse King. The golden script on the bat wings you described is the curse from ancient necromancers, and it marks your identity. Let me ask you—do you want to be a good corpse or a bad corpse?”

I didn’t understand most of what he said, but the last question I answered with conviction: “I want to be a good corpse. I want to live up to the world, and to my parents who scraped together money for my education.” With that, tears I hadn’t shed in a long time rolled down my cheeks.

Uncle Ma saw my answer and my bowed head, and asked no more.

I fell into deep thought: a rundown village, dotted with scattered homes, my middle-aged parents still tending a few acres of farmland, always handing over last year’s hard-earned money for my tuition, living humble, modest lives. Even as they put me on the bus, they’d say, “Child, there’s money at home, eat whatever you want, wear more clothes when it’s cold, don’t skimp on yourself.” Hearing those words, tears welled in my eyes. Who didn’t know their own family’s situation? Parents would rather eat and wear less themselves, just to spend their savings on their children. The world’s parents are all the same.

Looking at my father’s shoulders, once my childhood’s sky, now weathered and worn—he truly was the sky of our family. My mother’s back was already stooped, but both still worked for me. I resolved then: “When my father’s shoulders can no longer bear our sky, when my mother complains of aching back, I’ll let them rest on a soft sofa and enjoy their days. I’ll take up the sky my father once carried, and our family will live happily under it.”

Uncle Ma’s car suddenly stopped—the destination was a cluster of simple, rundown houses in the suburbs. The abrupt stop jolted me from my reverie. Glancing in the mirror, I saw my face streaked with tears. I took a tissue from the dashboard, wiped my face, and followed Uncle Ma toward a low house.

The house was shabby, and most people on the road were migrant workers. I wondered why Uncle Ma brought me here when a middle-aged man greeted us. Uncle Ma addressed him respectfully as “Uncle Mao.”

I studied Uncle Mao closely, sensing an aura of danger from him—a primal sense of threat. Uncle Ma gave a brief introduction, then led me into the small house.

Inside, the Daoist Master’s gaze shook my soul—a natural reverence of ghosts for the divine.

But that trembling soon faded, dissolved by the ancient golden script within me. Uncle Mao, seated beside me, suddenly shivered for reasons unknown.

“Xiao Ma, I sense the Golden Corpse King nearby, but can’t pinpoint his exact location,” Uncle Mao said, looking to Uncle Ma.

Uncle Ma replied gravely, “Uncle Mao, though you entered the Dao first and by religious rites are my elder, and by age my brother, I won’t hide the truth. The young man beside you is the Golden Corpse King—I’ve examined him. He’s a good kid, kind-hearted.”

As soon as Uncle Ma finished, he gave me a look. I understood, and revealed the bat wings covered in golden script—red gem-like eyes, silver-white hair, a cold face with jade fangs three centimeters long, looking like a handsome, aloof youth. My pale face was marked with a string of ancient black-violet characters.

Fear flickered instantly. Uncle Mao was startled, but as a Daoist, his composure returned quickly. He’d seen many ghosts and sent countless souls to their end, but had never sat so close to a Golden Corpse King before.

Regaining his calm, Uncle Mao took out a magnifying glass, a tool of Yin-Yang masters, and inspected the golden script on my wings. He murmured, “You have five days left before you mature. The golden script marks your identity—you are the only first-generation Golden Corpse King after the Chen period. Remember, do not drink living human blood within seven days.” Uncle Mao finished and signaled me to retract my wings.

Returning to my normal form, my stomach growled—the meal had only lasted a little over an hour. I scratched my head, embarrassed, glancing at Uncle Ma and Uncle Mao.

Uncle Mao went into the bedroom, soon returning to toss a bag of blood plasma on the table. “Remember, you can only drink expired blood. If not, don’t blame Uncle Mao for disregarding Uncle Ma’s feelings and dealing with you harshly.” Uncle Mao sighed and sat beside the wooden table.

Looking at the blood plasma, I felt a strange urge—not to drink, but to vomit. I’d never drunk human blood; in my memory, blood was always foul and disgusting, less appealing than the wooden-tasting meals.

I firmly refused to drink it. Uncle Ma and Uncle Mao seemed confused—why would a zombie not want blood? They looked at each other, finally seeming to understand.

Uncle Ma opened the blood plasma, held it under my nose, and let me smell it. To my surprise, it didn’t smell like blood, but more like syrup. I tasted it—surprisingly pleasant—and drank all five hundred milliliters of expired plasma in one go.

After drinking, I felt a surge of power, unlike eating food.

Just then, a middle-aged man entered, holding a peachwood sword. He bowed to the Daoist Master, then approached Uncle Mao and said, “Senior Brother, five hundred Mao family disciples have assembled, five hundred Ma family disciples have assembled, and the Underworld has been contacted—five thousand agents will come to help.” He finished and left. Looking out the window, I saw the crowds—clearly Daoists of this city, practitioners of an ancient religion on the verge of being abandoned by society.

They stood in neat rows, waiting for Uncle Mao’s command to move to Fengdu Mountain.

Fengdu Mountain was not a mountain in this world, but the boundary between the living and the dead—a natural place for nurturing corpses, the gateway to the King of Hells’ palace. Some charlatan feng shui masters brought people who should have been dead here; over time, they became zombies outside the eighteen levels of hell, impervious to weapons and nearly invincible.

As long as you are a righteous Daoist and recite the incantation, you can enter Fengdu Mountain—but entering alone means your soul will be scattered.

Clearly, they were waiting for nightfall. Uncle Ma spread the Daoists across the suburbs to avoid media attention, instructing them to gather here after eight o’clock and enter Fengdu Mountain together. They called this operation “Yang Troops Crossing the Realm.”

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(Today’s update: three thousand words delivered. Due to some family matters, I can’t post consecutive chapters. Tomorrow I’ll make up for it. Hope you all understand.)