Chapter 84: When the Professor Meets the Illiterate

Yiran’s words were so warm and comforting, and they gave me a little more confidence to defeat the three Ghost Kings. Just then, I heard Uncle Ma shouting up at me and Fang Panguo: “Use your Corpse Fiend energy! The Ghost Kings are beings of Yin, and the Corpse Fiend energy is the purest Yin, the origin of Heaven’s law; they cancel each other out!” No sooner had Uncle Ma finished speaking than he raised his coin sword once more and engaged the Ghost King before him in fierce combat.

Hearing Uncle Ma’s words, I finally understood why physical attacks and my other abilities had no effect—it turned out the Ghost King’s body was ethereal, requiring an attack of Qi. The Yin Qi of the Ghost King and my Corpse Fiend Qi were both of the Yin nature and could therefore mutually neutralize each other.

Seeing such an opportunity, I instantly transformed all my powers into overwhelming Fiendish Qi. The temperature around me plummeted, as if I stood in an icy cavern. Suddenly, the temperature alarm of Z City sounded, and a distinctly feminine voice echoed in the distance: “Attention residents of Z City, temperatures have dropped sharply. Please add more layers tonight to avoid catching cold!”

I had never used this Corpse Fiend Qi before, as I always felt it was a disgrace to my humanity. The very name suggested it was not for the living. Yet, with such a useful skill and in the face of the Ghost Kings, how could I hesitate now?

The Corpse Fiend Qi enveloped me, and my once pale-gold energy instantly turned dark. My silver hair took on a dusty, ashen hue, like cremated remains, and the Sanskrit incantation on my face flushed blood-red, as if it might drip with blood at any moment.

Opposite me, the three grotesque Ghost Kings stood on insubstantial air, each with two bull-like horns atop their heads. Realizing I had discovered their weakness, the gray horns on their heads flushed red as blood. Three hellish ghost spears materialized in their hands, and, speaking in their infernal tongue, they charged at me.

Was I supposed to despise them, or should I despise them even more? A cold light flashed across my handsome face, the corners of my mouth curling upward. I pulled a black, curved blade from the air and swept it toward the three onrushing Ghost Kings.

The fight felt as if it had leapt from the pages of the cultivation novels I’d read—a battle in the sky above a bustling city, something I’d never imagined for myself. High above, that ancient, godlike silhouette wielded a legendary blade, exuding unfathomable power, yet facing three formidable opponents with effortless composure.

On the ground, Wang Yong and Gano were locked in battle with the blood clan. The blood clan’s bodies had always been considered the weakest among all races. Against the undying corpses, they were utterly outmatched. The blood clan duke was already beaten to a pulp by Gano and pinned under his foot. The rest were either crippled or gravely injured. Wang Yong’s eyes glowed green and Gano’s eyes shone orange, staring down at these dying blood clan members with disdain.

So Gano’s earlier words were mere jokes—he was a real force to be reckoned with. Why, then, had he pretended to be timid?

Gano looked down at the blood clan duke, his corpse-born nails growing rapidly into steel blades. With a wet, slicing sound, he plunged them into the duke’s chest and pulled out a still-beating heart. The body instantly disintegrated into dust, carried off by the cold wind.

The remaining blood clan were mere viscounts, equivalent to fourth-generation undying corpses—utterly powerless before Gano, a first-generation. Their wings had been torn from their backs, leaving deep, bloody grooves. When the wind blew, these viscounts became wingless bats, flapping helplessly on the ground, until Wang Yong finished them off one by one.

Now, only seven Ghost Kings remained. Uncle Mao and Uncle Ma managed to hold one in check, which was a stalemate at best. Fang Panguo was in better shape—no wonder, given his millennia of experience. Using weapons forged from Fiendish Qi, he’d already destroyed the arms and legs of two Ghost Kings, gaining a clear advantage.

I’d only managed to wound one, but dawn was breaking. To think we had fought for hours! It was already well past four in the morning when the crowing of a rooster shattered the Ghost Kings’ composure. Panic seized them, and they scattered in all directions.

In the end, the seven Ghost Kings fled toward seven different directions.

Now I understood: no matter what kind of ghost you are, the crow of a rooster will send you fleeing. Daylight is the time of pure Yang, and under the sun, Yin Qi is completely devoured. This is the realm of the living—no benefit for the Ghost Kings here, only harm.

Uncle Ma called up to us, “Don’t bother chasing them. These seven ghosts can flee thousands of miles by day—you’ll never catch them. Come down!” He waved to me and Fang Panguo, signaling us to descend.

My first instinct was to hurry to Shangguan Yiran. I found her deeply asleep from sheer exhaustion. The fact she hadn’t fainted from fright showed she was quite a strong-willed girl.

Disheveled and weary, we emerged from the alley, our faces smudged like painted cats. Walking down the street, we drew all manner of curious stares. Some people pointed at us and whispered, “Are these beggars? How pitiful!”

Good grief, I was about to lose it. Have you ever seen a beggar with such a beautiful woman on his back?

But maybe I shouldn’t have thought that. Just then, I heard an old crone—who deserved her tongue pulled out—say, “Look! Did that little beggar kidnap someone’s daughter? We should call the police!”

Discrimination—blatant, naked discrimination. Damn it, do they think I’m a pushover? Just as I was about to lose my temper, Uncle Ma beat me to it. In full view, his tattered windbreaker flapping, he strode toward the woman with a swagger like Zhao Si.

Uncle Ma’s once fair face was now smeared with the ash of talismans, looking every bit the battle-worn veteran. Pointing at the old woman, he said, “Look carefully. Do you know what this is?” He pulled his teaching certificate from his inner pocket and flashed it in front of her.

We were now surrounded by a crowd, gaping as if we were some sort of spectacle.

The old woman squinted at the certificate for a moment and said, “What’s written on this little booklet of yours? I can’t read!”

Sweat. I was speechless. Uncle Ma, a university lecturer, had actually encountered an illiterate who dared to lecture him. It reminded me of the saying: “A scholar meets a soldier—reason cannot prevail.”

Uncle Ma fell silent, at a loss for words. He took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and after a drag, said passionately to the old woman, “Listen up! I am Ma Tao, a teacher at Z City’s premier Archaeology Academy, and a university associate professor and mentor!” With that, he flung his battle-torn windbreaker behind him and led us, head held high, out of the gawking crowd. We hailed a cab straight to Uncle Mao’s suburban residence.