Chapter Fifty-Four: The Grievance of the Phantom

Six Ugly’s mind raced, swiftly sorting through the information until he found what he sought. Without hesitation, he rose and headed toward the old, sealed distillery.

At the entrance, he did not enter but moved on, arriving at the rear of the distillery, where there once stood a vast dye works. During the plague, this place had served as the quarters for those tending to the city’s officials, noble kin, and the sick of great families.

Six Ugly crossed the dye works’ courtyard. The enormous vats had long dried, filled now with rainwater steeped in rotting leaves, yet they no longer carried any stench. The hemp and ramie cloths hanging from the drying racks had hardened into brittle strips, ready to crumble at the slightest touch. Wild mushrooms and moss coated the pillars, spiderwebs layered the corners, and dead leaves and vines carpeted the ground, rustling underfoot.

He pressed on to the backyard, identified a dilapidated room, and pushed it open. Using his iron staff, he pried apart a heap of firewood in the corner, revealing a decayed wooden cover. A chilling wind seeped through the wide cracks. A few prods with the staff shattered the cover and exposed a hidden pit.

This pit was the underground cellar beneath the dye works. Its entrance was narrow, but after a dozen steps it widened; the walls were made of blue stone for a few yards, but the larger section was merely dug from earth, separated by old bamboo fences now collapsed in decay.

Within, piles of straw lay scattered, alongside shackles, broken bowls and pots tossed against the walls, tattered clothing and cloths—a scene akin to a beggar’s den, but lacking any human warmth.

Six Ugly took two steps inside. His iron staff nudged aside the bamboo, revealing a messy nest of straw, where a pitch-black old cat lay. Its fur was mottled, its tail completely bare, lifeless.

He stared at the cat for a moment, then picked it up. Suddenly, the stagnant air stirred, a wind cut through, icy and bone-chilling, carrying indistinct sounds—echoes of sorrow that wafted through the cellar.

Almost at once, a blurred vision appeared before Six Ugly’s eyes: in this very pit, the servants assigned to care for the sick had themselves survived the plague, immune now, and wielded unchecked power. Seeing the fear outsiders had for the place, they grew even more domineering and unruly, venting their grievances and hatred for their masters upon the helpless sick.

The beautiful wives and daughters of officials, young ladies and maids, were sent here, suffering humiliation and abuse, tormented to the brink of death—some perishing amid depravity, their bodies dragged away like dogs only after the servants’ beastly desires were spent, thrown into pits at the cellar’s depths.

Outsiders dared not enter, believing their kin were being cared for and that there might be hope. Who could have known what horrors befell them here? In the end, they closed their eyes in bitter unwillingness; the urn of ashes sent home was mourned and buried, none the wiser to the truth.

Ultimately, the grievances of those who died here coalesced, attaching to the old cat, transforming it from ordinary animal to malevolent spirit, unleashing vengeance upon the city. All those who met their grisly ends were tied to this place—either perpetrators, or their descendants and kin.

The wind moaned, wailing and singing, and Six Ugly understood: most of this lingering resentment had already been absorbed by the Demon Refining Jar, yet a trace remained, powerful enough to rise again after many years, exacting new vengeance upon those who survived.

But what did it matter to Six Ugly?

Life for life, justice is natural. He felt not a hint of unease. His reason for confronting the vengeful spirit was only the trial of Heaven’s Cry. Were it not for this, let grievance repay grievance, hatred repay hatred—one’s sins are one’s own to bear, and it had nothing to do with him.

Were it himself, Six Ugly would have acted no differently. Not only would he wipe out his enemies’ entire households, he’d seek out their clans as well. Why should he restrain his vengeance? Why must one return only a punch for a punch, and not three strokes of the blade? Such notions are absurd—why heed them?

Naturally, by the same logic, Six Ugly would never champion the cause of these vengeful spirits or seek justice for them. He would not avenge them nor slay their enemies on their behalf. The world is vast, but nothing matters more than oneself; he would never invite powerful foes for the sake of the undeserving. Nor would he, out of guilt or pity, help the spirits after hindering them. That was not his way.

This world has never been fair; the strong prevail by nature. If one deems the fate of those abused and slain unjust, what of the cattle, sheep, pigs, and dogs eaten for survival or pleasure, or the demon flesh and bird’s nests devoured for strength? Should they not seek vengeance?

Dou E, wronged and dying, brought snow in June and stirred the heavens, her grievance redressed. But who speaks for the countless poor who starve or freeze to death in March’s snows? Does Dou E’s plea make her suffering great, while others’ deaths are deserved?

Such logic cannot stand!

All Six Ugly could do—and all he wished to do—was nothing. In modern terms: let it be. The rain girl has nothing to do with him.

Amid the sorrowful, ghostly cries of the vengeful spirit, Six Ugly took a slow breath and spoke: “Within three months, if no more disappearances occur in the city, I’ll let things be. I will neither kill you nor concern myself with your future actions. Do as you wish. Likewise, you need not show me your past suffering; seek vengeance if you desire, but do not expect me to help you. Whether you ask or not makes no difference.”

With that, he wasted no further time. He hooked the cat’s corpse onto his iron staff, slung it over his shoulder, and began his return from the pit. The swirling winds seemed to clutch at his clothing, as if spectral hands tried to pull him back, but they did nothing; they could only watch his fading back, their mournful cries echoing in the darkness, gnawing at the heart.

Yet Six Ugly never once looked back.

※

The sky was black as ink, clouds rolling like waves.

Silver serpents struck the golden drums of thunder, wind whipped like a thousand blades.

Mountains hurled stones weighing thousands, rivers tore apart dams and reefs.

Cloud vessels spun like drifting cotton, houses shook like withered reeds.

Black clouds pressed upon the city, thunder and lightning raged, earth and mountains trembled. In the depths of these pitch-black clouds, a cloud vessel shot out, piercing the heavens, forging ahead against storm and rain. Raindrops battered the hull, the loosened wooden rails and masts shuddered, creaking, the chimney atop spewing black smoke torn away by the wind. The broken masts and railings scorched from friction, yet were immediately drenched and dried again.

The iron armor on the hull was mottled and corroded, chunks ripped away by the wind and hurled into the sky. Arrows and spears stuck in the vessel, those untouched by rain glowed hot, faintly scorched.

No sooner had one cloud vessel emerged than the black clouds erupted again. A second, larger vessel surged behind, sleek and blade-like, slicing through wind and sky with a sharp hiss. Mounted ballistae fired bolts half a yard long at the lead vessel, but the storm deflected them—the bolts missed again and again.

At the prow of the pursuing vessel stood a foreign monk in a resplendent robe, more sumptuous than those of the Putuo Temple monks. His face was long, eyes narrow, bearing a sinister aspect. His eyes narrowed against the wind, unmoving, letting his robes whip and billow.

Unlike the first vessel, this one was shrouded in a faint blue glow; despite the storm, little rain touched it, and friction caused no heat. The archers atop, though less skilled, managed to fire amid such speed, raining bolts upon their quarry.

The chase continued, the gap closing. Suddenly, the lead vessel dove, twisting through the sky—clearly aware of danger, desperate to delay pursuit. The narrow-eyed monk remained unfazed, issuing a calm command: “Keep on its tail. Do not let it escape.”

Such violent maneuvers could not be sustained for long.

“Yes!” The acolyte behind him relayed the command, and the vessel changed course, clinging tightly to its prey. The monk, judging the distance, shrugged off his robe and raised it aloft.

“Eight Heavenly Dragons, World-Honored Ksitigarbha, Prajna Buddhas—Om Bami Bami Hong!”

He finished his chant and hurled the robe, which spiraled through the air, unleashing countless golden rays. Lightning in the sky converged upon it like a web. Then, beams as thick as pillars shot from the robe, striking the lead vessel.

The front vessel twisted and rolled, dodging three bolts, but the lightning from the robe grew faster. The fourth struck the tail, splintering wood and hurling two charred figures from the wreck. Rain hissed on their burnt bodies, consuming them utterly.

With the talisman furnace destroyed, the lead vessel lost its power and plummeted toward the mountains, trailing smoke, until a thunderous crash and burst of fire marked its fall. Several figures darted into the woods below.

The pursuing vessel slowed, hovering above the wreck, dropping ropes. The narrow-eyed monk descended, followed by others sliding down the ropes, weapons on their backs—demon-slaying rods, exorcist shovels, compassion staves—arrayed in battle-ready formation.

All were foreign monks.

With a flick of his hand, the narrow-eyed monk sent his followers forth—like unleashed hounds, they flooded into the woods, tracking the fugitives.

Only then did the monk retrieve his robe, which fluttered back into his grasp. He donned it once more, and with a surge of light at his feet, sped across the treetops to follow.

A game of mantis stalking cicada was about to unfold. But where there is a mantis, can the oriole be far behind?

With the monks gone, those left on the cloud vessel set about anchoring ropes, tying them to trees to secure their ship. The talisman furnace was mostly shut, black smoke fading, leaving only enough power to keep the vessel afloat.

Yet—

Just then, high above where the two vessels had flown, a black cloud vessel silently emerged, spreading bat-like wings and gliding in circles, stealthily closing in on the hovering ship.

The bat-winged vessel moved with extraordinary speed, closing the distance to a hundred yards, then fifty, thirty, ten…

At that moment, four figures leaped from the vessel, landing before the monks.

The one in front stood less than three feet tall, yet wielded a sword nearly a yard wide. He licked his lips with his tongue, a genial smile on his face.