Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Haunting Weight

The night was deep and the moon was hidden; outside, the wind howled and the rain fell relentlessly. Deathly silence blanketed the world, as dark clouds pressed together in a suffocating embrace over the sky.

For a moment, a faint rustling sounded from beyond the window. Raindrops struck the courtyard’s dusty earth, each drop growing sparser yet heavier. The rain, now falling in thick, vertical torrents, battered the ground with a fierce and wild energy, transforming the earlier soft patter into a sharp, percussive rhythm. The downpour intensified.

Zhou Ninger closed her eyes, listening to the urgent drumming of rain outside. A lingering unease pressed on her heart. She cracked her eyes open, casting a glance at Jiang Pingchuan. Seeing him seated upright by her bedside, eyes closed in meditation, she felt reassured. She watched him, a gentle smile playing on her lips, and gradually drifted into sleep.

Jiang Pingchuan noticed a shadow flicker past the window. A figure hurried to Zhou Ninger’s door and paused. Jiang Pingchuan, observing Zhou Ninger’s even breathing, reached out to tuck her in, then rose to the door. Opening it, he found Manager Zhou standing outside.

Manager Zhou craned his neck to peer inside. Catching sight of his daughter sleeping peacefully, he finally relaxed. “Pingchuan, this weather’s turned strange—sudden torrents. It must be the hour of You by now. I’ve brought you the ashes jar as you requested. I hope it’s not too late.”

He unwrapped the yellow cloth in his hands, revealing the largest of the seven ash jars Jiang Pingchuan had unearthed earlier that day.

“It’s not too late. Have you put the other jars away?” Jiang Pingchuan took the jar, weighing it in his hands, and asked quietly. Seeing Manager Zhou nod, Jiang Pingchuan’s brow suddenly furrowed, sensing a fleeting white shadow in the corner of his eye.

“You should head back. Once this night is over, things will calm. Oh, and place this under your wife’s pillow.” Jiang Pingchuan opened the jar, pinched out a bit of ash, and rubbed it between his fingers until it condensed into a small, silvery orb.

Manager Zhou took the orb, tucked it into his chest, and, after a respectful bow to Jiang Pingchuan, turned and left. Jiang Pingchuan closed the jar, softly shut the door, and returned to Zhou Ninger’s bedside.

He saw a white shadow flickering ceaselessly over Zhou Ninger’s body, as if oblivious to his gaze—or perhaps confident he could not see her at all. Jiang Pingchuan did not rush; he sat cross-legged on the floor, calmly watching as the white shadow hovered over the bed, unable to approach Zhou Ninger.

Each time the shadow tried to get closer, a purple aura would envelop Zhou Ninger, keeping the apparition at bay. The white shadow grew visibly anxious.

A mournful, buzzing wail filled the air. It stretched its limbs, trying to pin Zhou Ninger down, but could not touch its target.

“My friend, isn’t it a bit presumptuous to ignore Pingchuan’s presence?” Jiang Pingchuan sighed, his tone laced with teasing, as he watched the white shadow continue its futile attempts to invade Zhou Ninger’s body.

The shadow, startled by his words, drifted down from the bed, coming to stand before Jiang Pingchuan. Its clear, spirited eyes stared intently at him, bearing the look of a hermit untouched by the mundane world.

“You can see me?” The shadow wavered, its face marked by four hollow black holes. Perhaps there were only three originally, but after so long adrift, the nose had collapsed, forming a fourth cavity.

Such a face could express little, but from the voice, Jiang Pingchuan could tell the shadow was astonished by his ability to see her.

“In a room this dark, with you dressed so white, it’s hard not to notice.” Jiang Pingchuan chuckled at the sight.

This was his first encounter with such a ghostly entity. He had imagined something far more sinister—green-faced, fanged, tongue lolling. In truth, it was nothing of the sort.

“Hmph, you’d best mind your own business.” The shadow was clearly annoyed by Jiang Pingchuan’s mockery, certain that his ability to perceive her had nothing to do with her choice of attire.

This was a matter of different auras. They were unique existences, and those who could see them possessed rare abilities—some innate, some acquired through esoteric arts. Still, the white shadow cared little for how Jiang Pingchuan saw her.

“We’re all busy here; let’s not waste time. I’m not meddling—your business is my business.” Jiang Pingchuan shrugged, still smiling.

For the first time, he realized how chatty these drifting spirits could be. He called them ‘floaters’—a fitting term for such restless souls. Always drifting, never grounded, it was no wonder they accomplished so little. In his view, neither the living nor the dead could succeed without a solid foundation. Of course, for ghosts, failure was their eternal fate.

“Foolish mortal,” the white shadow buzzed angrily.

Jiang Pingchuan shook his head, tapping the jar in his hand. The shadow froze, staring incredulously at the jar.

“How odd—you cannot touch worldly things. So who buried this wretched jar? If you tell me honestly, I won’t let you suffer and might even help you move on. Since we’ve met, I’d rather not destroy you outright.”

His hand rested on the lid, gently rubbing it as he chanted softly. A pale green flame with a red core flickered in his palm—the initial form of the Samadhi True Fire, a basic Maoshan spell. To transform it into the true Samadhi fire would require much more.

Jiang Pingchuan let the flame play over the jar. A sizzle and crackle came from within, and he watched the white shadow, who shuddered and writhed, issuing low, hollow growls. She hunched over, arms outstretched, trying in vain to strangle Jiang Pingchuan.

Four black holes on her face glowed with a ghostly red, but aside from the guttural noises, she was powerless—her appearance almost comical.

“Spare me, spare me!” the shadow wailed, her voice loud yet muffled with grief.

Jiang Pingchuan flicked his gaze at her and waved away the flame. This fire required offensive true energy to conjure, and this faint green with a red heart was merely its most basic form—a staple for Maoshan practitioners.

“No mercy for you,” Jiang Pingchuan had barely withdrawn the fire when the white shadow snarled and lunged, hands clutching his throat.

He stared coldly at her grotesque visage, sickened. “You’re so ugly—could you not come so close? You’re making me ill.”

The shadow halted, covering her face with her hands and crouching before him—though even crouched, she hovered above the floor.

“I can’t let you go. The living walk among the living, the dead have their own paths. The ancestral teachings of Maoshan are clear—we must not ignore those who harm the living. If you cooperate, I can be lenient; if not, I’ll grind your bones to dust and you’ll never be reborn.”

Jiang Pingchuan arched an eyebrow, opened the jar, and grabbed a handful of foul-smelling ash, kneading it in his palms, as if ready to scatter it at any moment. The white shadow shook her head in terror.

Suddenly, she vanished—not merely disappeared, but dissipated completely before his eyes.

The jar in Jiang Pingchuan’s hand cracked open at the base, spilling ashes across the floor. From the remains rolled a black bead, which he snatched up before opening the door and vanishing into the rainy night.