Chapter Sixty-Six: The Woman of Pif's Rear

Jiang Pingchuan guided the Cloud Listener Horse, carrying Lan Dao, weaving through the dense forest. The trees here grew thick and lush, their branches interlocking to blot out the sun, so little light reached the forest floor. The deeper they went, the gloomier the world became. After a long journey, the Cloud Listener Horse at last came to a halt. Jiang Pingchuan opened his eyes and looked about, while Lan Dao, behind him, muttered discontentedly.

“Master, what’s going on? Why are we circling around and still ending up in the same place?”

Lan Dao leapt down from the horse and reached out to touch the trunk of a nearby tree. At first, it felt cool to the touch, which he attributed to the lack of sunlight and thought nothing of it. But as he tried to withdraw his hand, the bark’s temperature abruptly rose, making him snatch his hand back and hurry to Jiang Pingchuan’s side.

Jiang Pingchuan smiled at Lan Dao’s reaction. He hadn’t expected this seemingly boorish disciple to be so perceptive, able to sense the subtle shift in the tree’s surface temperature. Perhaps the man was not as simple as he seemed.

“Ever heard of ghost walls?” Jiang Pingchuan asked, handing the horse’s reins to Lan Dao. In his own palm, he conjured a compass. Lan Dao’s eyes shone with curiosity at the compass hovering above Jiang Pingchuan’s hand—he’d seen compasses before, but never one like this, never one conjured from pure energy.

Though it looked tangible, Lan Dao knew this was a manifestation of true qi. A needle floated above the compass, pointing to eight colored dots: red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, purple, and black.

Jiang Pingchuan held the compass before his chest, and the needle circled near the cyan point. With a gentle shake, a scene appeared above the compass: five people dashing through the mountain woods. Suddenly, they reined in their horses, glancing about in confusion. The horses, startled, reared and bolted, abandoning their riders. The five men drew steel blades; one chased after the fleeing horses, but after just a few steps, he stumbled and collapsed.

As one of his companions went to help him up, Jiang Pingchuan noticed that the man’s abdomen and chest were hollowed out as if he were nothing but a skin sack. The one who lifted him gazed down in terror, pupils dilating, and his eyes burst, the two bodies collapsing lifelessly together. These five were the black-clad men who’d separated from them earlier—now, already, two were dead.

The vision shifted. The surroundings looked eerily familiar. The Cloud Listener Horse waited behind, Lan Dao clung to its neck, glancing nervously around. It all seemed perfectly mundane.

Yet Jiang Pingchuan frowned. When had Lan Dao applied women’s rouge and powder? And why was the Cloud Listener Horse now tethered to a tree?

“Does it look good?” Jiang Pingchuan asked, still watching the scene in his compass. There, he saw himself, with two figures standing behind him—one man, one woman. The man’s skin was shriveled and slack, his face lifeless as he sprawled across Jiang Pingchuan’s back with his mouth agape, a black void inside, a blueish tongue lolling out. The woman clung to Jiang Pingchuan’s neck—her skin pale and lustrous, the cosmetics skillfully applied. She wore only a red undergarment, her lower body exposed. Her tongue flicked out, caressing Jiang Pingchuan’s bare neck. When Jiang Pingchuan spoke, both figures froze, then began to cackle.

“Celestial Compass, Far North, Suppress Wandering Souls, Command!”

Jiang Pingchuan shook the compass and condensed a transparent bead, placing it atop the device. With a whispered incantation, he pointed at the bead, which spun thrice around the compass, doubled back for two and a half turns, and settled above the red point. A crimson beam shot skyward from the forest, red energy enveloping Jiang Pingchuan, Sanskrit runes radiating in four directions—but only one glowed brightly.

Jiang Pingchuan inverted the compass; the world immediately shifted. The forest remained, but now Lan Dao lay unconscious at his feet, three others barely clinging to life nearby.

The man and woman watched Jiang Pingchuan with mocking eyes. The woman’s legs spread slightly, revealing a mud-smeared triangle from which a green snake flicked its tongue, writhing between her thighs. The man, his smile grotesque, was nothing but a skin sack, his chest and belly laid open. Inside his abdomen, two black, furry things twisted and tumbled. When Jiang Pingchuan realized what they were, nausea overwhelmed him. He clung to a tree, retching, mouth bitter and eyes brimming with tears.

“You are Skin Man and Crotch Woman—how revolting,” Jiang Pingchuan said wearily, leaning on the tree, gazing at the pair.

The two exchanged glances, their expressions darkening. “You’re something special. The more talented, the more useful you are for our cultivation—heh heh…” the Skin Man buzzed, lips slack. The woman’s snake grew more agitated, and Jiang Pingchuan glimpsed a red-eyed serpent coiling in her mouth, preparing to strike.

“Cultivation? The methods you practice are nothing but the lowest, foulest demonic arts. Even if you succeed, you’ll only earn contempt. Why not let me deliver you instead?”

Jiang Pingchuan withdrew his compass and strode toward them, his white robe flaring with silver light, an aura of irresistible authority enveloping him.

The pair faltered, retreating a step. Now they knew this youth was no prey.

“Can you truly deliver us?” the woman asked softly, her voice trembling, as she edged closer. Jiang Pingchuan nodded, letting her approach.

Suddenly, she lunged, mouth gaping, a green snake shooting toward him. Yet the serpent seemed dazed, hitting an invisible barrier. Its red eyes dulled, and the snake between her thighs fell lifeless to the ground.

Jiang Pingchuan’s right arm, shrouded in mist, pierced the woman’s chest, extracting a still-beating red heart. The Skin Man, enraged, shook his belly violently, the creatures within baring their fangs and launching at Jiang Pingchuan.

“Mere parlor tricks,” Jiang Pingchuan sneered, withdrawing his arm and seizing the woman, using her as a shield. The two black heads tore into her instead. The Skin Man howled, leapt upon her, kicked the heads aside, and glared at Jiang Pingchuan.

“You deserve to die! You deserve to die!” The Skin Man rose. His once-sagging skin now swelled like a balloon, bulging eyes engorged with veins. Jiang Pingchuan recognized the sign: the Skin Man meant to self-destruct, a final, poisonous attack said to rot flesh and corrode bone.

Seeing Jiang Pingchuan back away, the Skin Man sneered, inflating his belly further while kneeling, never ceasing his efforts. Jiang Pingchuan merely smiled from a distance, watching the grotesque display.

With a thunderous pop, the Skin Man exploded, showering the area with flesh and toxic fluids, which hissed as they burned through the plants, filling the air with acrid smoke. His face hung from a nearby branch, sunken eyes staring in disbelief at Jiang Pingchuan, mouth working soundlessly. Jiang Pingchuan pointed at the woman’s corpse; the Skin Man glanced over, his lips shriveling as he died.

At the woman’s crotch, the green snake’s fangs jutted upward, and it was this very fang that had punctured the Skin Man’s belly, causing his attack to backfire utterly.

A most humiliating death, Jiang Pingchuan thought, drawing out his compass and righting it. The scene shifted once more: Lan Dao and the Cloud Listener Horse appeared, with three black-clad men behind them.

Jiang Pingchuan walked over, patting the horse’s head. The Cloud Listener, eyes wet with tears, let out a low whinny as if awakening from a dream, pressing its head against Jiang Pingchuan’s sleeve.

Yet the ghostly maze remained unbroken. Jiang Pingchuan surveyed the surroundings. The illusion persisted, though Skin Man and Crotch Woman were dead.

Who, then, had set this trap?