Chapter 174 The Master Forbids Playing Mystic Games
On Saturday, the so-called master arrived as promised.
He made a big show of himself, arriving at 10 a.m. instead of the agreed-upon 8 a.m.
When the doorbell rang, the shadows of the trees outside the window were dappled and swaying in the yard, like a group of mute green souls wriggling.
The door opened, and standing outside was the so-called "master".
He was thin, dressed in a dark brown monk's robe, with a chain of bones and ebony beads slung across his shoulder, and a yellowed cloth bag hanging from his chest, inside which one could vaguely see small wax-sealed bottles and cloth talismans; his hair was cut extremely short, but a tuft of long, shiny hair was deliberately left hanging down his nape like a tail; his fingernails were unkempt, yet stained with black medicinal juice. On his feet were not shoes, but old, stiff straw sandals, with incense ash stuck between his toes.
This image is very strange to you. You thought he would look like the kind of "Ajarn" that Mei Ling described, but you never expected that he would look like a monk you have seen on TV.
But the monk's robe only made him look like a ghost that couldn't be seen in the light.
His eyes were the most unsettling kind—they seemed closed when he wasn't looking at people, but when they fell on you, a glimmer of light would suddenly appear from somewhere.
This is an extremely evil form of telekinesis, but you have nothing to be afraid of.
Just as you were about to speak, your mother instinctively knelt down in worship. She was used to kneeling, but you grabbed her and stopped her from bowing to this so-called master.
Your eyebrows were raised high, your face defiant, as you spoke to your mother while your eyes were fixed on the master: "Don't kneel." Your mother shrank back, unable to resist your insistence, and dared not raise her head, her fingers trembling from the force.
You stood there at the doorway, staring at the master. The air was filled with a mixture of incense ash and damp wood smells. Even though you had extinguished all the incense and candles in the room, the smell lingered. It seemed the whole room had been "marinated" with the odor.
The stalemate continued. At first, the master didn't say anything, but simply raised his hand to touch the string of bone beads on his chest and softly chanted Sanskrit. He glanced at the small shrine for spirits in the room out of the corner of his eye, then stretched out two fingers and pointed them in the air a few times, as if trying to "summon" it.
According to common practice in Thailand, if something happens to the person who keeps a spirit child (Kuman Thong), the spirit child will immediately report to the owner's "master". The master tested it and knew that there was a problem with the "father" - you saw his eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly, and that wariness finally appeared on his face.
"Heh." You sneered inwardly: Just as I thought.
Having successfully intimidated him, you have no intention of confronting him now. So you give a slight bow and say in a calm tone, "Please come in, Master. There is tea inside."
Mother, like a spineless coward, wanted to kneel down to serve tea, but you forcibly pressed down on her shoulders. Her shoulder blades were so thin that they looked unrecognizable. Your strength was not great, but it still made her breathless. She could only timidly retreat to the kitchen to prepare tea and snacks.
You stare at the master and get straight to the point: "I know about your situation."
The master raised an eyebrow, his fingertips slowly caressing the string of bone beads: "Oh?"
“You knew last night that the person you were meeting wasn’t my father, right?” You looked him straight in the eye and said calmly, “You knew he might get into trouble, but you still came.”
The master remained noncommittal, a slight smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, which, on his dark, oily face, resembled the body of a snake emerging from the mud, sometimes visible and sometimes hidden.
“This shows,” you continued, your voice growing colder, “that your real purpose is not to help him, but me.”
The master suddenly burst into laughter, the laughter exploding from his chest like the thumping of a broken drum: "Little devil, you are indeed clever."
You smiled back, not backing down at all: "So, what do you want? I guess it's my soul, right? Then you'll have to do things for me first."
The master narrowed his eyes, his voice low and hoarse: "I want your soul; I'll take it myself."
"Ha—" you chuckled, your tone as calm as if you were discussing an assignment, "If you could really take it that easily, you wouldn't have gone through all this trouble. To be honest, Master, you can't do anything to me, can you? All those sinister spells and disgusting ghosts of yours are just meant to weaken me first so you can take advantage of the situation."
That's how it is in horror movies.
If ghosts are more powerful than humans and can easily kill, then wouldn't humans also become ghosts when they die? If they are all ghosts, it's uncertain who is more powerful! It's clear that ghosts are not powerful to begin with; they are only affected when humans become weak.
The master paused, the bead stopping at his fingertip, a sinister glint flashing in his eyes.
You secretly rejoiced: he guessed right.
You pressed your advantage: "Either you're taking advantage of my weakness to cause trouble, or you need my permission. You know this, yet you still came here. I'm afraid you're not just here to confirm the situation; you're trying to intimidate me, but also to test me."
The house was so quiet that you could hear your mother smashing a porcelain cup in the kitchen.
The master looked at you for a long time before saying in a low voice, "You really are a troublesome little devil."
“I’m not a brat, I’m a human being.” You’re correcting him; you don’t want to be associated with that double-edged sword. “So we can negotiate.”
You leaned back in your chair, your tone flat, even a little sarcastic: "I can take your soul, but you have to first remove all the spells in this room, and then help me check on my school."
The master stared at you, and after confirming that you were serious, his lips slowly parted into a wide grin, his voice hoarse: "Alright. Since you're willing to offer a sacrifice, I'll help you suppress the ghost of that school."
"Deal." You nodded.
For some reason, the eerie fragrance emanating from the master grew even stronger. You and the master stared at each other, neither of you looking away first.
At this moment, you know in your heart that this old man thinks he has you trapped, but you have already led him into that ghostly realm of the school.
"Then let's begin," you said, breaking the silence.
The master chuckled and stood up as well.
He instructed you to close all the windows in the room and to use layers of heavy curtains to block out even the slightest bit of light from the outside.
The master first asked the mother to take off her coat, leaving her only in thin clothing, and kneel in front of the offering table.
He laid a black cloth on the table, embroidered with strange vermilion symbols that looked like crawling centipedes, the lines twisting in the dim light.
As you watch from the side, you feel that compared to the witchcraft of Thailand, this looks more like the shamanistic rituals of the Flower Kingdom.
However, it seems that the folk beliefs and magic of the Kingdom of Thailand were originally influenced by the Kingdom of Flower, so it is normal for them to be somewhat mixed.
Then look at the master; he lit three extremely ominous-looking black candles while chanting softly. His voice was unusually hoarse, seemingly mixed with Sanskrit chants and off-key cries.
Only then do you realize that his voice wasn't naturally like that; he must have done something to make his throat sound like a broken bellows.
You have no time to concern yourself with the secrets this master may hold; you must keep a close eye on him and prevent him from making any rash moves.
Don't tell me you don't understand it at all and why bother looking at it carefully. The truth is, if you really get distracted, this old man will definitely try to cheat you; and if you're looking at him, why would he lie to you?
The candlelight on the altar flickered and swayed in the still air, each sway causing the mother to arch her back even more, as if some force was pulling her.
The master immediately took out a ceramic bowl from his cloth bag. The bottom of the bowl was painted with blood-red talismans. He first poured rice and fresh black dog blood into it, and then sprinkled a pinch of yellow soil inside.
He suddenly bit his fingertip, letting the blood drip into the bowl. Immediately, he swung the copper bell, the rhythm rapid.
The tiny bell was deafeningly loud, so loud it made you instinctively cover your ears.
The mother's body began to tremble violently, and she uncontrollably let out low sobs. The master instructed her to press her head against the altar, her forehead directly against the ancient yellow talisman.
The yellow talisman, which originally had only faint ink marks, now began to ooze dark red, as if it had been roasted by fire.
"The root of this 'borrowing luck' lies in the soul itself." The master's cold voice echoed in the room. "It's either a blood pact between relatives or a child used as a matchmaker. Since he's greedy and has bound you to this curse, we must sever that connection first."
—That's as if he wasn't the one who taught that man to sacrifice his wife and daughter. You silently grumble to yourself while enduring the noise.
Having said that, the master took out a short knife, the blade of which was covered with cinnabar. He did not actually cut his mother, but instead made light cuts along four points: her forehead, shoulder, heart, and navel. At each cut, he dropped a strand of his mother's hair into a bowl on the table. The hair dissolved upon contact with the blood, and white steam immediately rose from the bowl, filling the entire room with a sweet, metallic smell.
At this moment, the mother's face was deathly pale, and her eyes were cloudy, as if invisible threads were being pulled out of her body.
Suddenly, the master shouted sharply and slammed the bowl heavily to the ground. Blood mixed with rice sprayed out, and the incantation instantly transformed into a wisp of black smoke that shot up to the roof. The wooden beams of the roof creaked, and when you looked up, you couldn't see anything, but you always felt as if something heavy had stepped on them.
The bell stopped ringing, and the mother collapsed straight down, as if all her strength had been drained away.
The master wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and said smugly, "Alright, the thread is broken. Her luck can no longer be borrowed."
However, this so-called "breaking the spell" process is not actually redemption, but rather a complete severing of the mother's connection with the "luck-borrower"—she will no longer have her luck drained, but she will also lose her former vitality.
Her husband was clearly dead last night, but after this incident, she was completely alone.
You might find it quite satisfying to watch, but she herself seems rather disheartened.
She's hopeless. Oh well, whatever, all you can do is protect your own life and happiness.
The candlelight in the room had just gone out, and the mother was still lying on the floor, sobbing softly. The master, however, ground the bone beads, and as if he had finished a transaction, waved his hand and said, "Alright, that's it."
You reach out to stop him. Is this guy joking with you?
You stared into his eyes and said coldly, "No, there's one more."
The master frowned, raised his eyelids, and scolded, "What?"
"The shadowy figure I encountered." You enunciated each word clearly, as if trying to etch it into his eardrums.
A sudden gust of wind rose again inside the room, causing the candle wick to flicker. The master's eyes narrowed, and he gave a cold snort, but did not deny it. He turned, his robes sweeping across the floor, and led you to a corner at the back of the room.
That's the northwest corner. It's also said to be the most eerie and sticky direction.
The soil here is called Yin soil, and the flowerbeds surrounding the house look as if they were built up layer by layer from this Yin soil.
I don't know if it's just psychological, but the sunlight seems to be cloudy on it.
The master stopped and pointed to the soil and corner, saying to you, "At midnight, dig here. Whatever you dig up, follow it, catch it, and take it to the crossroads to burn it."
After listening, you felt he was still hiding something, so you couldn't let him leave. You blocked the only way he could leave your yard and questioned him, "Then why don't you remove it yourself?"
The master gave you a half-smile, his voice tinged with impatience: "Once a spell is cast, it cannot be taken back. Forcibly taking it back will backfire, shorten your lifespan, or even cost you your life."
“You’ll lose your life,” he added, laughing to reveal a mouthful of rotten teeth red from chewing betel nut.
You covered your nose in disgust.
What kind of nonsense is this! How can they shirk responsibility like this? They were the ones who did it, yet you, the victim, have to clean up the mess.
Moreover, "What if you're lying to me?" You don't believe his nonsense at all.
The master stared at you for a long time, as if your question had piqued his interest. Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed three times, the laughter so loud and piercing that it sent a row of birds flying away from the eaves.
After laughing, he raised his finger to the sky, his eyes, previously hidden by drooping eyelids, widening for the first time as he stared at you. He said in a sinister voice, "Fine, I swear to the gods, I will not lie to you. If I am lying, may I be struck by lightning and die a horrible death!"
You could tell he was truly willing to make such a vow. But the vow didn't reassure you; instead, it made you even more certain of one thing.
This old man is setting things up; what he wants is definitely not just your trust.
Sure enough, the master continued, "But you must also swear that you will obediently offer your soul to me after I have resolved all matters."
You stared at him, a very slight smile playing on your lips. "Okay."
You mimicked him and said, "After you've resolved everything, I will offer my soul to you."
You spoke reluctantly, each word seeming to roll twice on your tongue before slowly uttering it. The master listened and smiled with satisfaction.
However, you did swear an oath. You promised to offer your soul, but you never said whose soul you would offer.
The master didn't notice this flaw; instead, your submissive attitude, tinged with soft resistance, lowered his guard. He flicked his sleeves, strode away with his head held high, seemingly in complete control.
"Come on, night!" you said, for the first time you looked forward to the evening so much.
You spent the whole afternoon sitting in front of the clock, afraid that the old man would do something to the timekeeping devices in your house again.
Fortunately, he is at least somewhat trustworthy.
The so-called "Zi Shi" is one o'clock in the morning. Before this time, the entire neighborhood is already fast asleep.
Ten minutes early, you waited in the northwest corner behind the house with an iron basin, a lighter, and a small shovel.
In the sweltering, humid summer night, a chilling wind, sharp as a knife, blew out from this sharp corner, lashing your face. You were almost unable to open your eyes, but you dared not leave.
You keep a close eye on your watch and phone; you absolutely cannot miss a moment!
The soil beneath your feet appears to be just a thin layer of loose earth, beneath which lies hard cement. Logically, there shouldn't be enough depth to hide anything. But you know in your heart, since the old man said so, this is definitely not just a decorative corner.
You gripped the small shovel tightly, your palms sweating. The old man's words still echoed in your ears—"No matter what you dig up, you have to follow it and catch it."
Time moved forward inch by inch, and as you carefully recalled his confident tone, you couldn't help but wonder: Could this all be a trap? He pushed you forward, seemingly giving you a chance, but in reality, he wanted you to trigger something irreversible.
The second hand ticked away on the clock face, as if urging you to give up. You looked down at the dark, somber earth, and seeds of doubt and suspicion took root in your heart. But you had no way out.
Should we dig? Or not?
Just a few seconds left—
—Never mind. Anyway, that ghost is already in your house, so there's no need for him to do anything more!
"Come on," you muttered to yourself, gritting your teeth.
It's time!
You let go and immediately started digging. The moment the small shovel plunged into the soil, the imagined vibration of touching hard concrete did not occur; instead, it went deep down with a dull thud.
It's less like soil and more like a layer of old cloth soaked in water has been pierced through.
This really turned into a bottomless pit!
Your breathing quickens, your arms swing mechanically back and forth, peeling away layer after layer of soil. Surprisingly, the soil is incredibly loose—was it because someone had buried something there before?
Several seconds passed, and the pit grew deeper. You dug with all your might, mud splattering all over your face. Your breathing was heavy, and sweat mixed with dirt dripped down your cheeks. But the anxiety in your heart did not lessen at all. You looked at your watch; there were less than 5 seconds left until 1:01.
Nothing was found!
"Is he lying to me?" This thought pierces your mind once again. If you return empty-handed, things will become even more unpredictable; but what if you do dig something up? Could it be something you can't handle?
You can't help but regret it again.
This isn't you controlling your mind! Wake up!
To stay focused, your teeth clench until they grind, your shoulders ache so much they feel like they're about to break, but you still dare not stop. A voice inside you is urging you—dig again, deeper, faster.
4 seconds.
The pit kept getting deeper and deeper, as if you weren't in a corner of the house, but were about to bury yourself in a grave. The air around you grew heavier and heavier, as if unseen eyes were watching from the shadows.
3 seconds.
You suddenly panic: Could it be that there really is nothing there?
2 seconds.
You were still digging desperately. Your fingernails were digging into the soil, and your palms were burning from gripping the shovel too hard.
1 second.
"Come out!" you growled inwardly, almost going crazy.
Just as the second hand was about to coincide with 12, something suddenly darted out of the pit—a white shadow flashed and rushed straight behind you!
Your pupils constricted sharply, and before your body could react, your legs had already taken over. Your heart felt like it had been ripped out of your chest, and all you felt was the instinct to chase.
It was a blank sheet of paper—no, a folded paper figure! In the moonlight, its movements were stiff yet incredibly fast, like a gust of wind whistling past.
"Paper dolls?!" You never expected to see one of the things that children from the Flower Kingdom fear most since childhood in the Liuzi instance, but there's no time to doubt now, just follow along!
The world around you blurs into a hazy blur, the wind whistles in your ears, and your heart pounds so hard your eardrums feel like they're about to burst. You want to stop, but your body is completely out of your control. Only one thought runs through your mind: Catch it!
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Author's Note: I wrote half of this chapter on Tuesday afternoon, then said I'd take a nap and finish it in the evening, but ended up sleeping until Wednesday morning... Is this private? == Anyway, I'll post the other chapter I wrote today later^^
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