Chapter Twelve: With Wrath in Hand, a Life Given to Blood

After spending a night at the inn, Zhou Bai and Daoist Hou had not slept well. They rose before dawn and went to the market in the western part of the city. When the sun had climbed high in the sky, the two returned to the small alley in front of the butcher’s shop, carrying a large sack filled with all manner of miscellaneous items.

Over the past few days, Zhou Bai had already informed Old Li and the other laborers that he would not be working due to illness, so the alley was deserted. This time, he thoroughly blocked the entrance with a heap of sundry goods to prevent anyone from wandering in by accident.

“Are you sure the things we bought this morning are reliable?” Zhou Bai asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice. After all, he had spent more than twenty taels on a pile of strange materials; anyone would question it.

Daoist Hou shot him a disdainful look. “Of course they’re reliable. Just wait and see.”

Zhou Bai couldn’t understand why they were making things so complicated. “Didn’t you used to summon thunder with a talisman? Is all this really necessary?”

“Cough, cough… What do you know? Do you have any idea how expensive that talisman is? I already used one just to show off, and it still pains me. If I can avoid it, I will.” Daoist Hou shook the bag in his hand. “It’s just a few stray ghosts. If we can spend less, all the better. Speaking of which, where are those little ghosts?”

“They’re right behind you, watching you.”

“Damn!” Daoist Hou jumped in fright and hurriedly looked in the direction Zhou Bai pointed.

Sure enough, three shadowy figures, dark gray and hazy, huddled at the corner of the wall. Upon seeing the living, they let out chilling laughter, then vanished in the blink of an eye.

“What’s going on with these ghosts? Why can we see them with the naked eye?”

Zhou Bai asked, curious. He hadn’t activated his Yin-Yang Eyes, yet he could still make out their blurred shapes.

Daoist Hou, still unsettled, patted his chest. “If a ghost wants you to see it, you will. If it deliberately hides itself, you’ll need special methods.”

As he spoke, he took out a talisman and pressed it to his forehead, then dripped some watery liquid into his eyes. “Daoists call this ‘Opening the Heavenly Eye.’ The Underworld Bureau has a similar method called ‘Opening the Earthly Eye.’ Either way, you only see vague shadows—so you need to be careful.”

“Are there other methods? Like… Yin-Yang Eyes?” Zhou Bai asked tentatively.

“The Yin-Yang Eyes are an innate gift. In the past, it was rare to see even one in ten years. Now…” Daoist Hou shook his head, a hint of envy on his face. “Now there are quite a few. That Underworld Bureau is full of freaks; I bet several of them have Yin-Yang Eyes.”

He didn’t realize that the Yin-Yang Eyes within the Underworld Bureau were not innate like Zhou Bai’s; the latter’s potential far surpassed the former.

“Why is that?” Zhou Bai pressed.

“Go ask them yourself. Are we allowed to comment on officials? Watch your tongue, or you’ll bring disaster on yourself.” Daoist Hou’s tone was still wary—he, a wandering cultivator, knew all too well how powerful the Underworld Bureau was.

It was only because Yangzhou had fewer demons and ghosts that the Bureau was little-known here.

“It’s all over the place now.” Zhou Bai, without hesitation, activated his Yin-Yang Eyes. His pupils narrowed, and he looked at Daoist Hou.

“Damn, you really do startle me every time.”

Daoist Hou circled him several times, clicking his tongue in admiration. “It really is the Yin-Yang Eyes. Incredible. Why didn’t you say so earlier? Made me waste a talisman.”

“Well, you never asked,” Zhou Bai replied, no longer hiding his ability. Since it wasn’t unique, he wouldn’t attract deadly trouble by revealing it.

“The Yin-Yang Eyes… If only you had the aptitude for cultivation, I’d take you as my disciple,” Daoist Hou admitted, clearly envious. Even if the Yin-Yang Eyes only revealed monsters and ghosts, it was tremendously useful.

Zhou Bai, unwilling to give up, asked, “How do you know I don’t have the aptitude?”

“You just don’t, that’s all. Why would I lie? Not everyone’s as gifted as I am.” Daoist Hou took a wooden bucket from the bag and began preparations.

“Do you have Yin-Yang Eyes?”

“Cough… Get to work, get to work.” Daoist Hou forced down his irritation; the boy’s sharp tongue nearly made him lose his composure.

Zhou Bai stopped teasing him and glanced toward the shadows in the corner.

The number of ghosts had dwindled to three. They had grown from childlike forms to adult sizes, drool dripping onto the ground, their eyes increasingly clouded, full of ravenous desire.

Daoist Hou placed the bucket on the ground. “Zhou, aren’t you a butcher? Go fetch some pig’s blood. Freshness isn’t important.”

“I haven’t worked for days—where am I supposed to find pig’s blood? Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

With that, Zhou Bai hurried off, leaving Daoist Hou alone.

About the time it takes to drink a cup of tea later, Daoist Hou was getting impatient when Zhou Bai finally returned.

He was pushing a cart laden with a tightly bound wild boar, its black bristles shining. It had been kept elsewhere for several days, but the boar was still vigorous. Uncle Li had added extra ropes to prevent its escape.

“Where’d you find this king of the mountain? Judging by its size, it must be at least twenty years old. In a few more years, it might become a spirit beast.”

Daoist Hou came over and patted the boar’s head; its tough bristles pricked his hand.

“Does it matter? Is this boar’s blood enough?”

“More than enough. Only a ruthless hunter could catch a king-of-the-mountain like this.”

Zhou Bai turned and went back into the butcher’s shop. The sound of sharpening knives echoed from within. Sensing danger, the wild boar began to struggle desperately.

After some time, Zhou Bai emerged, carrying a gleaming butcher’s knife.

This was no ordinary blade, but an heirloom passed down from his ancestors. He rarely used it; today was different. The boar was nearly a spirit beast—ordinary knives wouldn’t work.

The blade was three feet long, almost as large as a machete, forged from heavy refined steel.

After generations of butchers over a hundred years, the blade had been soaked in blood so often that it bore a dark red hue, exuding a faint scent of blood.

The handle was carved into the shape of a fierce beast’s head, biting the blade—bold and rugged.

Daoist Hou’s eyelid twitched, and he blurted out, “Good heavens, using this knife on pigs is such a waste! The beast’s head in your hand, born for killing, the dragon’s maw—what a blade!”