Chapter Fifty-Three: The Zombie

Upon hearing that trouble had erupted at Panshan Temple, Zhou Bai frowned, strapped his butcher’s blade and Tang sword to his side, and followed Daoist Hou out the door.

“What exactly happened?” he asked.

Since ancient times, Buddhists and Daoists have rarely seen eye to eye. Daoist Hou’s face held a trace of schadenfreude. “Oh, those monks are really too unconcerned for their own good, using the plot behind the temple as a cemetery. Well, now the corpses have risen.”

“The corpses have risen? When did this happen?”

Corpse-rising refers to bodies transformed into jiangshi—zombies—due to excessive yin energy in the vicinity, a phenomenon that’s exceedingly rare.

Only shortly after Monk Sanhuo departed, a disaster befell Panshan Temple. Zhou Bai couldn’t help suspecting that something was being concealed.

“It happened just last night. You have no idea—everyone at Panshan Temple was dead by morning. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Who knows what wicked deeds those monks might have committed to deserve this.”

With that, Daoist Hou returned once more to his Feng Shui shop. Though he spoke lightly, he knew well that the monks of Panshan Temple were not without their own cultivation. He took no chances: he carefully packed up a good amount of glutinous rice from the butcher’s shop, and brought along a black donkey’s hoof for good measure—both essential tools for dealing with zombies.

Zhou Bai glanced at him skeptically. He knew exactly what this old Daoist was capable of. Why would Wen Meng turn to him?

“With something this serious, why would they send you to Panshan Temple?” Zhou Bai asked.

Daoist Hou’s expression soured. He forced a smile. “I handled quite a few zombies myself while I was in Xuzhou, you know. Don’t underestimate me! With my thunder talismans, evil spirits are driven away.”

“And have you replenished your stock of talismans, Daoist?”

His expression collapsed. He scratched his armpit awkwardly. “Well… these things take time. Making talismans depends on… well, fate. Yes, fate.”

Zhou Bai didn’t believe a word; for all he knew, the talismans were all pilfered from somewhere. Nonetheless, Daoist Hou was well-traveled and likely knew a thing or two about zombies.

“So the whole matter’s been entrusted to you by the Bureau of Nether Rites? And what am I here for?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m just going to Panshan Temple to check the local Feng Shui. Wen Meng said the place doesn’t have the kind of yin ley lines that would breed zombies, and I happen to know a thing or two about these matters.”

Zhou Bai gazed at him, thoughtful. Yin ley lines are found in places untouched by sunlight for long stretches and further shaped by spiritual materials like yin wood—very rare. He immediately dismissed the idea that Panshan Temple was built atop a yin vein. With Monk Sanhuo’s cultivation, how could he have chosen such a site? Clearly, there was a deeper cause behind this.

Zhou Bai turned and noticed Daoist Hou’s delighted expression, unable to help asking, “So how much are you making from this Panshan Temple job?”

“Ah, a mere fifty taels,” Hou replied.

“Good. Then let’s split it fifty-fifty.”

Daoist Hou’s face fell. Zhou Bai was not someone he could afford to offend—he still hoped to pay less rent for his little Feng Shui shop.

“You, Zhou Bai, are now in the Bureau of Nether Rites. Your monthly stipend is more than that, isn’t it? Why haggle with an old Daoist like me?”

Feigning disinterest, Zhou Bai pretended to leave, and Daoist Hou quickly pulled him back. Greed had made him agree to Wen Meng’s request, but he knew his own limitations—if chaos truly broke out at Panshan Temple, he’d be powerless to handle it.

“Fine, fifty-fifty it is. But let’s be clear: I’m only here to check the Feng Shui. If trouble arises, you’re the one who has to handle it.”

“No problem. After all, it’s the duty of our Bureau to slay demons and exorcise evil spirits.”

Zhou Bai, short on contribution points, had wished for such an opportunity—just as he was about to sleep, the pillow came to him. Now he could test whether a zombie’s neck was harder than his blade was sharp.

Daoist Hou sighed inwardly, somewhat regretful that he hadn’t joined the Bureau while Wang Zhen was still in charge. Even Hangdu was growing chaotic these days, to say nothing of other places; it was always best to have the shelter of a powerful organization.

The two made their way toward the southern edge of the city. Along the way, Zhou Bai’s token received a message from Wen Meng—he had already arrived at Panshan Temple and urged Zhou Bai to hurry.

Daoist Hou was unaware of this. If he’d known Wen Meng was already there, he wouldn’t have cared about the money—he’d have gone anyway, even if it meant coughing up blood.

They walked along the empty streets; it was early morning, and there were few signs of life. Only when they reached a more remote district did they spot a ragged, elderly beggar wandering aimlessly. As Zhou Bai glanced at him, he noticed that the beggar’s exposed skin was covered in festering sores.

The beggar seemed somewhat deranged by age. On seeing two strangers, he clutched his chest and hurried into a nearby alley, vanishing from sight.

Zhou Bai instinctively gave chase, looking into the alley, but there was no sign of the beggar.

Daoist Hou looked at him, puzzled. “What’s the matter? He’s just a beggar.”

Shaking his head, Zhou Bai couldn’t explain why, but something about that beggar struck him as strange. Yet, when he peered through his Yin-Yang Eyes, he saw only an ordinary person—nothing unusual.

“It’s nothing—maybe I was just seeing things.”

Daoist Hou let out a heavy breath. “You startled me! My heart nearly leaped out of my chest. I thought we’d stumbled on some dreadful spirit.”

Zhou Bai cast one last look over his shoulder, but they didn’t linger. They continued toward Panshan Temple.

“Daoist Hou, why don’t you tell me about these zombies as we walk?”

Daoist Hou, not one to hide his knowledge, cleared his throat. “There’s nothing particularly rare about zombies. In all my years in Xuzhou, I encountered them every year. Where there are many dead, there are many zombies.”

A zombie is the corpse of a human, transformed into a demonic entity by excessive yin energy—devoid of humanity, and with a penchant for drinking blood.

Though they are a type of ghostly being, their rank is entirely different.

Corresponding to wandering spirits are the Purple Zombies. These are newly formed, their bodies purple-red and incapable of movement; a single fire can destroy them.

A White Zombie, however, is not so easy to handle. Their bodies turn pale, and though movements are sluggish, they possess the strength of an ox and feel no pain.

On the same level as malicious spirits are the Green Zombies. These corpses not only turn a deep green, but also emit a deadly miasma, easily poisoning humans. They move much faster as well.

Above that are forms rarely seen. Zombies generally lack intelligence—unlike ghosts or demons, who can sense danger and avoid disaster. Zombies, once they appear, inevitably attack people, and are quickly hunted down and destroyed.

According to Daoist Hou, newly risen zombies might retain some influence from their former lives, but at best, they become White Zombies—nothing too difficult to dispatch.