Chapter 77: Aftershocks of a Finished Affair

In the history of Hangdu, this disaster of corpses left an indelible mark; hundreds died or were injured throughout the city, and Wen Meng, who had been stationed there, saw his cultivation completely destroyed when his life-bound ghost artifact was shattered.

Fortunately, this life-bound artifact had been reforged and was not deeply linked to Wen Meng himself; otherwise, his very life would have been at risk.

The townsfolk had no idea why they woke up in such a bizarre manner, each in a coffin, and the authorities, with little hesitation, attributed it all to the workings of ghosts and spirits.

Unavoidably, all credit was given to the Directorate of Nether Rites, and so Zhou Bai and his companions entered the common people’s awareness.

After several encounters with demons and the resulting casualties, the authorities no longer concealed the existence of the Directorate of Nether Rites. Soon, it was common knowledge throughout Hangdu that there were immortals in their midst, and the Directorate’s name spread across the city.

News soon followed that Hangdu would construct a place specifically for the Directorate to handle official matters. Even though the site was not large, its very presence brought much comfort to the townsfolk.

After the disaster, the city’s buildings remained mostly unscathed. Only the county yamen vanished, replaced by a deep pit over a hundred meters wide and a towering ancient tree.

Some said a meteor had fallen from the sky; others believed it was the handiwork of the immortal from the Directorate, who vanquished the demon and left the mark. Whatever the truth, it became a favorite topic of conversation over tea.

The pit was soon filled in, and the new county yamen began to rise, but Magistrate Zhao resigned and chose to return to his hometown.

Though Hangdu was now at peace, after making the decision to sacrifice half the city’s population to save the rest, Magistrate Zhao was left with a knot in his heart.

His hair turned white overnight, and the next day he departed. Many tried to persuade him to stay, but he only shook his head, mounted his old horse, and rode north without looking back.

The towering tree that Bai Wanming had become appeared out of thin air, and overnight attracted swarms of fireflies. It was regarded as a minor miracle in Hangdu, drawing many to worship at its base.

Unnoticed, a dozen days slipped by, and by April, the weather had grown pleasant, with many people taking evening strolls after supper.

Zhou Bai, dressed in plain clothes and carrying neither of his usual swords, brought only a jug of wine as he walked toward the site where the county yamen once stood.

From a distance, he could see craftsmen hard at work. The beams were already in place, and the basic frame of the building was taking shape, though the new yamen would be less than half its former size.

Part of the land was now occupied by the great tree that Bai Wanming had become, and the rest was reserved for the Directorate’s offices—Zhao’s final instruction before his departure.

After these events, Zhao had come to understand that the affairs of ghosts and spirits should be respected but not ignored; even ordinary folk ought to have some knowledge of them.

Zhou Bai’s purpose that day was to see Bai Wanming. Under the blazing sun, he arrived to find a small shrine, no higher than a man’s knee, standing beneath the tree.

A few sticks of incense smoldered inside, showing that a steady stream of worshippers came by.

He was surprised by the unexpected popularity of this shrine—perhaps, with the destruction of Panshan Temple, there were no other significant temples nearby.

Running his hand along the tree’s rough bark, Zhou Bai sat down among the roots, took out his wine jug, and drank idly.

Many townsfolk passed by to offer incense. Seeing him so casual and seemingly disrespectful to the immortal tree, they cast reproachful glances his way. But soon, some sharp-eyed observer recognized him.

Now that the Directorate’s fame was known to all, the story of the slaughterer’s son becoming an immortal had spread through half the city.

The sight of an immortal drinking beneath the immortal tree quickly drew a crowd.

Zhou Bai paid them no mind, drinking quietly and using his yin-yang sight to observe Bai Wanming’s condition.

According to Yu Jun, Bai Wanming had become a demon, though his spirit had not yet been consumed. Yet, aside from Zhou Bai, no one had ever seen someone forcibly regain their humanity after such a transformation.

The only question now was whether Bai Wanming could recover his consciousness—there were other beings in the Directorate with demon bodies and human minds.

But for now, Zhou Bai was not optimistic; all he could do was wait and hope for a turn of fate.

Finishing his wine, Zhou Bai found it dull to linger. He stood, slightly scented with alcohol but steady in step.

The crowd parted to let him pass in respectful silence, careful not to disturb the immortal’s mood.

Only after Zhou Bai had gone did the area return to its previous bustle—some worshipping, others hawking their wares.

“In my lifetime, a masterpiece!” exclaimed a wild-haired scholar who, unnoticed until now, stood in the corner clutching a painting still damp with ink.

As all eyes turned to him, the scholar unfurled his painting, revealing Zhou Bai drinking beneath the immortal tree—captured so vividly that it seemed the figure might step from the paper at any moment.

The painting was titled “Immortal Drinking Beneath the Immortal Tree,” and bore the signature Tang Yin.

“I’ll pay ten taels for your painting, sir!” called someone from the crowd, eager to speak with Tang Yin.

But scarcely had the words left his lips when others began bidding even higher, and soon a bidding war broke out under the tree.

In the end, the painting was bought by a wealthy merchant for more than four hundred and fifty taels.

To the merchant, the value of the artwork would only increase, for its atmosphere could never be replicated in another.

With this, Tang Yin’s name spread throughout Hangdu, and even began to reach as far as Yangzhou.

But all this had nothing more to do with Zhou Bai, who had returned to his residence in the city’s western quarter, where he kept his feng shui shop.

Because space indoors was limited, a table was set outside in the courtyard. The others had already arrived, waiting only for Zhou Bai to begin the meal.

From left to right, Wen Meng sat first, now much diminished by the loss of his cultivation—his hair nearly all white, his frame thin and worn.

Next was Wang Lei, looking somewhat ill at ease. He had learned the true nature of the Directorate, and though he’d once thought himself fortunate to be a minor official, he hadn’t expected his friend to become an immortal.

Yu Jun and Hou Bocheng were also present; Yu sat drinking in silence, clearly troubled.

She had come to Hangdu on assignment, but the outcome was less than ideal—Bai Wanming gravely injured and perhaps never to regain his mind, Wen Meng nearly killed in the line of duty.

Given these results, Yu Jun’s mission could hardly be called a success, and she was in low spirits.

At the table sat Daoist Hou as well, who, unlike his usual jovial self, drank in silence, his clothes wrapped tightly around him, revealing only a face mottled with red and purple.