Chapter Ninety-Three: Monks on All Sides

When Hou Daoist hurried back to Hangdu, dusk was already settling in, yet many merchant caravans still traversed the official road. The temporary camps set up outside the city had mostly vanished, as most people had been dispatched to various outskirts for land reclamation, making the city gates far less bustling than before.

Hou Daoist led the way, draped in a thick woolen coat. Behind him, a gaunt horse pulled a cart bearing an enormous coffin. Usually, city guards would not permit passage under such circumstances, but Hou simply produced the token of the Underworld Registry and was granted smooth entry into Hangdu. He thought to himself how much more respected the Underworld Registry was compared to ordinary Taoists.

Surveying the lively surroundings, he planned to settle the purple corpse inside the coffin properly before enjoying some leisure. This particular corpse was unusual; though a purple corpse, it seemed the deceased had practiced martial arts in life, leaving the body relatively robust—otherwise, it wouldn’t have regained simple mobility in just a few days.

However, purple corpses were generally unreliable. Even if they could move freely, they lacked any real ability to harm others. Instinctively, they avoided people, subsisting on the blood and flesh of small livestock. Only upon reaching the white corpse stage would they actively attack humans.

Hou Daoist’s harvest this time was considerable, as he discovered his ghostly arts could control low-level zombies. Yet, with his current cultivation, he could only control one at a time, limited by the number of vertebrae in his spine. Even at peak cultivation, the maximum control was twenty-four zombies.

He wheeled the coffin into the crowded streets. The stench of decay emanated from it, causing passersby to steer clear. Unbothered, Hou scratched his armpit, glancing around with a puzzled expression as if searching for something. In the distance, the faint sound of a wooden fish being struck could be heard, oddly out of place amid the clamor. No one seemed to notice.

Upon arriving at the Underworld Registry office, Hou tied the cart to a post and prepared to lift the coffin down. Suddenly, the sound of the wooden fish grew louder, resonating like a bronze bell right beside his ear.

A surge of spiritual energy shot from his tailbone to the crown of his head, halting his movements. Squinting instinctively, he cursed under his breath and looked toward the street’s end. There, a monk clad in tattered robes was slowly approaching, striking the wooden fish rhythmically.

“Damn, that bald monk’s rhythm is terrible—this wooden fish is pounding my skull,” Hou muttered, licking his lips. Though a fake Daoist himself, he harbored a strong dislike for monks.

Just as he was about to reprimand the approaching figure, a sudden stiffness seized his entire body, and he instinctively took several steps back, bumping into a post. The noise irritated the thin horse, which snorted in discontent.

When Hou got a clear look at the monk’s face, he swallowed hard. The corpse-like constitution, which usually slowed the heartbeat to a crawl, now pulsed far faster than any normal human’s.

His shock stemmed from the monk’s peculiarity: with every step, the monk’s face shifted instantly among the four emotions of joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, creating an eerie, unsettling spectacle.

The surrounding pedestrians paid no attention to the monk’s strange demeanor, busily going about their business. The monk continued toward the street’s end but subtly altered his course, turning toward the towering tree that Bai Wanming had transformed into.

Hou kept his gaze fixed on him, inexplicably unable to move.

After a moment, the monk stopped before a small temple beneath the tree, his expression settling on sorrow.

“What a pitiful, pitiful soul...” he murmured, tears streaming down his cheeks. His demeanor bore the solemnity of a seasoned ascetic.

Then, abruptly, his face twisted into anger, his voice rising sharply: “Unforgivable...”

Soon after, it changed to joy. Within this brief span, the monk’s expressions flickered unceasingly.

Finally, he looked up at the sky and his body dissolved into a radiant Buddhist light, merging with the small temple. The temple’s faded statue, once indistinct, now took on the monk’s likeness, draped in the same tattered robe.

Several worshippers arrived, lighting incense and bowing reverently, unaware that the deity’s image had transformed.

Nearby, Hou Daoist regained his composure but wore a confused expression, his mind blank as if the previous events had slipped from memory. Only the branches and leaves of Bai Wanming’s tree swayed uncontrollably for a few moments before returning to stillness.

Zhou Bai then emerged from the office, noticing Hou standing dazed.

“Old Hou, you’ve been standing out here the whole time. Why not come inside?” he asked.

Interrupted, Hou’s strange sensation largely dissipated, leaving him puzzled.

“I don’t know... I just froze. Maybe the corpse’s transformation is worsening again,” Hou replied.

“That’s possible,” Zhou Bai said, glancing toward the small temple beneath the tree. With his keen eyesight, he immediately noticed the statue’s alteration. However, since the temple was erected by commoners, the deity’s appearance could vary, so he dismissed it as odd but insignificant.

“Come on, Old Hou, let’s go inside. I have a spirit array I want you to check.”

Following Underworld Registry protocol, Zhou Bai handled matters accordingly. Hou’s cultivation was insufficient for discussing the heavenly tribulation, but laying out arrays was still possible.

Hou nodded reluctantly. “Alright, but I haven’t eaten all day. Let’s find something to fill my stomach first.”

“You’ve got quite the appetite—after dealing with zombies all day, you still want to eat,” Zhou Bai chuckled, eyeing the coffin atop the cart as Hou began hauling it into the office.

“Could you not keep it inside? Don’t you find the smell unbearable?”

“Where else would I put it? Certainly not in the shop. The purple corpse emits some stench, but it’s less foul than a white corpse’s will be,” Hou explained.

Having mastered ghostly arts, Hou was considerably stronger and lifted the coffin into the courtyard, closing the gate behind him and placing it amidst the weeds in a corner.

“Alright then, it’s tolerable now, but when the weather warms, the smell will definitely worsen.”

“This purple corpse has potential. In a few months, it should become a white corpse, then it’ll be better.”

Hou sighed with some regret. “Who would have thought that a righteous exorcist like me, upholding justice, would be forced by circumstances to engage in corpse-driving... alas.”

The ultimate shamelessness is convincing even oneself.