2. Sign and affix your seal

“That was close. We almost died at the hands of that cursed thing.”
“Yes, it was a narrow escape.”
Chen Huangpi, too, let out a sigh of relief. Had it not been for these people carrying him through the air, he would have had to rely on the brass oil lamp for protection. Er Huang's tongue was as sharp as ever—if he had to beg for its help, the lamp would certainly mock him.
The group exchanged glances, reading each other's thoughts. If not for this boy dawdling endlessly, they wouldn’t have ended up in such a sorry state. Once they made it through the night, they would slaughter everyone in his Daoist temple come morning. And as for the idol worshipped in his temple, they’d take that as well—otherwise, how could they hope to escape this sinister, anomaly-ridden expanse of the Great Ten-Thousand Mountains?
Their minds made up, each secretly scoffed at Chen Huangpi, dismissing him as a country bumpkin grown up in these wild mountains, ignorant of the dangers lurking in the wider world.
Just then, the old man with the goatee suddenly seemed to sense something amiss and exclaimed, “Boy, where is the idol worshipped in your temple? Why is there not a trace of incense or prayer?”
Chen Huangpi replied, “There isn’t an idol, so there’s no need for incense or offerings…”
The old man’s expression changed drastically. “Without an idol’s protection, how do you survive? You—there’s something wrong with you, boy.”
The group had already been secretly sizing up Chen Huangpi earlier. Aside from his sturdy frame, he carried only a pouch full of spices and a battered oil lamp at his waist. He looked for all the world like an ordinary cultivator at the body-refining stage.
But now, upon closer consideration, everything felt off. When they’d flown through the air, their speed had been tremendous—the wind alone would have cut like knives. True, with their protection, the boy should have been safe from harm, but he landed without so much as a flushed cheek or a quickened breath. It made no sense.
Chen Huangpi glanced warily at them. “I only promised to bring you to the temple—I never said there would definitely be an idol inside. You all signed your names and sealed it. If you try to go back on your word, I’ll call for my master!”
Saying this, he produced a yellowed booklet to show them.
The old man with the goatee glanced first at his own signature, then at the one above Chen Huangpi’s, and his face grew darker still. He served under the Prefect of Xu Prefecture—how dare a mere child try to trick him? If not for the strange aura of this place, and the boy’s own oddities, he would have slapped him dead already.
“Boy, what nonsense are you spouting? It’s all in black and white—how could we deny it?”
“Besides, the monk may run, but the temple remains.”
The old man ground his teeth and pressed his words: “Isn’t that so, Chen Shidao?”
Indeed—Chen Huangpi hadn’t signed his own name, but his master’s.
At that moment, an ancient voice echoed in their ears. “Who is it? Who calls for me?”
In the next instant, an old Daoist with white hair appeared beside them, draped in white robes edged with black, embroidered with red plum blossoms—his arrival so strange it was as if he’d materialized out of thin air.
The group recoiled as if they’d seen a ghost, goosebumps rising all over. When had this old Daoist appeared? The shock was so great, they even forgot that Chen Huangpi had tricked them into signing with his master’s name instead of his own.
“Se—senior…” the old man with the goatee and the others hastily bowed low.
From arrogance to humility—the transformation was immediate.
The old Daoist in white tilted his head, regarding them with a glance that instantly sent chills down their spines. Terrifying—what kind of cultivation had this master attained?
There was not the slightest trace of spiritual power emanating from him—if they hadn’t seen him with their own eyes, any passerby would have taken him for a mere mortal.
Fortunately, the old Daoist’s interest in them quickly faded. He turned to pull Chen Huangpi aside.
“Huangpi, why have you only just returned?”
“Second Master, I was delayed on the road,” Chen Huangpi replied obediently. Second Master was nothing like First Master—he was unpredictable, appearing and disappearing at will. Worse, if displeased, he would go mad, unlike First Master who was more easily appeased.
The old Daoist grumbled, “It’s dark already, and you only now return. Huangpi, you’ve become disobedient—do you want your master to starve?”
“I won’t let you starve. I brought back plenty of ingredients,” Chen Huangpi answered.
His master never took medicine, so Chen Huangpi would coax him by calling the herbs “ingredients,” otherwise he wouldn’t eat a single bite—after all, why take medicine when one isn’t ill?
The old Daoist cast another glance at the visitors, then nodded in satisfaction at Chen Huangpi. “You’re growing up, Huangpi. You knew I would be hungry, so you brought back so much to eat. This will last us for days.”
Chen Huangpi nodded in agreement.
Listening to this exchange, the old man with the goatee and his companions grew more uneasy, convinced there was some hidden meaning in the words.
But Chen Huangpi came over and whispered to them, “Don’t be afraid. My… my second master has practiced to the point his mind’s a bit off, but he’s a good person—just hungry, that’s all.”
He patted his satchel. “The food’s in here. I’ll cook for you all tonight.”
Their forced smiles grew even more strained.
Night deepened.
Chen Huangpi led his “ingredients”—or rather, his guests—to the guest rooms of the temple. Along the way, the old man with the goatee and the others grew increasingly uneasy.
“Young man, is your temple always this small?”
“At night it’s like this. Don’t wander around. I’ll bring you food once it’s ready,” Chen Huangpi instructed, then picked up the brass oil lamp and left.
In truth, the Pure Immortal Temple was vast, spreading across the entire front and back of Jade Qiong Mountain. It could accommodate over a thousand people; there were more than a dozen main, side, and auxiliary halls, not to mention the scripture library and the living quarters for the Daoists.
But that was only at night.
By day, only the main hall, the pill room, the kitchen, and rows of guest rooms were visible.
Chen Huangpi remembered one time, at night, when he’d tried to enter the areas that only appeared after dark. Before he could even step inside, his master caught him—and he, along with the brass oil lamp, took a severe beating.
The old man with the goatee and his group knew nothing of this. But staying in the guest rooms, looking around at the rows of houses—clearly uninhabited, yet as spotless as if cleaned daily—a strange sense of dread crept over them.
At least, each room had a brass oil lamp hanging within. The bright light gave them some reassurance, though all the lamps looked identical, as if cast from the same mold—even the peculiar bite marks on them were the same.
Someone whispered, “This place doesn’t feel right. It’s as if something’s been watching us the whole time.”
Another said, “And that pair of master and disciple—the old Daoist looked at me just now as if he wanted to devour me.”
A third, face pale, added, “I saw it too—he was even drooling.”
“And this accursed temple—before nightfall it wasn’t nearly this large. That boy brought us in here with ill intent.”
“Elder Lin, you’re the most senior among us. You decide what we should do.”
Elder Lin, the old man with the goatee, listened to his companions and fell into deep thought.
They all served in the magistrate’s office, drawing salaries from the imperial court. Their purpose in entering the Great Ten-Thousand Mountains was to locate the source of a sinister contamination. For this, they’d brought an idol and a consecrated geomantic compass. They’d found the source in a mutated idol, but the thing was so terrifying they couldn’t withstand it and had to flee.
Was it because the mutated idol was so fearsome that it harbored the contamination, or did the contamination make it so terrifying?
Either way, if it had been weaker, they’d have followed their plan: lure it outside Xu Prefecture’s borders, create chaos, and then, in the ensuing panic, justify raising taxes and tithes in the name of protecting the people.
But the taxes cultivators demanded were not currency or grain—those were already due from the common folk. What they required was human vitality. Incense offerings to idols were, in truth, offerings of human essence. Cultivation itself required this essence, though cultivators clung to the ancient term “spiritual energy.”
The cultivators and the high officials, perched above the masses, would never diminish their own vitality—so it was always the common people who suffered.
But now their plan had failed, and they’d lost an idol in the process. Elder Lin had hoped to bring back the idol from Pure Immortal Temple to at least have something to report to his superior. Who could have guessed the temple would be so strange—no idol, only a master and disciple, and yet they lived here untroubled, not a trace of evil disturbing them.
If not for the constant, underlying sense of dread in this temple, Elder Lin would have thought it safer here than within Xu Prefecture, surrounded by thousands of idols.
He pondered this and shook his head at his companions. “At the very least, we wait for dawn. If we leave before then, we’re dead men—I suspect that mutated idol is lurking nearby, waiting for us to emerge.”
“But here—it doesn’t seem any safer.”
“At least for now, we’re safe…” Elder Lin hesitated, then gritted his teeth. “Zhang Wu, you and I have the highest cultivation here. Let’s go and test the depths of that master and disciple. If anything happens to us, the rest of you must try to survive until dawn—and if the chance arises, avenge us.”
The others nodded, though they all knew the truth: if Elder Lin and Zhang Wu failed, what hope did the weaker cultivators have of lasting until morning? If they had any better options, they wouldn’t be risking their lives like this.
Elder Lin and Zhang Wu wasted no more time—the longer they delayed, the more uneasy they felt. Leaving the guest room, they concealed their presence and slipped swiftly through the shadows, making not a sound.
Elder Lin recalled that the boy who had them sign with his master’s name had gone to the kitchen. He hadn’t lied, for the scent of spices wafted out to greet them on the breeze.
“Is he really cooking?” Elder Lin sent a secret message to Zhang Wu.
Zhang Wu shook his head slightly. “Let’s see for ourselves.”
They crept to the kitchen window. To their eyes, the papered windows offered no concealment.
Inside, a brass oil lamp, its surface smeared with mud, hung from the ceiling. Several stoves, each nearly two meters tall, stood in the kitchen, topped by a massive cauldron. Chen Huangpi was diligently feeding the fire, the flames roaring as boiling water bubbled over, filling the kitchen with steamy heat.
When the fire was just right, Chen Huangpi tossed in dried tangerine peel, star anise, white cardamom, and other spices.
Then, he suddenly said, “Second Master, do you think the fire’s hot enough?”
Elder Lin and Zhang Wu’s hearts skipped a beat. That eerie old Daoist in white was here too? But why hadn’t they seen him?
The next moment, the old Daoist’s voice came from an unexpected place.
“Too low,” he grumbled from inside the cauldron. “This won’t boil anything soft. Better use my alchemy furnace—the heat is much stronger, and fiercer, too.”