Chapter 4: The Old Temple and the Mud Ghost

At the base of a steep slope, hidden among grass and trees, a solitary figure moved up and down, never quite settled. He stood on one leg, only five toes gripping the earth, bearing the weight of his entire body, while his other foot was raised in the posture of the “Crane Standing” from the Crane Control art. His arms stretched upward and downward, almost resembling wings, folded back behind him in the “Crane Spreading” form. With his arms extended, he leapt on one foot, rising and falling like a great crane taking flight. His head was tilted upward, neck stretched as far as possible, each breath following a certain rhythm.

With the specific breathing frequency and the coordination of the two forms—Standing and Spreading—there came a constant rumbling of hunger from Ji Ming’s lower abdomen. The sound was like a ball of energy rolling within his belly, quickly digesting and breaking down the food in his stomach to strengthen his physique. After a long while, the ball of energy was expelled from his mouth, like a surge of boiling steam, rising and dissipating in the cold, damp morning air.

“To train the body to resemble a crane”—this was one of the key points in the secret manual of Crane Control. The Standing and Spreading forms were meant to temper the muscles and bones, to build physical strength. Once these two forms established the foundation of the body, one could then practice the third form, “Relaxed Crane,” which would catalyze a force within, capable of both attack and defense.

Since Ji Ming began practicing the Crane Control art, his body had grown increasingly thin. The two forms were ingenious, but they required a vast consumption of blood food; if the supply was insufficient, the forms would deplete his own body. Now, that tiger spirit hunted for him every day in the mountains, providing blood food to nourish and sustain him. Even so, the tiger spirit was dissatisfied with his progress. Though Ji Ming practiced the secret art, he was still far from matching the manual’s original master, the Daoist.

After one day’s practice, Ji Ming sat at the entrance to the tiger’s den, his expression somewhat vacant. He had practiced diligently here, hoping with the tiger spirit’s help to master the Crane Control art and lay groundwork for his next life. Yet, judging by the tiger spirit’s attitude, he seemed to have practiced wrongly.

“Ma Ning!” Since mastering his practice, he could vaguely sense a cold, shadowy presence always lurking nearby—surely the ghostly assistant. Ji Ming called out, asking, “Has the master gone out?”

Ma Ning was silent for a moment before replying, “Yes, most likely to hunt blood food for you, to replenish what you lose through practice.”

“I’m dying,” Ji Ming suddenly said.

Ma Ning fell silent again, unsure how to comfort him.

“There are still some parts of the manual left untranslated. You still have a bit of hope.”

Ji Ming gave a bitter laugh, opened the book in his hands, and said, “On this page, it says the secret art requires the ‘Elixir Head’ to activate, only then can it be practiced without hindrance.”

He turned to another page, pointing with his finger. “Here’s a note: without the Elixir Head’s activation, one can practice the two forms, but it’s hard to grasp their true meaning. Over time, forced practice will damage the body, and no medicine can repair it, greatly shortening one’s lifespan.”

“So... Ma Ning, even if the master doesn’t kill me, I’ll be destroyed by this secret art. The only way for me to survive is...”

“Impossible! The master will never let you descend the mountain to join the Daoist registry and seek the Elixir Head. Besides, entry requires the oversight of the Three Celestial Lords, deep knowledge of Daoist scripture, and strict examination. Among the thirteen great villages at the mountain’s foot, only one or two people have ever entered the registry and been elevated as Daoists beneath the Three Heavens. You are just a common mortal—don’t dream of such things. Obey the master, and perhaps your suffering will be less.”

So, to seek the Elixir Head, one must join the Daoist registry.

Ji Ming bit his lip; he feared not suffering, but wasting a whole rebirth in vain. He decided to wait a bit longer; if there was no hope, he would reincarnate early.

Suddenly, a wild wind swept past, and the next moment, a heavy, massive tiger head pressed down on his back, forcing his upper body lower.

“Tonight... old temple... you... gamble with Lord Mud!”

The tiger head on his back exhaled hot breath, speaking in broken, halting human words, but the meaning was clear enough.

“You’re lucky, kid,” Ma Ning, attuned to the tiger spirit’s thoughts, immediately congratulated Ji Ming, “The master has already arranged with Lord Mud to transfer you. Lord Mud is a famous spirit in Hengshan; in his treasure-filled belly, there are all kinds of rare medicines. This Elixir Head you seek is nothing to him.”

Before Ji Ming could reply, the tiger’s jaws opened and carried him off to the old temple in the woods where Lord Mud resided.

The temple was ancient; dust and cobwebs hung everywhere, snakes and rats nested within, and two or three incense burners rolled on the floor. In the center was a clay statue of a deity, half-collapsed atop the high dais. Its paint was chipped and faded, its former glory lost. In front of the statue stood two clay-robed little ghosts, each holding a clay horse. One had its head smashed, leaving only a short-bearded phantom.

The tiger spirit set Ji Ming down and lay at the temple’s entrance, quickly falling into a deep sleep, unconcerned about Ji Ming escaping. Indeed, Ji Ming had no thought of fleeing. First, escape was impossible. Second, he wanted to meet Lord Mud. Ji Ming believed that the more he interacted with the monsters and spirits of this world, the better his chances in his next life.

Night fell.

No candlelight shone in the old temple; it was pitch dark, and snakes and rats began to stir. Ji Ming heard the faint scraping sound of something heavy being moved nearby, so close his hairs stood on end. He calmly shifted closer to the sleeping tiger spirit, whose ears twitched but showed no other reaction.

“Ah~” A sweet, coquettish voice came from outside the temple, accompanied by a few ghost lights drifting in, casting an eerie green glow. “Old Lord Mud is so stingy, he won’t even light a few lamps.”

Ji Ming had been glancing outside, but the moment he turned his head, he saw a broad, yellow-faced visage with a short beard pressed right before him.

“Ha~” He recoiled in fright.

Wasn’t this the clay ghost holding a horse in front of the deity statue?

“To stand among monsters and spirits with such composure—I haven’t seen someone this outstanding in eighty years,” the figure remarked.

“Lord Mud... payment...” The tiger spirit, struggling with human speech, said from the side.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your reward,” replied Lord Mud, his yellow clay face grinning. “I know what you mean; this man is as docile as a sheep. He’s been in my temple half a day without any attempt to escape. Your skill at controlling men’s hearts has certainly improved.”

Ji Ming laughed softly, as if confirming the tiger spirit’s words.

“Clack, clack, clack!” The beautiful woman who had led the ghost lights into the temple let out a strange laugh, sounding like bone striking bone. “Old Lord Mud, it’s rare for us to gather here. Let’s not waste time.”

Though she had not yet entered, a faint fragrance already wafted into Ji Ming’s nose. He instinctively leaned forward, his eyes brightening.

The woman carried a white lantern in her delicate hand, dressed in a faded long skirt with a pale, cross-collared jacket draped over her shoulders. Her hair was piled high, secured with a jade hairpin, and a few pale yellow jasmine blossoms adorned her temples. Her gaze was deep and tranquil, almost corpse-like. Because she wore no inner garment, her chest was exposed, revealing a single breastbone and two rows of yellowed ribs.

“Lady White Bone, wait for the brothers Mouse Three and Mouse Four,” Lord Mud said with a chuckle, pointing to Ji Ming. “Tonight, in my old temple, he will be one of our gambling stakes.”

“Late! Late!” Outside, a shrill, piercing voice called out.

“Our young master had a classics exam today, and we were assigned to serve him—trimming candles, grinding ink—so we were delayed.”

Two short, stout figures entered the temple, each carrying a head with loose hair.