Chapter Eighteen: Meeting Mingchuan Youzhi Again

Zhou Yi gazed at the delicate handwriting on the letter, feeling a surge of emotion mixed with a growing sense of pressure. He had buried Zhou Dajiang’s body behind the temple, choosing a spot sheltered from the wind and facing the sun—a place of significance. The temple itself had been built to suppress the Dragon Vein of the Great Qing, and its position marked the dragon’s head, with the backbone stretching behind it. Thus, this was a superior auspicious site for a burial.

In truth, the most coveted location was at the forehead of the dragon vein. If an ancestor were buried there, it was said their descendants would rise to become emperors. But Zhou Yi had no desire for such greatness; he wished only for his family’s safety and peace.

With Zhou Dajiang laid to rest, Zhou Yi moved into the temple with Beqiao. As mentioned before, there was a mysterious force within the temple that drew Zhou Yi in, but after two days of searching, he still couldn’t identify what it was. The temple was in disrepair, so after tidying up, Zhou Yi patched together a stove with mud and made enough repairs for the place to be habitable.

Beqiao returned from outside with a wild pheasant in its mouth. Zhou Yi took the bird, split it in half with a knife, giving one half back to Beqiao and using the other to make a stew. He cooked a bowl of rice, thus settling their supper. After eating, he lay down fully clothed.

The next day, Baozi climbed the mountain, bringing a sack of cornmeal. He wandered around the temple, then remarked, “Is this really the temple we’ve been looking for? There’s nothing special about it. Even the idol here is different from others. Which deity is this?”

Zhou Yi shook his head, admitting ignorance. “This is the one who passed the Daoist arts to me, but I never learned his Daoist name,” he replied, sighing.

Baozi made another circuit around the temple, but with nothing else to do, soon left to descend the mountain.

Having scoured every corner of the temple over the following days, Zhou Yi expanded his search. When the temple’s protective barrier was intact, its range was vast—about a kilometer in every direction. By day, Zhou Yi and Beqiao scouted the area; by night, he returned to the temple to cultivate.

Some, fueled by hatred, rush to take revenge immediately. Zhou Yi was not such a man. He did not let grief cloud his judgment. If he had gone after Zuo Zhi right after Zhou Dajiang died, his only chance would have been a sneak attack—otherwise, he stood no chance. Zhou Yi refused to stoop to such methods. He wanted to defeat Zuo Zhi honorably, relying on his own strength. This was stubbornness, not a lack of adaptability, but rather a matter of character. So, he used the period of mourning for his father to rapidly improve his abilities.

On the seventh week after Zhou Dajiang’s passing, Zhou Yi brought the yellow paper he had prepared to burn at his father’s grave and sat for a while, speaking quietly as though his father could hear. Realizing over a month had passed and he still had no clue about the temple’s secret, Zhou Yi felt a growing impatience.

In the depths of the mountains, with only himself for company, Zhou Yi talked more to Beqiao than to anyone else, besides his conversations at the grave. Beqiao, of course, could not understand his words. Whenever Zhou Yi spoke, Beqiao would lie beside him, ears drooping, eyes half-closed, occasionally letting out a low whine.

“Beqiao, what secrets do you suppose lie hidden in these mountains? From afar I feel something familiar and warm, but once inside the temple, there’s nothing at all,” Zhou Yi sighed after speaking, another fruitless day gone. As dusk fell, he returned to the temple with Beqiao.

“Tomorrow I’ll stop searching. Perhaps there’s nothing special about this temple after all—it’s just an ordinary place.” Zhou Yi repeated this to himself each night as he walked home, yet every morning he would set out once more.

Beqiao, seeing Zhou Yi rise, shook off the leaves and grass clinging to his fur and followed close behind. When they reached the temple, Beqiao pricked up his ears and lowered his body in a wary posture. Zhou Yi, having raised Beqiao, understood his signals well—something was amiss.

Zhou Yi didn’t go through the door, but vaulted over the back wall and hid in the shadows. No lights burned in the temple, but the moonlight revealed several figures searching the hall, whispering softly, their caution evident.

Although Zhou Yi’s spiritual energy had yet to reach the Azure Qi realm, his senses were sharp. He realized the intruders were speaking Japanese—a language he did not understand, but their intentions were clearly not benign.

He dared not confront them directly and instead performed a soul-searching ritual outside, hoping to summon some aggrieved spirits to frighten them away. The summoned spirits were mostly foxes and other animals who’d died unjustly, but their numbers were impressive. For a time, the courtyard was filled with chilly winds and flickering phantoms. Yet, though there were many spirits, none dared enter the temple, stopping firmly at the threshold no matter how Zhou Yi urged them on.

The intruders soon noticed the ghostly presence, but showed no fear. One man placed his hands before his chest, wrists bent inward, thumbs and index fingers joined, making a strange sign while chanting in Japanese. Zhou Yi could not understand, but from the complexity of the hand seals, he realized this man was also a Daoist of sorts.

These spirits were formed from resentment, lingering only because their grievances were unresolved, but they were weak. Anyone with even a hint of spiritual power would frighten them away. After some chanting, the Japanese man sent out a thread of spiritual energy that lashed at the fleeing spirits. Ten or so, too slow to escape, howled in pain as they touched the blue energy and were instantly obliterated.

Watching this from the darkness, Zhou Yi felt uneasy. Though he hadn’t destroyed the spirits himself, he was responsible for summoning them, and their deaths weighed on him—a case of “I did not intend to harm, yet harm followed from my actions.”

The Japanese man continued, speeding up his steps and sending out more spiritual energy, clearly intent on annihilating all the spirits. “Mr. Nagawa, they’re only spirits. There’s no need to be so ruthless. Let’s just find what we’re after,” said another, in halting Chinese.

Hearing this, Zhou Yi finally recognized the intruders—Nagawa Yuuji and Suzuki Yuichi. He wondered silently what these Japanese men sought in the temple.

As Zhou Yi pondered, Nagawa Yuuji spoke. “You don’t understand. These spirits don’t appear here for no reason. China has ancient arts that allow spirits to gather information, then pass on their memories. If these spirits fell into the wrong hands, the Empire of Great Japan’s plans would be exposed.”

The spell Nagawa Yuuji feared was the “Summoning of Spirits,” but he was mistaken.

At this point, Zhou Yi could no longer stand by and watch them search the temple any longer. He gathered his spiritual energy and dashed toward Nagawa Yuuji.

Previously, it was said Zhou Yi disdained attacking from behind, but context mattered. He had ambushed Zuo Zhi once in the mountain, and now he did so again to Nagawa Yuuji. It seemed contradictory, but it was not.

First, Zuo Zhi intended to destroy the Dragon Vein of the Great Qing—a matter deeply rooted in national sentiment. Moreover, the circumstances had been perilous, leaving Zhou Yi no choice but to act without revealing himself for a fair duel.

Now, these were Japanese from the East. To insist on chivalry and honor with them would be foolish. Was Zhou Yi a fool? The answer was no.

PS: The novel has been updated for seven days straight, and the response has been pretty good. Of course, compared to the masters, I’m still far behind—just joking! The first small climax is coming, and I hope for your support. Your encouragement is my motivation and inspiration. Let the inspiration come even more wildly...