"By family ties, Li Daming should be my cousin's son. You've already done your best this time, and I, on behalf of the broad peasant class, thank you!"
Zhang Guozhong nearly burst out laughing. On behalf of the broad peasant class—the line sounded like something straight out of Vice Chairman Lin's speeches. But looking at Captain Li's stern, earnest face, he didn't dare smile.
"Uh… I really didn't do much…"
"Don't be modest, young man. Keep cultivating yourself. You have a bright future ahead!"
Zhang's heart sank. A loyal Communist soldier of the proletariat—reduced, against his will, to some countryside exorcist.
But he wasn't ready to walk away just yet. He hadn't even tried the pomelo leaves and vinegar he'd brought. What if they really worked? For the sake of the villagers—and perhaps to ease his own conscience—Zhang resolved to risk it one more time.
That night he didn't sleep. Instead, he pored over his copy of the Mao Shan Gazetteer, flipping pages and muttering to himself. According to the book, this condition was known in the Mao Shan arts as "yang ni" or "living slurry." Three possible causes were listed:
The soul of a human taking possession.
An animal spirit borrowing a body in its cultivation.
The veins of the mountains and rivers seizing control.
The first two were yang ni; the last was living slurry.
There were dozens of countermeasures, most requiring materials or charms that Zhang had never heard of, much less believed existed. The pomelo leaf dipped in vinegar was the simplest method, and only effective against fresh, lingering human ghosts—and even then only during the hours of strongest daylight. Otherwise, whether it worked depended on the strength of the spirit. "If weak, it drives away; if strong, it worsens." The phrase "worsens"—what did that even mean? Could it make the possession stronger?
Other remedies called for things like peach embryos, rooster throats, child's eyebrows—names so bizarre Zhang wondered if they were even real.
Despite Captain Li's attempts to stop him, Zhang insisted on another attempt. Finally, Li relented. He rounded up ten sturdy young men and bound Li Daming tightly with hemp ropes, layer upon layer, then tied his neck to the great stone mill in the courtyard. Daming didn't resist. He just grinned, drooling, as the ropes tightened around him.
By now, word had spread through the village. Crowds gathered outside the courtyard gate, eager to witness the "city scholar" confront the possessed farmer.
When Daming saw Zhang approach, he grinned wider. "Little brat," he croaked, "this seat has spared you once already, for the sake of your youth. Do you truly wish to test my power?"
Captain Li barked at the villagers to disperse and stationed the young men, ropes in hand, ready for anything.
Zhang stopped pretending. He pulled the pomelo leaves from his pocket and slapped them against Daming's head. Nothing happened. No spasms, no signs of relief. Daming only laughed.
"This is the best you can do? You think you can cure me with this?"
It was as Zhang had feared. That hand strength yesterday—no leaf could stop it. Besides, the Gazetteer clearly said the remedy worked only on new spirits. Daming claimed to be a scholar from the Jiaqing era, dead for a century.
So Zhang pulled out his last resort: a talisman he had copied the night before. He had begged yellow paper from Li Liu the papermaker, drawn the pattern in cinnabar, and now pressed it to his lips with a smear of spit before slapping it to Daming's forehead.
The change was instant. Gone was the vacant grin. Daming's face twisted into a mask of fury. His eyes rolled back until only whites showed. His teeth bared, lips curling, tongue lolling out. A guttural rasp came from his nose, like an old man choking on phlegm. Smoke began to rise from the talisman—though no flame touched it.
The young men gasped. Some clutched their farm tools—pitchforks, hoes, whips—whatever could give their hands courage.
Zhang slipped his leather belt from his waist, heart pounding. He had felt Daming's power once before. If anything went wrong now, he might not live to tell the tale.
The talisman seemed to enrage Daming further. The yellow paper burned through the middle, dropped away. His eyes snapped down, glaring at Zhang with a hatred that froze the blood. With a howl, he surged forward.
The ropes snapped like twine.
The great hemp cords, thick as thumbs, burst apart as if cut by blades. Daming lunged so hard the millstone—four hundred pounds of solid rock anchored by a post as thick as a man's leg—lurched from its platform.
The villagers panicked. A dozen men threw themselves at Daming, only to be hurled aside like straw dolls. He stood upright, rigid, jerking like some cinematic zombie. With another heave, he broke the thick wooden stake and dragged the millstone across the courtyard.
Zhang's face drained of all color. The possessed man was coming straight for him. And the last rope—thick as a wrist—was fraying fast.