The haunting that had tormented Li Village for years—Li Daming's possession—was finally brought to an end. What came next was the matter of reward and recognition.
First up were Li Bangzi and Li Fu, who had helped Captain Li haul the ancient corpse. Each received four yuan. The two men clutched the damp, sweat-soaked banknotes in delight, grinning so wide their mouths couldn't close.
Then the village accountant tallied up work points for the rest of the laborers.
Superstition was superstition, but the town's work teams had drilled it into grassroots cadres like Captain Li: organizing villagers to dig up coffins in the name of "feudal superstition" was the kind of thing that could never, under any circumstances, be reported. Captain Li, though barely literate, understood this much.
So once the rewards were handed out, he switched to threats:
"Listen up—no one breathes a word about tonight. If anyone asks, you say we were burning off fields. And if some fool dares spread this around and I find out, you'll be expelled from the commune."
The villagers shivered. To be expelled from the commune was like being stripped of citizenship—a punishment worse than death for a farmer. In truth, Captain Li didn't even have such authority, but who among them would dare call his bluff?
Then it was Master Ma's turn. He had once been publicly denounced and knew the consequences all too well. If word of this night spread, his easy life in Li Village would be over.
"What you did today was Heaven's justice. Anyone who tells of it commits a grave sin, an offense against the natural order, and will have their lifespan cut short. Don't say I didn't warn you."
His words chilled them even more than the captain's threats. Expulsion was one thing—you could always hope not to get caught. But to lose years of life? The gods were everywhere; Heaven saw all. Who would dare take that risk?
Sure enough, the very next day a gossip from the neighboring village asked about the great blaze. Every single villager of Li Village gave the same reply:
"Just burning off the fields."
The neighbors believed them, though anyone with half a brain might have noticed the flaw: who burns fields at night, and in great piles?
Back at the house, Master Ma sat turning over the cracked jade that still reeked faintly of foulness, despite Second Girl Li scrubbing it raw. Zhang Guozhong edged closer.
"Master, how did you do it? By rights, digging up that coffin should have unleashed the full force of resentment into Daming's body. With his frail condition, he'd have dropped dead in a minute. But you burned that corpse half the night and somehow he lived. And that black water he vomited—what was it?"
Master Ma studied him for a moment, then dipped a finger in spit and drew an ancient character on the dirt floor: 互.
"Do you recognize this?"
Zhang peered at it. "That's 'hu.'" The old form looked like a horizontal line with a cross beneath.
"Right. And what else?"
Zhang shook his head, baffled.
"This is the symbol of the Seven-Star Soul-Nailing Array. By laying it, I went against Heaven itself. I've cut my lifespan. I won't live long."
The word "lifespan" made Zhang's heart jolt. He pressed for an explanation.
Master Ma revealed that during those days of seemingly aimless wandering, he had in fact been locating Li Village's "Seven Gates."
In Maoshan practice, the Seven Gates correspond to the seven stars of the Big Dipper. Each gate represents the flow of vital energy—shengqi—through any settlement. Shengqi was more than the yang energy of the human body. It was the current of life force in all living things, akin to what modern science might call bioelectric fields.
In the city, with concrete, wires, and radio waves, animals could no longer sense it. But in the countryside, the signs were everywhere. Rat holes, rabbit warrens, even ant tunnels all pointed in the same direction: the flow of life energy. Villagers often noticed, during the campaigns to eradicate pests, that burrows twisted in odd ways—looping back or turning at right angles. Scientists said the animals were evading predators. In truth, they were following the current of life.
By charting the stars for nine nights—the cycle known in Maoshan as the Chong Nine—Master Ma determined the flow of energy. Each tiny shift of the Big Dipper gave clues. On the final night, he marked the village's seven gates, placing fresh chicken bones at each nexus of energy. The chicken, second only to a virgin boy in pure yang essence, retained vitality in its blood and bones even a year after death. That was why killing a chicken before monkeys could terrify them more than killing another beast—the sudden disappearance of its strong yang force shocked them deeply.
Finally, he nailed shut the last gate, the Taiyou Gate, with one more bone. That severed the flow of life energy through the village. Animals went wild—chickens clucking, dogs howling, rats fleeing as if an earthquake were coming. But the villagers, busy watching the ritual, barely noticed.
Why nail the gates? Because the malicious spirit, like any beast, relied on that current of energy to find its way. With the gates closed, it was lost—unable to locate its own corpse or draw on yin energy. That was why Daming staggered about his house, crashing into walls and vomiting yellow slime, too weak to even walk out the door.
But nailing the Seven Gates was a crime against Heaven. No Maoshan text prescribed it; Master Ma had invented it himself, naming it the Seven-Star Copper-Soul Array. Once enacted, no wandering ghost could move an inch. Yet it defied the balance of yin and yang and inevitably cut years from his own life.
Zhang asked how many years. Master Ma only shook his head. Such secrets could never be spoken—revealing them only shortened one's fate further. He sighed.
"My lifespan is already forfeit. But listen, Guozhong. Li Daming and his daughter are fated to be your benefactors. With their help, you will carry Daoist practice far beyond what I can."
For Master Ma—real name Ma Chunyi, the 107th Celestial Master of Quanzhen Daoism, and temporary head of the Maoshan sect after his disciple's death—the duty of preserving the Dao outweighed his own life.
The jade itself, he explained, was no ordinary stone. Known as Death Jade, mined in Yunnan, it was so worthless that jewelers left it lying in the dust. But in Maoshan, it was a treasure, able to attract and hold resentment. Daming, thin as he was, still had yang energy. The Qing official's restless soul, starved of yin energy, was drawn irresistibly to the jade. Once inside, it could not escape. The black water Daming vomited was bile mingled with a substance called yuanhui—the dregs of consumed resentment. Without the jade to pull it out, Daming's heart would have burst and he would surely have died.
That night, Master Ma sealed the jade inside a clay jar, dug a pit deeper than any well, and buried it with a slip of paper. Zhang, expecting a talisman, leaned in wide-eyed. But the words were plain:
"This jade is inauspicious. If found, bury it again."
As if anyone in that place and time could even read the characters.
Still, Zhang was struck dumb by his master's calligraphy. In his mind, the most skilled writer had always been Secretary Wei at the commune school. But compared with these strokes—firm and graceful as a dragon's dance—Secretary Wei's scribbles were no better than a spider crawling in ink. Zhang had once seen real treasures during the campaigns—scrolls by Liu Gongquan, Li Beihai, Mi Fu—and he swore Master Ma's hand was no lesser.