The air in the village was thick, tasting of stagnant water and old dust. A mob of burly men had tightened their circle around us, their hands white-knuckled around long wooden staves and rusted hoes. The hostility was palpable, a physical weight pressing down.
"Beat them to death!" one voice shrieked, breaking the silence.
"That's right! Kill the intruders!" another echoed, the mob mentality taking hold like a fever.
Old Daoist Linghu's face drained of color. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, his voice trembling slightly. "Wait! Everyone, please hold on! We harbor no ill will!"
Jiang Dao stood beside the trembling Daoist, his expression unreadable. He didn't waste breath on pleas. His brow furrowed slightly, a ripple of annoyance crossing his face. Without a word, he raised his hand and brought it down in a blur of motion.
Crack.
His palm connected with a solid stone tablet standing nearby. There was a sound like a thunderclap contained in a bottle. The stone didn't just break; it exploded. Shrapnel flew through the air, and dust billowed outward.
The mob froze mid-step. The bloodlust in their eyes was instantly replaced by a dawn of primal terror. They lowered their weapons, shuffling backward.
"Who… who are you people?" one of the larger men stammered, his bravado shattered along with the stone.
Jiang Dao ignored the question. His gaze was cold, indifferent, as he locked eyes with the elderly man who seemed to lead them. "Is this everyone? Every single villager of the Zhang family? Has no one gone missing recently?"
The old man, shaken by the display of supernatural strength, nodded frantically. "Yes, yes! Everyone is here. Absolutely no one is missing!"
"And visitors?" Jiang Dao pressed, his voice calm but commanding. "Has anyone come through lately? There was an incident at the nearby mine. Do you know anything about it?"
"No one comes here," the old man said, wringing his hands. "We know nothing of trouble at the mine. Though… many of our men work there to make a living."
Jiang Dao's eyes narrowed. "Who works there?"
"They do… they all make a living at the mine…"
"Yes, my Lord," another voice chimed in, the tone shifting subtly. "We all make a living there…"
The atmosphere curdled. A low, collective chuckle rippled through the crowd. It wasn't the sound of nervous relief; it was something wet and malicious.
The villagers, who seconds ago had been shivering in fear, now wore identical, grotesque grins. Their lips darkened to a sickly crimson. Then, in a motion so synchronized it felt choreographed, they raised their hands to their necks.
With a sickening squelch, they lifted.
They tore their own heads from their shoulders.
Dozens of severed heads, held aloft in their own hands, turned their eyes toward Jiang Dao. The eyes were dead yet mocking, filled with a ghostly, suffocating malice.
Jiang Dao's heart hammered against his ribs. Instinct took over. His internal energy surged, ready to unleash a devastating strike.
Then, the world blinked.
The gruesome tableau vanished as if a curtain had been dropped. The villagers were terrified peasants again, heads firmly attached to their shoulders, cowering and afraid to meet his gaze. The blood, the grins, the malice—gone.
It was as if reality had hiccuped.
Jiang Dao's pupils constricted to pinpoints. He scanned the crowd, searching for a seam in the illusion, but found nothing. He whipped his head toward the Daoist. "Daoist Linghu. Did you see that?"
Linghu looked bewildered. "See what? I… I noticed nothing unusual, Gang Leader Jiang."
Jiang Dao felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. Again?
He refused to believe his mind was fracturing. He was a master of martial arts, his spirit fortified. Yet, the scene had been visceral, real enough to touch. Even his Heavenly Master's Divine Eye—a technique designed to pierce illusions—had failed to distinguish truth from falsehood.
He exhaled a long breath of steam, forcing his racing heart to slow. "You say you work at the mine," Jiang Dao said, his voice steady despite the turmoil. "Why aren't you there today? Do you know that the foreman, Guo San, is dead?"
The reaction was immediate and seemingly genuine.
"Foreman Guo is dead?"
"How is that possible?"
"My Lord," a villager stepped forward, confusion written on his face. "When we left last night, Foreman Guo told us personally that the mine was closing for maintenance today. He gave us the day off."
Jiang Dao frowned. The alibi was too perfect, the confusion too rehearsed. He looked past the crowd, his eyes landing on a structure that stood out amidst the poverty—a two-story pavilion deep in the village.
"Village Chief," Jiang Dao pointed. "Whose home is that?"
The old man followed his finger. "Ah, that belongs to Squire Lu. He was born here but made a fortune in business outside. He bought a title and built that pavilion. He rarely visits."
"Is he there now? Take me to it."
"He hasn't been back in over a year," the Chief explained, turning toward his hut. "He left the keys with me. I'll fetch them and show you the way."
As the old man retrieved the brass key and began to lead them deeper into the village, Jiang Dao followed in silence. Daoist Linghu trailed close behind, looking increasingly nervous, while the murmuring villagers brought up the rear.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. A sudden gust of wind whistled through the alleyways—a 'Yin wind,' cold enough to bite through bone. It carried a stench that Jiang Dao recognized instantly: the sickly-sweet, cloying odor of rotting meat.
Jiang Dao stopped. He felt eyes on him. Not the fearful glances of peasants, but the predatory stare of a beast.
He spun around.
Behind him, the villagers had changed again. Their mouths were split wide in impossible, ear-to-ear grins. Their cheeks were flushed with the red of fresh blood, their eyes glowing with demonic delight. They stared at him, hungry.
Blink.
The image shattered like a broken mirror. Once again, they were just peasants, heads bowed, looking at their feet.
Jiang Dao inhaled sharply. A heat began to rise in his chest—the Extreme Yang energy reacting to the presence of evil. It felt maddeningly familiar, reminiscent of a haunted temple he had razed in the past.
"Gang Leader Jiang?" Linghu asked, concern etching his features. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing. Keep moving."
Jiang Dao turned back to the path. But as he glanced at Linghu, the Daoist's face twisted. The old monk's features melted into a mask of horrific, silent laughter.
Jiang Dao whipped his head back, his hand twitching toward his weapon.
Linghu blinked, his face perfectly normal. He recoiled slightly at Jiang Dao's aggression. "Gang Leader Jiang? You look… intense."
"I'm fine," Jiang Dao grit out. He forced his feet to move, but the killing intent in his gut was boiling over. He hated this. He hated being toyed with, hated the uncertainty.
They reached the courtyard of the wealthy squire. High walls, a heavy black gate, and a copper lock eaten by rust. The Village Chief fumbled with the key, the metal screeching as the lock disengaged.
Creak.
The heavy doors swung open. A draft of freezing air rushed out, smelling of damp stone and shadows.
The courtyard was spacious, paved with blue flagstones. It was unnervingly clean. No fallen leaves, no dust—as if it were scrubbed daily by invisible hands.
Jiang Dao walked in, his senses dialed to the maximum. As they passed through a covered corridor, the whispers started.
"Hehehe… what a beautiful head…"
"If only I could swap that head onto my body… it would be perfect…"
"Teehee… Gang Leader Jiang, won't you lend us your head for a while?"
The voices dripped with malice, close enough to brush against his ear.
Jiang Dao spun around, a snarl on his lips.
Silence. The courtyard was empty save for the Daoist and the Chief. The wind rustled the eaves, but the voices were gone.
"My Lord… please," the Village Chief stammered, backing away. "You… you keep looking at us like you want to kill us. What is happening?"
Daoist Linghu stepped forward, his voice low. "Gang Leader Jiang, you keep reacting to things we cannot see. Since we entered, I have sensed nothing. No evil spirits, no rot. Are you certain… are you certain you are alright?"
Jiang Dao looked at them. The gaslighting was absolute. "You smell nothing? You didn't see them tear their heads off? You didn't hear the voices asking for my skull?"
"Impossible," Linghu said, his face pale. "This old Daoist would sense such powerful grievances."
"My Lord, perhaps it is a hallucination?" the Chief suggested, trembling. "We are simple, good people here."
Jiang Dao fell silent. Arguing with the blind about the dark was useless. He turned toward the main building—a grand, two-story pavilion supported by thick red pillars.
"Open it," Jiang Dao ordered.
The Chief obliged. Sunlight flooded the dusty interior as the doors swung wide. Jiang Dao's eyes swept the room, catching every detail, every mote of dust floating in the stagnant air.
"My Lord, will you enter?"
Jiang Dao stepped across the threshold, his foot aiming for the stairs to the second floor.
The moment his boot touched the floorboards, the world lurched.
Whoosh.
A gale of spectral wind roared through his ears. The temperature plummeted. The pavilion, the villagers, the Daoist—they didn't just fade; they were ripped away.
The Replay of the Damned
The transition was instantaneous, violent, like falling through a trapdoor in reality.
One moment, Jiang Dao was in a dusty, silent pavilion. Next, he was standing in the middle of a sun-drenched street.
The silence was replaced by a wall of sound—hawkers shouting, carts rumbling, the dull roar of a busy populace. He was in a bustling market town, surrounded by life.
Jiang Dao spun in a circle. The pavilion was gone. Linghu was gone.
He was alone in a crowd that didn't know he existed. People walked toward him, and just as he braced for impact, they passed through his body like smoke.
"An illusion," he muttered, his voice swallowed by the noise.
His internal energy, the Extreme Yang, flared beneath his skin like molten lava. He clenched his fists, scanning for a threat, but the street was mundane.
"Miss! Please, slow down! The Master will be furious if he finds out we snuck out again!"
The voice was crisp, youthful. Jiang Dao's gaze snapped toward a side door of a wealthy estate that had just cracked open.
Two figures slipped out. One was a girl of perhaps sixteen, dressed in radiant pink silk. She was stunning, with skin like porcelain and eyes bright with sheltered curiosity. Beside her was a maid in green, looking anxious and constantly checking over her shoulder.
"Oh, hush, Xiao Huan," the girl in pink laughed, the sound jarringly innocent. "We'll be quick. Father won't notice a thing."
They blended into the crowd, moving from stall to stall, marveling at cheap trinkets and snacks as if they were treasures.
Jiang Dao watched them coldly. He looked at the sky, then at the ground.
"Where is this?" he growled. "You think trapping me in a memory will stop me? Show yourself!"
He lifted his foot and stomped. It wasn't a tantrum; it was an earthquake.
BOOM.
The pavement cracked. A shockwave of pure energy rippled outward, enough to level a building. But the world around him merely wobbled like a reflection in a disturbed pond. The people didn't scream; the buildings didn't fall. The scene stabilized and continued.
It was a recording. A history etched into the ether, playing out for an audience of one.
Jiang Dao's anger simmered, but he forced himself to watch. He followed the girls.
They had stopped at a stall selling perfumed sachets. While they giggled over the scents, shadows detached themselves from a nearby alley.
Seven or eight men. Rough, sun-baked skin. Calloused hands. They wore the short, coarse tunics of laborers. Jiang Dao recognized the type instantly—and he recognized the hunger in their eyes. It wasn't just lust; it was a predatory, resentful greed.
"Are we really doing this?" a fat man whispered, wiping sweat from his lip. "That's a rich man's daughter. I just want a wife, but… this feels like begging for death."
"Shut your mouth," a skinny man hissed. His eyes were fixed on the girl in pink. "Our village is poor. Nobody marries into the Zhang Family Village willingly. We take what we need. Are these rich girls not human? Why shouldn't they be our wives?"
"Big Brother is right," the fat man acquiesced, a slimy smile creeping onto his face.
The skinny man smoothed his tunic, plastered a harmless, goofy grin on his face, and stepped out of the shadows.
"Young Misses," he called out, his voice dripping with false humility. "Are you looking for sachets? My family has a secret recipe, handed down for generations. Much better than this trash."
The maid, Xiao Huan, perked up. "Generations, you say?"
"Indeed," the man bowed. "My stall is just through that alley. Very close."
The trap was clumsy, obvious to anyone with street smarts. But these girls had been raised in a gilded cage. They followed him into the dark with smiles on their faces.
The scene flickered and jumped forward.
The alley. The violence was swift. Ragged cloths soaked in chemicals clamped over mouths. The girls' eyes went wide with shock, then rolled back. No screams. Just the scuff of boots and the thud of bodies being shoved into sacks.
To hide their prize, the men shoved the sacks into bamboo cages meant for pigs. They wheeled the "livestock" out of the city, right past the guards.
Jiang Dao watched, his expression darkening. The pieces of the puzzle were snapping together.
The scene shifted again. The setting was now familiar—the Zhang Family Village, but years younger.
It was a celebration of hell.
Inside a crumbling mud-walled compound, the men were drinking, their laughter loud and raucous. In the corner, tied like animals, lay the two girls.
They were ruined. Their fine silk clothes were shredded. Blood pooled around them. But it was their silence that was most distinctive.
Their tongues had been cut out.
Their legs had been shattered at the knees.
They could not run. They could not scream. They could only lie there, paralyzed and mute, eyes wide with a terror that had transcended madness.
The scene blurred through a montage of misery. A forced wedding. The pink-dressed girl married the skinny man; the maid married the fat one. The entire village attended. There were no other women. Just men, sharing in the spoils of their crime.
Months passed in seconds.
A storm raged outside a leaking hut. Inside, the skinny man paced, soaked to the bone but burning with manic anxiety.
"A son," he muttered, pacing the mud floor. "It has to be a son. No useless girls."
A cry pierced the air—the wail of a newborn.
The man rushed to the bedroom door. A midwife stumbled out. She was older, perhaps forty, but she bore the same marks: a missing leg, a missing tongue. She waved her hands frantically, making guttural sounds.
The man froze. He understood the sign.
"A girl?"
His face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. He backhanded the crippled midwife, sending her crashing into the wall.
He stormed into the room. On the bed, the girl who had once worn pink lay shivering, clutching a crying infant. She looked decades older.
"You useless bitch!" the man screamed. "Since the day I took you, I've had nothing but bad luck! I gamble, I lose! I wanted a son to change my fortunes, and you give me this?"
He grabbed the woman by her hair and dragged her off the bed. She couldn't fight back. Her broken legs dragged uselessly across the dirt floor. She opened her mouth to plead, but only a dry rasp came out.
"You think because you were born rich, you're better than me?" He kicked her in the ribs. Thud. "You think you're special?" Thud. "Why should you have gold spoons while I rot in this village?"
He stomped on her, venting a lifetime of inferiority and malice upon the only thing he owned. Finally, panting, he spat on her broken form.
"I'm going out. If you're not dead when I get back, I'll finish it then."
He slammed the door, leaving them in the dark.
Thunder rumbled. Rain poured through the thatched roof, soaking everything.
In the corner, the midwife pulled herself up. Her face was swollen from the blow. She crawled over to the young mother, tears streaming down her face.
Jiang Dao watched closely. To his surprise, he understood the frantic hand signals the midwife was making.
"Are you alive? Listen to me. All the women here… we were all stolen. This is a village of devils."
The young mother stared blankly, her spirit seemingly extinguished.
"Don't give up," the midwife sighed, her hands moving with desperate grace. "I know their schedule. They are drinking tonight. I can take you away."
The mother slowly raised her hands, trembling. "My legs… I can't walk."
"I will carry you," the midwife gestured. "I am strong. We will escape. You must survive. You must tell someone."
"What about Xiao Huan?" the mother asked, fresh tears mixing with the blood on her face.
The midwife paused, her expression filled with sorrow. "She couldn't bear it. She threw herself down the well six months ago."
The mother closed her eyes, a silent sob shaking her body. But when she opened them, there was a spark—not of hope, but of vengeance.
Painstakingly, the midwife positioned the mother on her back. The mother clutched her infant tight.
It was a pathetic, heroic sight. A cripple carrying a paralyzed woman, moving inch by inch through the mud and the driving rain, crawling toward a freedom that seemed impossibly far away.
Jiang Dao stood over them, an invisible witness to a tragedy etched in time, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked. The ghosts of this village weren't just haunting the living; they were screaming for blood.