Chapter 114: The Influence of a Father

Forced by circumstances, the Belly Ghost transformed into a pool of black sludge once more; had it not, Song Nianqiang’s strike would surely have scattered its soul to the winds. Even so, the ghost suffered grave injuries. The black sludge was cleaved in two by Song’s blade—fortunately, not split right down the middle, or that strike alone would have certainly meant its end.

A corner of the black sludge was shorn off by the blow, instantly dissolving into a wisp of pale smoke. The Belly Ghost scrambled to one side, desperate to escape Song’s reach.

"You are ruthless!" The Belly Ghost, still trembling from its brush with death, retreated to a distance and resumed its human form. "Hmph! The worst is yet to come!" Ignoring the creature, Song Nianqiang closed in, his golden blade flashing as he pressed the attack. The Belly Ghost, now at its wit’s end and physically shattered, collapsed to the ground.

As it fell, it did so with uncanny timing; Song’s blade whistled past its head, missing by a hair’s breadth. Lying on the floor, the ghost gasped for breath, eyes half-lidded, and asked weakly, "Why be so absolute? Keeping me as a ghost-thrall would have served you well—a thrall as powerful as I am is a rare find in this world. I don't understand!"

"You don't understand? Fine, I'll tell you. You made a fatal mistake: you harmed my brother. For those who hurt my brother, there is only one outcome: death. I don't care who they are—god, man, demon, or ghost—whoever touches my brother, I will kill them!" With that, Song Nianqiang plunged his blade into the Belly Ghost’s head.

A rare smile touched the ghost’s face, appearing strangely detached in its final moments. "A word of advice: one day, don't let your own brother betray you, for that is how I died." As it spoke, its body slowly dissipated into smoke. Watching the vapor vanish, Song Nianqiang sighed softly, speaking as much to himself as to the departed spirit: "I am not you. That assumption will not hold true for me."

With a flash, Song Nianqiang’s second soul returned to his physical body. The mirror, having reached its limit, shattered into a pile of glass shards. "We're going to the hospital! Help me carry him!" After a quick scan of the room, Song instructed the young men.

Having witnessed his power, the young men now held Song in awe, treating him as if he were a celestial being. They obeyed his every word, scrambling to lift the heavy man and heading downstairs. Yet, just as Song crossed the threshold, a sudden jolt went through him; he sensed something.

"Take him to the hospital and find Bozi. I will follow shortly!" He sent the men away, locked the door behind him, and walked step by step toward Cui Xiaobo’s room.

A flash of red light illuminated the room, accompanied by a strange, rustling sound. To anyone else, it would be terrifying, but Song was seasoned in this trade. Back in school, he had tempered his nerves until they were iron; he viewed such anomalies simply as the work of restless spirits.

Pushing the door open, he discovered the red glow emanating from a plastic bottle. Curious, Song picked it up, but within a minute, he realized the object’s extraordinary nature.

This was a forbidden tool of the exorcism trade—a "Ghost-Capturing Vessel," a rare and powerful artifact. Its purpose was self-evident: it was designed to contain spirits. The fact that such a legendary item had appeared here, clearly holding a captive entity, was deeply unsettling.

Ordinary ghosts did not warrant the use of such a vessel; a simple talisman would suffice. The use of this artifact suggested the occupant was of an exceptionally high class. Tempted as he was to open it, Song restrained his curiosity.

Beside the vessel lay a white, spherical object. This was what he had sensed earlier. It was clearly not ordinary; the aura it exuded marked it as an object of great malice. Why would such a malevolent thing be here?

"I’ll have to ask Cui Xiaobo when he wakes up. This is far from simple." Song prepared to put the items away, but as his hand brushed the white sphere, he felt a sharp sting. He recoiled instinctively, finding a small cut on his finger.

Though the wound was shallow, he was startled to see the sphere absorb his blood, emitting a crimson radiance that eclipsed the glow of the Ghost-Capturing Vessel.

Placing the vessel on the bed, Song fixed his gaze on the sphere. As the red light intensified, a spirit emerged—one of a variety Song could not identify.

He stared blankly, his mind reeling. He had memorized the *Hundred Ghosts of China* cover to cover, and he was certain this entity was not recorded within. It was a supernatural anomaly.

He knew it was a ghost by the sheer density of the soul-force radiating from it. The entity seemed equally confused by its own state; it stood still, scanning its surroundings. When it twisted its neck a full 160 degrees, it locked eyes with Song Nianqiang.

"Eh?"

The entity seemed intrigued. It drifted toward Song, its large eyes wide, but stopped when Song stood his ground, blocking its path. He would not risk letting such an unknown entity get any closer.

"You possess soul-manipulation techniques? The great hero of that generation ascended long ago—how could his signature arts reappear?" The ghost seemed more shocked than curious. Unsure of Song’s background, it refrained from attacking, merely hovering in place and staring.

After three minutes, the ghost burst into sudden, raucous laughter. "So that’s it! That’s it! You look so much like him! If not for the fact that you haven't even achieved a triple-soul division, I would have thought he had returned! Hahaha!"

"Who is this 'great hero' you speak of? Tell me everything!" Song was desperate; the man the ghost spoke of might well be his father.

The ghost shook its head, still chuckling. "There is much you do not know. In that war, he stood alone, sword in hand, defying all who dared challenge him. He brought the arrogant beings of heaven and earth to their knees before departing at his own leisure. None knew where he went, though we suspect he ascended. Heh..."

The ghost laughed at itself, clearly disbelieving the ascension theory—a mere comfort they told themselves. "After he vanished, we all reached a silent consensus: never to speak his name again. To us, his name became a taboo."

"A taboo!" Song Nianqiang’s mouth hung open. This entity was powerful enough to kill him with a mere gesture, yet even it spoke of the man—likely his father—with such reverence and fear. What realm had his father truly reached?