Chapter Seventy-Five: The Ghost-Binding Rope

This grand hall was arranged much like any ordinary European castle: a vast long table, an enormous chandelier suspended from the ceiling, surrounded by towering windows with their curtains drawn tightly shut. Upon the table stood a row of red candles, their crimson flames rising straight upward, utterly without flicker. At either end of the table rested a set of knife and fork, as though the master of the house were awaiting a most distinguished guest.

Approaching the long table, Song Nianqiang circled it once. Raising his gaze, he noticed something distinctly different from a European castle: a blood-soaked rope hung suspended in midair, with fresh blood dripping steadily from it, drop by drop. Song Nianqiang could be certain this was genuine blood, though whether it was human, he could not say.

Looking up at the rope, Song Nianqiang suddenly sensed a peculiar shift in his surroundings; a shadowy, oppressive aura rapidly spread throughout the castle. Shivering involuntarily, he silently began to recite the Buddhist "Great Compassion Mantra" in his heart. Their lineage did not distinguish between sects—anything that aided in ghost-hunting, they would employ.

Abruptly, the bloodstained rope hanging in midair began to move, resembling a skinned serpent darting swiftly toward Song Nianqiang. Yet Song Nianqiang stood his ground, employing the only ghost-hunting tool the old man had entrusted to him. Stepping firmly into a T-shaped stance, he extended his right index finger, then his left index and middle fingers, overlapping his right hand behind his left—forming a gesture much like three incense sticks.

The blood-soaked rope seemed to fear this gesture, circling around Song Nianqiang, hesitating to attack. Song Nianqiang knew that some ghost must be controlling the rope, for it could not move on its own. Closing his eyes, he attuned himself to the shifting currents of air; wherever a ghost was present, the yin energy would be high, especially in the presence of a powerful spirit.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes wide, and with a single word expelled from his lips, "Zha!" With that word, Song Nianqiang unleashed a thunderous strike. A wretched, inhuman scream echoed through the hall, and Song Nianqiang quickly activated his ghost-seeing eyes. What he saw startled him.

"A Hair Ghost! How could such a high-level spirit appear in this illusion?" Song Nianqiang was astonished; the skill of a Flayed Ghost would never suffice to command a Hair Ghost. The Flayed Ghost was only the pinnacle of the second class of spirits—far from the highest. There were many spirits more powerful, and the Hair Ghost was among them.

But Song Nianqiang was mistaken. This Hair Ghost was merely a shadow conjured by the Flayed Ghost after glimpsing a real Hair Ghost in the wilderness; its power was worlds apart from a true Hair Ghost. Yet Song Nianqiang had no way of knowing this—there were precious few records about Hair Ghosts in books. For now, Song Nianqiang decided he must first gauge the Hair Ghost's strength before proceeding.

That thunder strike had been his full-force attack, but to his surprise, it only scorched the Hair Ghost's fur black, failing to harm it fundamentally. Evidently, the Hair Ghost was no ordinary entity.

"Ah!" The Hair Ghost cried out in pain, baring two sharp fangs. At that moment, it appeared a fusion of western vampire and werewolf—its pointed teeth gleaming with cold, and its red eyes locked on Song Nianqiang, while its third eye had mysteriously closed.

"Hair Ghost—interesting!" Rather than fear, Song Nianqiang felt a faint excitement upon seeing the spirit, his blood surging with a sense of exhilaration.

The Hair Ghost, however, wasted no time on conversation. Dropping to all fours, it leapt nearly four meters high—luckily, the castle’s ceiling was lofty, or Song Nianqiang might have worried it would strike the roof.

"Thunder Strike!" Song Nianqiang retreated a few steps, calmly uttering the incantation. Instantly, a bolt of blue lightning, thick as a thigh, materialized and struck the Hair Ghost atop its head. The spirit wavered in midair, yet continued to lunge at Song Nianqiang. As it drew closer, Song Nianqiang's expression shifted; forming hand seals, he invoked the intermediate Taoist art—True Samadhi Fire.

Its colors defied description, but as soon as the True Samadhi Fire appeared, the Hair Ghost seemed to encounter something it deeply feared, swiftly veering away. Fortunately, it was a ghost—had it been a person, it would have been grievously wounded.

But Song Nianqiang’s current skill could not sustain the fire for long; after only a few seconds, it vanished. Still, Song Nianqiang had discerned the Hair Ghost’s limits: basic Taoist arts were insufficient to harm it; only intermediate or advanced techniques would suffice.

The bloodstained rope silently crept behind Song Nianqiang, looping itself around his neck in an attempt to strangle him. Yet Song Nianqiang remained oblivious. As the rope passed in front of his throat, it brushed over the pendant he wore. Instantly, the rope drooped, lifeless, as if a lamb had encountered a pride of lions.

Feeling the rope drop, Song Nianqiang looked down and discovered it had somehow wound itself around him. Relieved to be safe, he picked up the rope for inspection; though the blood seemed freshly applied, not a trace stained his hand.

"This must be an ill omen!" Song Nianqiang had concluded as much from the start. He pulled from his pocket the only talisman Fatty had given him, muttered an incantation, and with a wave set it alight, igniting the bloodstained rope.

Fortunately, no elders of the ghost-hunting world were present; had they seen Song Nianqiang burn that rope, they would surely have cursed him as a wastrel. That rope was the legendary Ghost-Binding Cord, used to restrain spirits. Since it had not yet recognized a master, if it had, one could have thrown it at any high-level ghost, and it would bind the spirit tight and bring it back.

Though this was merely an illusion, who could say if the rope truly belonged to the Flayed Ghost? The Ghost-Binding Cord had vanished for centuries, known only through ancient texts; it was understandable the Flayed Ghost would not recognize it.

Seeing his last trump card burned, the Hair Ghost immediately drifted down a shadowy corridor, vanishing in the blink of an eye. Song Nianqiang was curious about the illusion created by the Flayed Ghost, though he did not know if the Flayed Ghost occupied the same illusion as him. If so, things could get interesting.

Arriving at the castle’s entrance, Song Nianqiang wished to see just how powerful the Flayed Ghost’s illusion might be. But when he opened the door, he found nothing but pitch blackness outside, as if the world itself had been erased.

"It seems the illusion conjured by the Flayed Ghost is not boundless as the texts claim. I’ll have to inform the school and ask them to revise the curriculum—this misleads the students!" In truth, Song Nianqiang did not realize that any student who entered the ghost-hunting college was no longer an ordinary human. Most people would never encounter a ghost in their entire lives, whereas these students dealt with spirits daily.

"Hair Ghost, since your strength ends here, I won’t hesitate to deal with you and find a way out of this illusion!" Song Nianqiang was concerned for the others, so he had to act quickly to find a way to free them as well.

Yet as he prepared to head down the corridor, the paintings on the walls suddenly came alive: one after another, bewitchingly beautiful women with seductive figures glided gracefully toward him. Fortunately, Song Nianqiang possessed strong resolve; otherwise, he might well have fallen prey to these female spirits.

Now able to split his soul in two, Song Nianqiang was immune to their temptations. Smiling faintly, he stepped forward, executing the Nine Phoenix Formation from Maoshan Taoist arts and forming the thunder seals with his hands as he strode boldly toward the spirits.