Chapter Fifty-Three: The Dragon Raises the Ghostly Coffin

At that moment, there was nothing else I could do. I took out my grandfather’s Mountain Spirit Token, treating the desperate as a lifeline—hoping to frighten them off, perhaps it would serve some purpose.

“The Mountain Spirit of Old Boundary Ridge is here! How dare you act so insolently!” I shouted at them.

However, not only were these things unfazed, but they also let out a series of chilling, cackling cries that made my scalp crawl. Within those cries, I could sense a fury on the verge of erupting.

Not only had I failed to subdue them, but I had apparently enraged them further.

Sure enough, the next moment, they ceased their lurking and all lunged straight at me.

The scene was terrifying. I spun around and ran—what else could I do? Sitting still was no option. But I had barely taken a few steps when those shadowy figures, swift as lightning, surrounded me in an instant. One of the shadows slammed into my back with tremendous force, sending me flying across to the rocks on the opposite side, where I tumbled down.

I thought for sure such a blow would leave me dazed, perhaps even with a couple of broken ribs. Yet, though the impact was heavy, I was unscathed—not even a scratch, and the pain was bearable.

I didn’t have time to ponder this. I scrambled to my feet and stared at those creatures, realizing their forms resembled the legendary evil spirits—malicious ghosts said to be imprisoned in the eighteen layers of the underworld, each one hideous and terrifying. It was said that Lin Xiaofeng, with a single sword, once pierced all eighteen layers and released these very fiends, who then wrought havoc upon the underworld.

But since they were ghosts, they were creatures of yin.

Though I knew no Daoist arts, I had learned from my grandfather that blood from the tongue or fingertip, imbued with yang energy, could counter yin. Just a moment ago, I had used my fingertip blood to write on those stone tablets and break their seals, so clearly, my blood held some power.

My fingertip was still bleeding. Before the next evil spirit could charge, I smeared some blood haphazardly across my palm.

As it lunged at me, I rolled aside, ducking behind a rock. Holding my breath, I struck from behind, slapping my blood-stained palm onto the back of the spirit’s head.

The effect was immediate and unmistakable. With a sizzle and a puff of white smoke, the spirit let out a wretched scream and was hurled away.

It had no time to retreat into the shadows; white smoke poured from its body as it dissolved into a pool of pus and blood.

My grandfather always said: People fear ghosts a little, but ghosts fear people even more. If you show fear, the ghosts will torment you. To drive them away isn’t difficult—first, you must not be afraid. Even if you are, you must act as if you aren’t; you must overwhelm them with your presence. That’s why, when my grandfather helped people with hauntings, he rarely needed to act—just a few fierce shouts were enough to subdue the spirits and resolve the matter.

My accidental move a moment ago had given me the upper hand, intimidating the evil spirits. I knew I had to seize the momentum, to raise my own aura even higher.

Without hesitation, I stood up and glared at the spirits.

They were eager yet hesitant—none dared approach.

Seizing the moment, I shouted, “Any others wish to try? I intended to spare you, but you know not your place. Very well! I, too, could use a little exercise. If you have grievances, come forth! I will face you all, and see you scattered to the winds!”

My voice echoed through the valley. I believed it truly carried authority.

It seemed to work. The evil spirits fixed their gaze upon me, but not one moved. After half a minute, they scurried away, tumbling over themselves in their haste, retreating back into their mysterious mounds.

Only then did I let out a long breath of relief. I had managed to cow them, but it was a close call. If they had all attacked at once, there were so many of them—even if I used all my blood, it would not have been enough.

Yet, after the evil spirits fled, I began to sense that something was wrong.

I could feel it distinctly—the aura of yin behind me was overwhelming. The cold wind slithered around me like icy serpents crawling over my skin.

I turned to look. The earth trembled.

Cracks split the mountain rock. I leapt away to distance myself. Thick black mists poured from the fissures, and in moments, a massive claw tore open the rock. Suddenly, a deafening roar erupted from underground, making my hair stand on end.

The collapse continued. In less than half a minute, the entire ancient tomb island sank into the river. With nowhere to stand, I plunged into the River of Forgetfulness. But nearby, I spotted the old ferryman. He waved to me, and I immediately swam over. He hauled me onto the black-sailed boat.

When I looked back, the ancient tomb island had vanished.

“How did this happen?” I stared in disbelief at the sunken island. What was that giant claw that emerged from the cliff? With the island gone, does that mean the legendary tomb is lost forever?

But the old ferryman fixed his gaze on me. “You fell into the River of Forgetfulness—have you lost anything?”

His question startled me. I shook my head, feeling no different. But he said, when a living person falls into the River of Forgetfulness, something is always left behind. "Check carefully—have you lost anything?"

I searched myself, and my heart sank.

I realized the Mountain Spirit Token was gone. It must have been lost when I fell into the water. Without it, my grandfather could not be saved. In that moment, I prepared to plunge into the river to retrieve it.

But the old ferryman grabbed me. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t lose my grandfather—he’s my only family!” I said.

Yet just as I tried to break free, the old ferryman suddenly knelt before me. I was stunned, trying to help him up, but he would not rise.

“Sir, what are you doing?” I asked.

“As the saying goes, when the water rises, the stone sinks; when the water falls, the stone appears. Now that the ancient tomb island has sunk, it will rise again when the waters recede. When that happens, the Ghost Coffin borne by the Dragon’s Sixth Son will reappear.” The old ferryman spoke solemnly, and then continued, “Leave the Mountain Spirit Token to me. Take this black-sailed boat and seek the Ghost Coffin!”

Without waiting for me to object, the old man leapt into the River of Forgetfulness.

To enter the river is to lose something. Now, the old ferryman seemed to be nothing but soul; he had nothing left to lose. If he entered the river for my sake, searching for the Mountain Spirit Token, wouldn’t he be doomed to scatter his soul entirely?

“Sir!” I called after him, but there was no reply.

He swam swiftly into the depths of the river. I sighed, helpless, and picked up the oar, rowing the boat toward where the ancient tomb island had disappeared.

Would the fall of the waters reveal the Ghost Coffin, borne by the Dragon’s Sixth Son?

I stopped rowing and sat at the bow, waiting. From time to time, I glanced at the river around me, hoping the old man still had something left to lose—hoping his soul would return to the boat.

But all around was calm.

He never returned.

Just then, not far away where the tomb island had sunk, the yellow waves began to churn. I grasped the oar to steady the boat.

The blood-colored water surged, and at last, a massive coffin, black and gold entwined, rose from the riverbed. Water cascaded down its sides like a waterfall. Beneath the coffin was a giant dragon-headed turtle bearing the load. Remembering the old ferryman’s words, I realized this was not a turtle but Bixi, the sixth son of the dragon, also known as Baxia.

With a dragon’s roar, Bixi sent waves crashing.

I steadied the boat and rowed toward the great coffin. As I drew near, I saw a figure in black robes standing atop the coffin.

He faced away from me, his long black hair streaming behind him.

Who was he?

As I wondered, a voice suddenly echoed in my mind.

“You’ve come?” The voice sounded just like my own, leaving me bewildered.

“Yes,” I replied.

“In that case, follow me.” He spoke again. I could sense it was the one atop the coffin addressing me. In a daze, I saw him—he was suddenly standing before me, his back to me, beckoning me to follow.

I trailed after him, and in a trance, found myself ascending a staircase of blue stone steps.

At the end of the steps stood a majestic grand master’s chair, carved with a massive character for “ghost.” On either side, the dragon-engraved stone pillars bore the inscription: “All beings walk the ghostly path, teaching without discrimination.”

“As long as you sit there, you will become me,” said the black-robed figure. He stood opposite me, but I could not make out his face. His voice, however, was identical to mine.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“You will know, but not yet. Did you not come from the world of the living in search of the last chance of the Dharma-ending age? This is the opportunity you seek. Sit, and you will become me—all shall be yours,” he said.

“Is this inside the coffin?” I asked, unable to understand how I had gone from the boat to this cavern-like place.

“Of course, this is within the Ghost Coffin,” he answered.

Since this was the opportunity I sought, what reason had I to hesitate? I looked up and began climbing toward the grand chair.

With each step, the stair behind me collapsed.

There was no turning back.