Chapter Fourteen: The Divine Thunder Talisman (Part One)

“If the general’s tomb had not been unearthed, the Soul-Summoning Vessel would never have appeared in this world,” the tall, gaunt man spat out furiously.

“Yes, yes, it was our ignorance, our blundering that caused this calamity,” Han Shizhong replied, his heart heavy with dread. He feared that if the tall man lost his temper, he would end up a ghost beneath his hand—he had long heard tales of the man’s cruel methods.

Before the tall man could respond, a sudden cold wind swept through, whipping up dust and stones in the forest, forcing everyone to squint against the flying debris. A chilling aura of ghosts seeped into every corner, making even the bravest shudder.

Suddenly, a strange sound echoed from above, ghostly and mournful, like weeping and wailing. A sinister laugh, chilling and sharp, rang out: “Ha, ha, ha! Very good. The Soul-Summoning Vessel is now in my grasp. For all your lifelong cunning, you’re blinded at this crucial moment. Let my Grand Array of a Hundred Ghosts refining souls entertain you well.”

“You old wretch! Do you take yourself for the King of Hell, commanding a ‘Grand Array of a Hundred Ghosts’? Don’t make me laugh!” The tall man, hearing this, could only sneer in anger, cursing back.

Han Shizhong and Scarface exchanged glances, both recognizing that the power now contending was far beyond the reach of pawns like themselves. In this moment, Han Shizhong saw the truth: the mystery unravelled at last. He and his followers, who had dug up the general’s tomb and discovered the Soul-Summoning Vessel, had unwittingly become pawns in someone else’s game, their lives wasted for another’s gain. The Soul-Summoning Vessel was indeed the true source of disaster.

But before Han Shizhong could dwell further, the world around him changed. Dense ghostly mist suddenly enveloped the entire space. The air was filled with relentless shrieks and wails, pounding against their ears. The mist thickened, gradually taking shape into hideous spirits, their faces twisted with malice, encircling them and slashing with their ghostly claws.

“The old fiend’s ghost-commanding arts have improved yet again,” the tall man muttered, his earlier irritation replaced by grim focus as he faced the encroaching mists.

Han Shizhong and Scarface scarcely had time to grasp the situation before they felt a sudden grip at their feet. Looking down, they saw countless ghostly hands clawing up from the earth, seizing their ankles in an icy grip.

Startled, they hacked at the hands with their steel blades, but the weapons simply passed through the ghosts, dispersing the misty forms that almost instantly reformed into new hands, tearing at their legs. A moment’s negligence, and the claws would pierce flesh, rending strips from their bodies.

The tall man’s palms moved in a blur, unleashing the Five Thunders Palm in a barrage that obliterated ghost after ghost as easily as chopping vegetables; the spirits dissipated before they could even approach him. At first glance, it seemed he had the upper hand, continually destroying the ghosts. But the dispersed mist only reformed, spawning new spirits in an endless cycle.

Not even his profound cultivation could withstand such ceaseless attrition forever. He knew this well. Though at first he expended little effort to disperse the ghosts, he gradually sensed a change. The mist condensed ever more quickly; it took greater and greater strength to shatter it—ten percent, twenty, thirty percent of his power, and still the ghosts grew fiercer and harder to overcome.

Such an array, the Grand Array of a Hundred Ghosts Refining Souls, drew its might from living souls—refined in the Netherworld Fire, guided by the world’s yin energy, with ancient underworld artifacts as its crucible. The more living souls it seized, the greater its power. Only the most formidable masters of the ghostly arts could attempt its forging; lesser practitioners would be devoured alive by the very ghosts they sought to command.

Though this array might not rival the legendary formations of antiquity, it was nonetheless of the highest order. Its creator could not be an ordinary cultivator.

The tall man had no inkling that the shadowy specter had already stolen the Soul-Summoning Vessel and set up this ghostly snare. From the start, the hidden foe had used Han Shizhong and his men as bait, having them excavate the tomb to dispel the heroic aura and break the seals. By setting them at each other’s throats, he cleared the way to steal the vessel. He had even allowed them to become walking corpses, luring the tall man into the trap, then activated the array to annihilate everyone within. The cunning and cruelty of this plan were rare in the world.

Han Shizhong, though a wily old fox himself, could only resign himself to fate. With such overwhelming power arrayed against him, there was no breaking free—he was just another pawn on the board.

The scheme was a masterpiece of layered deception, feinting with open moves while striking from the shadows. Even someone as formidable as the Bloodrobed Wraith would struggle to escape once ensnared.

Han Shizhong and Scarface were hard-pressed to defend themselves. Their bodies, battered and exhausted from previous battles, were barely holding together. Now, faced with the monstrous array, it was only a matter of time before their three souls and seven spirits were torn from their flesh, joining the ranks of the tormented within the hundred ghosts.

The tall man’s expression was icy, his blood-red robe snapping in the ghostly wind. His movements grew ever swifter, the friction of his palms heating the air and drawing moisture from his skin, shrouding him in a faint mist like a vaporous silhouette.

If the array continued another quarter of an hour, it would reach its peak, devouring the living and refining their flesh and souls.

Just then, the tall man’s aura surged to its utmost. With both palms, he unleashed a colossal shadow that shattered the ghostly mist in an instant. Not giving the mist a chance to reform, he swiftly crossed and locked his forefingers, forming a complex mudra, and shouted: “By the authority of the immortal mandate, with the Three Pure Ones above, your disciple dares to summon the might of Heaven. Essence and spirit as one, let me commune with the truth. Heaven’s thunder rolls, destroy evil and exorcise spirits, the Dao endures forever!”

With that, he thrust his mudra forward and hurled a lustrous white jade talisman, half the size of a palm, from his robes. A blinding yellow light blazed at his feet as a great diagram of the Eight Trigrams slowly rotated across the ground, the earth itself trembling and splitting under the force.

The tall man, now fused with the energy of heaven and earth, stood upright and severe, his blood-red robe shining with a golden halo. At a glance, he seemed a deity descended to earth.

“That…that’s the Divine Thunder Talisman!” Han Shizhong stared in shock, his jaw agape. Recalling the ancient legends, he could hardly believe what he saw. The talisman was spoken of only in myth—an ultimate secret of thunder magic, the pinnacle of every Daoist school’s esoteric arts.

In these recent times, Daoist sects had withered. The world’s spiritual energy was depleted, the path of innate cultivation all but severed, and inheritors were scarce. Never had he heard of anyone perfecting such a technique. What he now witnessed overturned everything he knew, as if he were trapped in a dream from which he could not awaken. He muttered, “He actually mastered the Divine Thunder Talisman. His cultivation is truly unfathomable. There can be few in this world who surpass him.”