As Zhou Yan’s consciousness descended, the portrait of Butcher Zhao on the jade suddenly began to blur and spread, like water splashed onto a freshly painted ink wash—the ink traces scattered instantly.
The diffusing ink flowed and fell into the deeper recesses of Zhou Yan’s consciousness, transforming into characters that formed a story.
—
Zhao Man was a butcher.
Since ancient times, those who could make a living as butchers in villages and towns never fared poorly. Zhao Man was no exception—his family owned several courtyards, his granaries were full of grain, and in his dealings with others, he conducted business with utmost fairness and principle.
The local ruffians and layabouts who gravitated toward him all called him “Master Zhao of the Town.”
Zhao Man would wave his hands repeatedly, hastily refusing such titles, continuing to conduct his business with a cheerful smile. Having lost his father in his youth, his gentle disposition was entirely due to his mother’s upbringing.
His mother had given him the abacus she used in her younger days, reminding him that in all his dealings, he must be fair and honest. He remembered clearly and kept this abacus tied to his waist.
Later, when the Sage Emperor launched his campaigns against Goguryeo, suffering defeat after defeat, and then undertook the construction of the Grand Canal, wave after wave of taxes descended. The common folk in the town found their homes swept clean as if sifted through a sieve, with little left behind.
Zhao Man took out his own grain to save lives, and gave up several of his rooms to shelter the poor souls whose homes had been destroyed by the imperial soldiers.
Everyone was grateful to him, and they all began calling him Master Zhao of the Town.
But his grain stores would inevitably run empty. Gradually, when Master Zhao’s grain was exhausted, he became “Zhao the Brute” again, though everyone still got along peacefully enough.
In subsequent disasters and military campaigns, the townspeople felt no fear—they would simply go to Zhao the Brute’s house to eat and drink. Zhao Man kept aside his mother’s emergency rations, doing his utmost to help these unfortunate souls.
But the grain wasn’t enough to feed everyone, so they all went hungry together.
One day, Zhao the Brute went out to cut wood to make his mother a new chair. The starving people, thinking that Zhao the Brute must have saved grain for his mother, went to search for it. They found nothing, but their hunger was unbearable.
They were hungry and displeased—because this time, Zhao the Brute had failed to satisfy them.
They saw the old woman who had raised Zhao the Brute, sitting in her chair.
Suddenly, someone spoke in a ghostly whisper:
“Isn’t there still a sheep for slaughter in Butcher Zhao’s house?”
—
When Butcher Zhao returned, he saw the townspeople enthusiastically cooking meat. For some reason, their eyes seemed slightly red—probably from the heat of the fire, Zhao Man thought. After laboring all day, he only wanted his mother to sit comfortably.
One of the townspeople insisted he eat a piece of meat.
Unable to refuse, he took a large bite. As he swallowed, he thought to himself how long it had been since he’d tasted meat—it was truly fragrant. The taste of that meat would haunt him for the rest of his days. While eating, he walked inside to call for his mother.
Where was his mother to be found?
Only scattered white bones remained, all gnawed and broken by wild dogs. Zhao the Brute dropped the chair from his hands—such solid craftsmanship that even when dropped, it stood steady. Behind him, the fire burned brightly.
The people were still cooking and eating meat, their eyes red, bellies swollen, laughing as they asked him:
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“Zhao the Brute, isn’t this meat fragrant?”
—
Zhou Yan pressed his hand against his brow, feeling those characters… or rather, the most vivid and unforgettable impressions from Butcher Zhao’s soul. He realized something: before becoming a monster, or while still alive, Butcher Zhao had been a good man.
A good man who saved others, only to reap evil consequences.
His last living relative was consumed by the very people he had rescued.
After that came a haze of murky memories. The butcher took up two pig-slaughtering knives and cut down every soul in the town, young and old alike, standing amid pools of blood, wailing and crying.
Now he truly was Master Zhao of the Town.
But he was also near death. When the people fought back against him, he sustained grievous injuries. Clutching the abacus his mother had given him, his blood staining the abacus cord red, he crawled to the pile of his mother’s white bones, still calling for her.
He heard footsteps approaching from behind, then a gentle voice inquiring: [“What an interesting monster. How about it—would you like to make a deal with this humble one?”]
The residual textual memories in his soul scattered and reformed, becoming mystical patterns. Zhou Yan guessed that afterward, Butcher Zhao must have encountered the Master of Qingming Workshop, eventually becoming her subordinate.
Trading in human flesh for her, slaughtering innocents—his circumstances were pitiable, but his crimes were unforgivable.
Zhou Yan also sensed the power of this jade册—by slaying named monsters bearing karmic burden, he could annihilate their souls, transform them into mystical powers, and seal them within this jade册 for his use.
Zhao Man was a high-ranking Great Influence Ghost among hungry ghosts, not a simple monster fallen due to personal desires. His power far exceeded that of lesser demons.
Zhou Yan tentatively tried to sense the abilities, experimenting for some time.
He gradually understood the various powers of this Great Influence Ghost.
Without needing magical power, he could see all food and items containing vital energy with his naked eyes.
He possessed the innate magical ability to devour all kinds of food. To put it bluntly, he could consume even guanyin clay and use it like digestive tablets.
As a hungry ghost, he could swallow various things and convert them to vital energy, but this energy would flow out through his seven orifices, making him even hungrier. Thus, hungry ghosts constantly ate but were never satisfied.
But Zhou Yan was human, so this vital energy wouldn’t flow out of him.
There was also a magical technique:
“Karmic Flames of Hunger.”
“By channeling magical power, one can make opponents feel intense physiological hunger.”
Zhou Yan opened his eyes. This jade talisman seemed to contain other mystical powers, but Zhou Yan appeared to lack something essential, so he could only use this technique. What he lacked was probably what they called magical power—dao cultivation.
Zhou Yan clenched his fist, muttering to himself:
“No mana bar?”
When surfing the internet before, netizens always warned against carelessly forming Daoist hand seals, saying: “With mana, it costs mana; without mana, it costs health.”
With magical power, you consume magical power; without magical power, you burn life force.
This was probably the current situation.
Zhou Yan lowered his hand, curious. The jade册 displayed the hungry ghost page, with Zhao Man’s portrait blurred and distorted. Between Zhou Yan’s two fingers appeared a jade-quality talisman, its surface completely illegible.
Zhou Yan had a feeling that only he could see this jade talisman.
With minimal force from his fingers, the jade talisman scattered and merged into Zhou Yan’s body. He felt his strength and stamina improve somewhat, his sense of smell enhanced, though he bore no demonic aura.
“Doesn’t seem like much… probably because I lack magical power and dao cultivation… Hisss!!!”
In the next moment, an intense wave of hunger surged through him.
Zhou Yan nearly collapsed on the spot.
“Damn… so hungry…”
Zhou Yan’s face paled. He hadn’t eaten anything all day yesterday, had nearly been force-fed laxatives by a demon, and now with the hungry ghost jade talisman’s power affecting his body, he almost devoured himself. His gaze swept over the black horse, which sensing something, nervously shuffled its hooves.
“No, no, I need to find something to eat.”
Zhou Yan clutched his stomach, his gaze sweeping the surroundings. When he’d looked before, he’d seen only wilderness, but now it appeared to his eyes like a buffet—everything glowed faintly with the light of edible vital energy.
I need to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat!
—
Shen Cangming slept deeply.
In his dreams, he seemed to return to Xingxiu River, back with the General and the others, seeing the banners of the Great Tang as they fought battle after battle, repelling wave after wave of Tibetan invasions with the clash of swords and sabers.
After the battles, sitting on the earthen walls, the General would remove his helmet, sit cross-legged, and play the huqin, his fingers moving like flying birds while singing the magnificent melodies of the Great Tang.
Shen Cangming would lie with arms spread wide, listening to his comrades’ songs and some brothers’ groans of pain. The joy of victory and the feeling of survival all transformed into his laughter.
“Once again, we have defended the Great Tang’s borders.”
The dream scenes shifted to a great hall, where a tall figure ahead—face unclear—pointed at him and the General, roaring angrily: “Mere commoners by birth, reaching sixth rank is already generous. You’re just border garrison soldiers…”
“Military achievements?”
“Without our strategic planning, how could you achieve anything on the front lines? With your lives alone?”
“And you want to contend with the Five Surnames and Seven Clans?!”
The lanterns around them blazed too brightly, the cloud patterns on that person’s robes too deep, the hall too vast. Shen Cangming couldn’t see the man’s face clearly, only felt him growing taller and more imposing while the General—so commanding on the battlefield—grew increasingly silent.
The General died of melancholy and frustration; another Great General also perished suddenly.
The border troops’ treatment worsened progressively.
He wanted justice.
Chang’an was too far from the borders; news couldn’t reach there.
The jiedushi personally appointed by His Majesty said that treacherous ministers in the court were oppressing the border soldiers.
With hearts full of desire to save the Great Tang, they reached Chang’an. Shen Cangming personally led the charge, until that bare-chested General wielding a modao who blocked their path to Chang’an called them “rebels”—finally revealing the truth he’d been avoiding in his heart, revealing that resentment and unwillingness. In that moment of confusion, he lost his composure.
The General struck him directly in the chest with his blade.
Though he didn’t die, he’d lost his will to fight. His life was spared, but he remained in a daze, unable to recover. Now in this dream, he remembered those years of great celebration after victories with the General.
In those days, he would lie there looking at the Great Tang dragon banner that forever stood upon the earth.
The General had said:
“Lad, well done.”
“We’ve protected this dragon banner again, protected the Central Plains…”
But somehow, his heart ached terribly.
Great Tang, oh Great Tang…
A tear flowed from Shen Cangming’s right eye as he awakened from his dream.
His resolve to die remained firm. He planned to escort the boy to safety, then return to the demon market to fight the Workshop Master to the death. Even if it cost him his life, he couldn’t let the fierce spirit of the Central Plains be diminished.
Because of his tears, his vision was inevitably blurred. Against the ink-blue sky and the gloomy forest and world, he saw the young man tending something by the campfire. Turning toward him, the youth’s expression was gentle and warm.
Then, smiling, he extended his hand:
“Uncle Shen, you’re awake?”
