Zhang Yuanqing suddenly didn’t want to stay in the main hall anymore.
He felt utterly isolated, as if calling upon heaven and earth would go unanswered—like someone trapped between two worlds with no one to respond.
The place was extremely dangerous, yet he couldn't reach out for help beyond his own strength.
After much hesitation, he bit his teeth and straightened up, pulling the skeleton wrapped in a work uniform from beneath him.
Crack—
As he pulled, the protective clothing tore easily; over the years, it had long since rotted away.
He dragged the body to the candlelight and began inspecting it carefully.
Though the person was dead, the body still spoke—not through words but through signs. Understanding the cause of death would help him avoid many future dangers.
“The ribs and sternum are broken in several places, with fine cracks on the right shoulder—but not severe…”
The deceased had suffered significant trauma during life; however, due to how long ago this happened, the precise cause of death remained unclear.
Then, Zhang Yuanqing found a few yellowed, brittle sheets of paper tucked inside the pocket of an elder worker—quite old now.
Written in regular script in small, cramped handwriting.
Zhang Yuanqing was delighted—the paper clearly belonged to the elder, offering valuable insight into this ancient temple’s history.
With candlelight guiding him, he focused on reading the content carefully:
“Last night another junior brother went missing—this is now the third such incident among our fellow disciples. The younger brothers say that San Dao Mountain has been haunted or that a high-ranking spirit or fairy has come each night to seize and devour people. Yet our temple’s disciples are all well-trained, and Master Teacher holds an esteemed reputation across a hundred-mile radius as a true master. How could any such spirit dare come here for sustenance?”
“Regarding ghosts and spirits, my ground-level sealing and summoning sigils are sufficient—there's no need to involve the Master Teacher. I have a growing sense of unease—I must speak with Brother Xiang to discuss further…”
“Today another person has gone missing—this brings us to five total. The Master Teacher has asked that we keep this quiet from the visitors, for otherwise it might disrupt our temple’s prosperity. He surely knows something. We intend to patrol at night.”
“Three days have passed. Three more people have vanished during this time—but I and Brother Xiang haven’t noticed any anomalies. The nights remain calm and serene. My growing sense of unease deepens…”
“Brother Xiang has been acting strangely today—something seems to have surfaced, and he appears very angry. When I asked him what it was, he wouldn’t share the details. His mood is clearly distressed—I will ask again tomorrow.”
“The person who went missing today…is Brother Xiang himself. I’ve searched every corner of San Dao Mountain and cannot find him anywhere. I can't bear this anymore—I must go seek the Master Teacher to understand what’s happening. The other disciples are also frightened, and they support my decision.”
The handwriting is somewhat messy—indicating that the note-taker has clearly been emotionally overwhelmed.
Zhang Yuanqing continued reading further:
“After pressing for answers, Master finally agreed to reveal the truth—the feeling I had was correct—he indeed knows the reason behind the mysterious disappearances of the junior disciples. But he explained that during the day it’s noisy with many visitors and voices; after sunset, he comes to my room to share a major secret—one that spans thousands of years.”
“After dinner, I waited in my room every evening, anticipating dusk—since someone went missing at night, I’ve never looked forward to twilight so much…”
That concludes the paper’s account.
Missing? This fragmented narrative is deeply unsettling. Zhang Yuanqing sighed with a pained expression.
He organized the information: over one period of time, disciples from this temple have been disappearing one after another in mysterious ways.
They are helpless and panicked—yet the temple’s caretaker—their Master Teacher—is aware of the cause.
This cause ties into a profound secret spanning thousands of years.
“Is it possible that uncovering the reason behind the temple's decline could complete the second main quest?” Zhang Yuanqing speculated.
He placed the brittle sheets back inside the work uniform, pushed the body gently under the table—offering an elegant solution to keep things clean—and then began pondering his next steps.
“There’s only so much information available in the main hall. Since I must explore this ancient temple, I must step outside and confront its dangers directly.”
“In the tales of She Ling Tunnel, one worker survived. By following that path, perhaps I can discover how to survive here as well.”
After careful reflection, Zhang Yuanqing walked toward the main hall’s entrance and opened two well-preserved lattice doors.
Creak—
The wooden hinges emitted a sound so harsh it made his teeth ache.
He propped himself against the door frame, peering around, searching for any sign of danger. Outside, silence reigned—the scene was somewhat desolate and eerie—but no immediate threat emerged.
After observing for a moment, he stepped out and began walking along the stone path to the left side of the main hall toward the temple’s back courtyard.
Moonlight flowed like water; the grasses swayed gently. After one or two minutes’ walk, a cluster of buildings came into view.
These were several connected single-story structures forming a large Si-Hé-Yuán—black tiled roofs with white walls and straight gable ends, featuring latticed windows and doors beneath.
The lattice doors appeared grayish, some open, others closed or even overturned; the paper used to seal the windows had long since worn thin and frayed.
Moonlight shimmered like frost laid upon the earth. He scanned the layout of the temple’s back courtyard under its glow.
In addition to this large Si-Hé-Yuán on the west side, there was an arched gate to the east—reminiscent of the traditional ancestral homes seen in dramas, connecting different sections of the estate.
Adjacent to that section stood a towering tree, lush and full of dense branches, its limbs intertwined with vigor.
“Huh…”
In this grassy, overgrown courtyard, he discovered several skeletons wrapped in work uniforms.
Carefully approaching each one, he inspected them thoroughly—each displayed severe damage: the protective clothing had torn away, revealing rib fragments. But unlike the body from the main hall, these skeletons’ shoulder bones remained intact with no cracks.
“These people must have endured terrible injuries before death.”
A breeze blew through—the leaves rustled softly, and faintly beneath that sound, Zhang Yuanqing heard a soft, weeping murmuring:
“Help! Help!”
In this quiet, abandoned night, a cold sweat beaded on Zhang Yuanqing’s back.
He stood rigid in place for several moments—then the wind ceased, and the lamenting whispers faded away with it.
The adjacent building seems to hold some danger—but so far, nothing has moved from within. He exhaled softly, stepping through the grass toward the roof overhang, ready to explore this Si-Hé-Yuán.
It appears to be where temple disciples live—filled with dusty furniture piled in disorder, and a faint scent of decay permeating the air.
Zhang Yuanqing explored each room thoroughly; no remarkable discoveries emerged until he reached the easternmost lattice door.
“Creak…”
After decades of being sealed away, this doorway finally opened again. Dust cascaded down as Zhang Yuanqing brushed it from his shoulders. With cautious eyes, he scanned every corner of the room.
At a window-facing position near the wall stood one body—slightly tilted and leaning against the wall. From its attire and the rolled-up miner’s hat visible, it was another elder.
Crossing over the threshold into the room, Zhang Yuanqing felt a sudden chill.
“It feels colder…”
He stepped closer to the body, loosened the torn garments, and examined the skeletal condition—this time, he found no broken bones; the skeleton was remarkably preserved.
Yet when his gaze settled on the shoulder bone, his eyes widened—he noticed an extensive crack pattern on this particular skeleton.
This matched the fine cracks observed in the main hall’s body, though the damage here appeared more severe.
“Is it a coincidence that only these two skeletons—main hall and this one—exhibit shoulder fractures?” he murmured, uncertain.
Then, Zhang Yuanqing noticed the deceased’s trousers were swollen with something tucked inside.
He reached in to pull them out—revealing an ancient, yellowed volume, a dull gray copper mirror, and a yellowed paper sigil.
The paper sigil featured wavy, distorted patterns drawn in vermilion ink—resembling sigils that coalesced into a stylized character resembling the traditional Chinese character for “body” or “corpse.”
As Zhang Yuanqing examined the yellowed sigil, a blue glow appeared before him:
[Name: Sealing Sigil of the Dead]
[Type: Consumable]
[Function: Calms and stabilizes the deceased.]
[Description: A powerful sigil crafted by the Night Wandering Deity to counter all types of corpse-based spirits. When affixed to a spirit’s forehead, it seals them effectively.]
[Note: It can only be used once.]
This glowing information resembled his personal attribute panel—clearly a prompt issued by the Spirit Realm.
Zhang Yuanqing had never seen such a display since entering this mysterious temple.
“This appears to be an important item,” he said, folding it neatly and placing it in his tactical jacket’s pocket. Then, he re-opened the zipper.
He recalled a scene from a wuxia novel: a master swordsman renowned for his skill carried his sword strapped to his back with cloth wraps—often using them as both support and adornment.
One day, during a meal, a challenger arrived and initiated combat.
Then suddenly, the master collapsed—dying—because the cloth had been undone when he tried to draw his sword.
Zhang Yuanqing picked up the ancient book and the copper mirror next. Neither of these displayed information yet.
He placed the mirror aside, gently unfurled and rolled the yellowed, brittle volume.
On its pages it read:
“I have been a disciple at the Temple of the Queen of San Dao Mountain for two and a half years now—I’ve learned to read and write. Brother Xiang said that once Master Teacher completes the rituals to guide departed souls back to the mountain, I will be formally admitted into training—learning the art of 'inhaling moonlight and nurturing the spirit.' This is the foundational method for becoming a Night Wandering Deity.”
“The rebellion of the Yan King has spread across the land—the war has erupted. As the strongest representative of the Night Wandering Deity lineage from Song Fu, Master Teacher was compelled to descend to earth and guide the spirits of the departed; otherwise, with hostilities unresolved, new disasters would plague the people and bring them no peace.”
Zhang Yuanqing felt a dull ache in his shoulders—he gently massaged it—and initially judged this a personal journal—likely written by the same hand as the paper found in the main hall.
The entries detailed daily life and spiritual cultivation at the temple, with key references such as “training,” “Night Wandering Deity,” “breathing techniques,” and “sigils.”
He recognized that these elements were rooted in historical context—specifically during the Jingna Campaign period.
Yet he wasn’t certain whether this temple actually existed in real history—as the journal described elements that felt unfamiliar, even impressive.
Zhang Yuanqing moved his stiff shoulders again, scanned the room with cautious eyes, and listened to any sounds outside. Confirming no disturbances, he began reading further.
Soon, he reached the continuation of the main hall’s narrative—some early pages had been torn away—and found this:
“At sunset, finally night arrived. I heard a knock at the door—I quickly opened it, expecting Master Teacher—but instead, standing there was Brother Xiang—who had gone missing overnight.”
“Brother Xiang returned after one full day and one night absent—yet I felt no joy, for…he had already died. The person who stood before me was a corpse—his chest covered in blood, his heart seemingly removed by someone unseen.”
“He stared directly at me, saying: ‘Do not trust Master Teacher.’”
These passages were written unevenly—evident of the journal keeper’s emotional collapse when recording them.
When Zhang Yuanqing turned to the next page, he discovered that no further entries existed—the journal author had ceased writing altogether.
“‘Don’t trust Master Teacher’…what does that mean?”
Zhang Yuanqing felt a deep chill—his heart trembling.
Had the temple caretaker murdered Brother Xiang? Was he also responsible for the series of mysterious disappearances of the junior disciples?
He rubbed his shoulders gently, placed the journal back into the deceased’s trousers pocket, and then picked up the copper mirror—ready to leave.
Yet as he glanced at the corner of his vision—without meaning to—he suddenly stiffened.
Moonlight flowed through the glass, casting a clear image onto the mirror surface—the reflection revealed Zhang Yuanqing himself.
And upon his back, resting comfortably, was someone else.
Pale-faced with deep purple lips, that person had two white pupils fixed steadily on Zhang Yuanqing’s face—her head tilted and resting gently against his shoulder.
The stillness of her gaze was utterly silent.
…