I was about to move closer, but Vivian Ouyang grabbed my arm. Rachel Lan strode forward as Miles Mao dropped his enormous backpack to the ground, setting up as if he were opening a street stall. From his pack, he produced a pile of Spirit Charms, a spirit compass, a peachwood sword, an octagram mirror, a small jar of date pits—exactly seven—and a tiny bottle of pitch-black liquid.
“Ugh, can’t he ever pick a more secluded spot? Qingyuan, let’s just pretend we don’t know him.”
Sure enough, Miles Mao’s antics drew the attention of passersby. His Taoist robe looked decent from the front, but the back was patched all over—worn and ancient.
Eventually, we reached a deserted flowerbed. On the grass, Miles Mao unfolded a chair and set up a makeshift altar, clutching his spirit compass.
“Is this all you’ve got? It looks so shabby. Aren’t these just the most basic tools of the Mount Mason Order?”
“See this Taoist robe?” Miles Mao retorted, pointing at his patched garment.
“It’s just some ragged junk.”
Miles Mao snorted. “Vivian, do you realize this was worn by my master? It’s inscribed with the Nine-Palace Octagram Array—seriously powerful stuff. My master even fortified it with pure refined cinnabar, spiritual water, and blood essence, all infused into the Cinnabar Taoist Robe. Wearing this, ordinary ghosts can’t even get close.”
“Yeah, keep bragging. You don’t have much skill, but you sure love to boast.”
Miles Mao sniffed. “Believe what you want. Look at this Seven-Star Sword—ha, I borrowed it from my master when I left the mountain.”
I stifled a laugh behind my hand. The Seven-Star Sword was strung together from forty-nine copper coins, shaped to resemble a sword. A red string looped around the hilt, with a tiny bell tied to it.
“Miss Rachel Lan, this Seven-Star Sword is made from forty-nine copper coins. It’s imbued with the Three Thunder, Ice, and Fire Cloud incantations. Don’t underestimate its power—even if that corpse is fierce, it won’t stand a chance.”
“Don’t try to fight it head-on. It’s dangerous.”
Rachel Lan said only that, and Miles Mao stopped rambling. He gripped two Spirit Charms, held them over a candle, and set them alight. With a flick of his wrists, he tossed the burning charms, and two bursts of flame exploded outward.
Miles Mao leapt up, legs together, left foot touching the ground, right leg tucked behind—forming a cross with his body.
“Disciple bows to the honored Immortal Masters, offering three kneelings and nine prostrations, body and soul to the ground…”
Miles Mao knelt, kowtowed, then sprawled out before the altar, hands and feet splayed, forehead pressed to the earth. It looked almost comical, but the ritual felt deadly serious.
“Yu Qing, Shang Qing, Tai Qing…” He rose, lit three sticks of incense, and reverently placed them in the altar’s censer.
“Benevolent Ancestors, aid your disciple in finding the way, slaying demons and banishing evil, first restraining souls, destroying corpse-ghosts, especially on the days of new moon and full moon, and on the days of Gengshen and Jiayin—may the spirits of heaven and earth pursue…”
Suddenly, Miles Mao stood up, holding the spirit compass in one hand, two fingers of the other pointing at its face. The needle began to whirl frantically.