"Master Swallow, death solves nothing. It only deepens the shadows around us."
I enunciated each word slowly, my voice heavy with things left unsaid. I am no longer who I once was—some truths I know, but keep buried deep in the dark. Step by step, I drew closer. Master Swallow watched me, a faint, haunted smile flickering across his face.
"Ethan, hurry. My master's Rebirth Ritual may be bound to your cousin's fate. When the Jialan Ceremony begins, the shadows will close in on him."
Master Swallow quickened his pace. I followed, unhurried. The melancholy that once clouded his features had vanished, as if he’d buried every sorrow deep within, where the darkness lingered.
Vincent told us Brother Owen had ten disciples; eight had died and become Blue Wraiths. Only he and Master Cloud survived, and each was formidable—haunted by their own darkness.
Ever since his master, Brother Owen, arrived in Jialan City, Vincent hadn’t visited once. At that time, he was still searching for answers about his family, and soon after, he vanished into the Forest of Desire.
But after being away for so long, he heard from his junior, Master Cloud, that Brother Owen would return to lead the Renegade Monks again. The scattered members began to gather, as if bracing for something ominous. They’d even started working with the Immortality Society—an alliance born of desperation.
The Immortality Society poured vast sums into rebuilding a dwelling atop the ruined mountains once claimed by the Renegade Monks, the new structures rising from the debris like a warning.
After Vincent returned, everything changed. He had once gotten along well with Master Cloud, but now the Renegade Monks showed him respect outwardly, while their true feelings were hidden—murmured, evasive, as if something poisonous festered beneath the surface.
After watching for a long time, Vincent realized that centuries ago, Brother Owen had spoken of the Rebirth Ritual—a forbidden rite deeply entwined with Jialan City in the Ghostrealm, where old curses still lingered.
Disheartened, Vincent Swallow left the Renegade Monks. Only upon returning to the city did he hear about my situation, joining Hugh Thompson and the others to probe the shadows cast by the Immortality Society.
The intel about the Jialan Ceremony came from his junior, who had brought the Three Poisons down the mountain. After returning to the Renegade Monks, he learned of it, and as soon as he heard, he descended, urgency burning in his steps.
Vincent had already guessed that his master desperately wanted the Buddha Statue of Visions and would not let my cousin go. He discussed this with Master Richard Ming, but Master Ming said it was my cousin's own karmic trial—inescapable, a curse he must face alone. No one would intervene.
I knew my cousin didn't want to drag anyone else into the darkness. He wanted to face it alone. I was angry at him for that—he left without a word, leaving us in the shadows.
Gradually, the road ahead was painted only in red and orange—colors of blood and fire. The air grew heavy, thick with a sense of dread. We were almost there.
Nearly five days had passed. Master Swallow stopped, drank from his flask, and stared at me with a grave, haunted expression.
"Listen to me, Ethan. You are no match for my master. My eight juniors are formidable—the Eight Legions, none of them are weak. And Jialan City itself suppresses ghosts with a force you cannot imagine. The city devours spirits."
I nodded, and we continued forward. Deep down, I never intended for Master Swallow to shield us from the darkness ahead. Then I grabbed my cousin and ran, heart pounding.
After another half day, we reached a mountain path flanked by red cliffs, both sides stained like old blood. Master Swallow told me that after a short walk ahead, we'd arrive at the first checkpoint—where nothing good waited.
"Oh, you’re so slow..." The voice lingered, unsettling, echoing through the empty mountain pass, as if something unseen watched from the shadows.
A familiar voice called from the corner—it was The Dragon. I walked over, stunned; he had become a strikingly handsome youth in white, sword on his back, standing beside Quinn Lee. Quinn Lee tossed me a rough linen robe, which I put on. Master Swallow watched me, his gaze troubled.
"What's wrong, Master?" My voice was low, tension humming beneath the words.
I looked at myself—nothing seemed different. But Master Swallow told me I now looked just like The Dragon, a youth in white, though our faces weren't quite the same. We both looked like Quinn Lee's silent attendants, shadows at his side.
Quinn Lee still didn't trust Master Swallow. We kept walking, and he watched Vincent every moment, never letting his guard down, suspicion etched in every glance.
Master Swallow told us Brother Owen had ten disciples; eight had died and become Blue Wraiths. Only he and Master Cloud survived, and each was formidable—haunted by their own darkness.
When they were alive, they were powerful. But then I remembered—Old Tom once destroyed the Renegade Monks single-handedly. How strong must he be to cast such a shadow?
The Dragon and I followed Quinn Lee, with Master Swallow behind us. Gradually, the road ahead widened, but the air grew heavier, as if the mountains themselves pressed in.
From a distance, I saw a tall pagoda at the foot of the slope. At its top was a statue: human body, serpent head, many arms clutching strange musical instruments—an idol of something ancient and dangerous.
"That's the Serpent Guardian, one of the Eight Legions in Buddhist mythology—protector and devourer alike."
Master Swallow explained. I nodded, and we quietly descended the mountain. The distant peaks still encircled us, but to the right of the pagoda, a main road led into the mountains. The map I'd seen showed the route winding from right to left, passing eight checkpoints before reaching Circle City—a spiral path deeper into the unknown.
At that moment, the bells on the pagoda began to ring as we descended—sharp, metallic, echoing through the valley. With a creak, the door opened, and out stepped a pale, skeletal monk. Master Swallow hurried over, tension etched in his movements.
"Benedict Wise, it's been centuries. You've wasted away to almost nothing."
"Amitabha, Benson Chu. Now that I'm a ghost, I must look the part. This is how I was at death, and I won't change my appearance—it's my master's command, and the dead obey."
I saw Master Swallow’s face twist in pain. The ghost monk radiated a powerful, chilling aura, his gaze never leaving us.
"Lord Quinn, I'm here to greet you. Since you've arrived, I must return to Jialan City. Go ahead—these gates open for you, but not for all."
With a rush, Benedict Wise turned into a ball of sickly green light and vanished into the mountains. Master Swallow stared after him, his fury barely contained.
Sure enough, Master Swallow’s ties to Brother Owen’s side had frozen over. His junior spoke only out of cold courtesy, his voice as icy as the grave.
Master Swallow clenched his fists, took a swig of wine, his eyes burning with rage and old sorrow.
"I'm not angry at his attitude. It's just—he used to always smile, so fat everyone called him the Laughing Buddha. Now, he's just a shadow. Everything's changed."
I noticed that Blue Wraith just now—its ghostly aura was strong, but hollow, brittle beneath the surface. Quinn Lee and Master Swallow sensed it too. The Dragon and I couldn't easily release our Specter Web, but Benedict Wise was just like that—strong, but empty inside.
"Everything's changed, Master. What did you do to everyone?" My words trembled with accusation and sorrow.
Master Swallow murmured, then walked forward, each step heavy as if weighed down by ghosts of the past. None of us spoke—he needed silence. Some bonds, forged in blood and hardship, lingered after all these years, but his juniors seemed to have forgotten him.
We walked in silence, passing five pagodas already. Three more, and we'd reach Jialan City—where fate and darkness waited.
Master Swallow’s brow stayed furrowed. No advice could help now—only he could cross this abyss. The coldness of Brother Owen, and everything Lucian did for him in life, all truly existed. Whether it was kind Lucian, who raised Vincent, or now, Brother Owen, who killed Vincent's family and changed all his juniors into strangers.
Finally, on the second day, we arrived at Jialan City—seven days before the Jialan Ceremony would begin, with dread thick in the air.
From afar, I was stunned: the first thing I saw was a massive, floating pale blue lotus throne, nearly a tenth the size of the city—an impossible vision, heavy with meaning.
Ahead lay a vast mountain range, covered in countless tiny huts—monks' quarters, it seemed. There were no city walls, but from kilometers away, we could see it clearly, the emptiness unsettling.
Master Swallow quickened his pace. My eyes stayed fixed on the floating pale blue lotus throne atop the mountain, while a strange, unnatural phenomenon began to swirl in the sky above.
A rainbow halo hovered above the giant lotus throne, swirling closer and closer, unnatural and mesmerizing. Master Swallow broke into a run, urgency in every movement.
"Ethan, be careful. The city is not what it seems."
With that, Master Swallow darted ahead. Then, black beads flashed with golden light, flying out and lining up like a rod. He stepped onto the glowing beads and shot toward Jialan City, leaving us in his wake.
"We're here, Brother Zhang, The Dragon. About my daughter... I hope you can—" His voice faltered, thick with worry and unspoken fear.
"Don't worry. If I find her, I'll let you know immediately." I forced steadiness into my voice, though dread gnawed at my thoughts.
As we spoke, we reached the bottom of a celestial staircase. No ghosts—just emptiness. I was surprised: so many buildings, yet the city felt dead silent, like a tomb. Suddenly, a deafening Sanskrit chant swept over us, and we quickly covered our ears, the sound clawing at our minds.