Strange omens plagued our village on the day I was born.
First came Old Wang's white dog - his faithful companion of eight years. The creature donned a flowing black cloak, rose up on its hind legs like a man, and wandered the streets before stopping at my family's doorstep to perform a solemn bow of respect.
Then came the rats - massive, grotesque creatures with eyes glowing blood-red. They poured through the streets in an endless stream, gathering before my house in broad daylight, forming an unwavering vigil that refused to disperse.
The cats of the village, territorial as they were, rose to defend their domain. They swarmed out to scatter the invading rats, but something was different that day. The rats, normally skittish and fearful, showed no trace of their usual cowardice. Instead, they met the cats' challenge with savage ferocity, erupting into a brutal conflict.
The battle that followed turned the street into a battlefield. Though the rats fell in great numbers, they took a terrible toll on their feline adversaries - more than thirty cats lay fallen when the fighting finally ceased.
The villagers stood transfixed by the spectacle, but the village elders - those versed in ancient wisdom - shook their heads gravely. They spoke of dire portents: a white dog mimicking human behavior, rats triumphing over cats - these were perversions of the natural order. "In the days of old," they warned in hushed voices, "such reversals of heaven's law would herald the coming of great chaos to the world!"
Initially, no one linked these omens to my family - until nightfall. That's when the eerie sounds of traditional opera began floating from the empty courtyard before our house, the ghostly melody piercing the darkness.
Curiosity drew some villagers from their beds, wrapped in their night clothes they crept out to investigate. What they witnessed defied belief: performers made of white paper danced upon an ethereal stage, while their audience was a nightmare gathering of supernatural creatures. Sharp-eyed yellow weasels sat amongst foul-smelling grey foxes, and mountain demons with jade-green faces and protruding fangs leered from the shadows, their forms more terrifying than any ghost of legend.
But most chilling of all was what stood at the center of this otherworldly gathering - a coffin, propped upright like a macabre throne. Within its wooden confines stood an ancient crone, her face as pale as moonlight, her flesh withered like ancient parchment, her white hair wild and unkempt. She watched the paper performers with an unsettling intensity, drinking in their every movement with eyes that gleamed in the darkness.
The sight sent the villagers fleeing in blind panic, their hearts pounding in their throats as they sprinted home and buried themselves beneath their quilts. In their terror, they frantically whispered prayers to every divine being they knew - from the celestial Jade Emperor to Jesus Christ himself - desperately seeking protection from the horrors they had witnessed.
That night, sleep eluded the entire village. My family, like everyone else, lay wide-awake in the darkness, every creak and whisper of wind making their hearts skip a beat.
When morning light finally crept over the village, the supernatural gathering had vanished. Yet scattered debris and trampled earth remained as silent testimony - grim proof that the night's horrors had been no mere nightmare.
In those days, superstition ran deep in rural villages. Such inexplicable events sent waves of unease through the community. Whispered conversations and fearful glances turned toward my family's house, as people wondered what ancient power or spiritual force we might have unknowingly disturbed.
That same day, my grandfather burst into our lives - rushing down from the mountains in his weather-beaten leather jacket. Without explanation or warning, he flew into a violent rage, his fists and feet becoming weapons against my father and two uncles. He beat them mercilessly until blood streamed from their scalps and they crumpled in defeat. Then, in a stunning transformation, this same man who had just unleashed such fury gathered my swaddled infant form into his arms and broke down in bitter, wracking sobs.
After the beating, my father and uncles gathered what courage they could to approach him. "Father," they ventured timidly, their voices barely above a whisper, "you've dealt out our punishment, but please - what fate hangs over this child? Surely we deserve to know that much?"
My grandfather's eyes darkened as he fixed them with a haunting stare. His words fell like stones into still water: "This soul bears the weight of ancient sins - one marked for hatred by both the realm of men and the kingdom of spirits!"
Those cryptic words hung in the air like a curse, unexplained: 'a soul bearing sins, hated by both humans and spirits' - what dark meaning lay hidden in their depths?
Grandfather offered no further explanation, and neither my father nor my uncles dared probe deeper. The unspoken message cut through the silence like a blade - my continued breath was merely borrowed time, and should death claim me, it would simply be collecting an overdue debt.
"Tonight," my grandfather declared grimly, "will determine whether you walk among the living or join the dead!"
His prophecy proved true. Before darkness could fully claim the sky, I burned with fever. In the span of two mere hours, death's cold fingers gripped me three times - and three times I clawed my way back from the abyss, refusing to surrender my grip on life.
As midnight approached, grandfather chased away the clinic doctor and his modern medicine. Instead, he wrapped me tightly in his weathered leather jacket, clutching me like a talisman. Stripped to the waist in the cold night air, he cradled me in one arm while dancing a frenzied ritual with my uncles. His curses and incantations filled the darkness, continuing even as his voice cracked and failed, his throat raw and parched - yet still he wouldn't cease his desperate ceremony.
It wasn't until the first light of dawn, after a malevolent shriek from an unseen crone echoed from the rooftop, that death finally released its grip. I had survived - though none could say by what power or at what price.
Their victory over death came at a heavy price. The night's supernatural battle had taken its toll - grandfather and my uncles, who had formed a protective circle around the house, collapsed with a devastating illness. They remained bedridden, their strength slowly seeping back into their bodies, for more than a month after that fateful night.
Years later, I learned the truth of that night: a horrific creature - an ancient vampire with flowing white hair - had perched on our rooftop, attempting to drain my infant soul from my body. Had it not been for the protective barrier formed by my grandfather, father, and uncles, my life force would have been consumed before dawn broke.
It was in the wake of these events that my grandfather bestowed upon me my name - Zhang Jiuzui. The name carried a dark prophecy, marking me as one born bearing the weight of sins from the moment I drew my first breath.
These nine sins were ancient and terrible burdens: the taking of life, the poison of greed, the curse of violence, the shadow of deception, the flame of jealousy, the pit of laziness, the chains of lust, the crown of arrogance, and the mirror of vanity.
Like a shadow of my father's spirit, I grew into a quiet child, wrapped in silence. His reserved nature flowed in my blood, leaving me more comfortable in solitude than in company. At school, while other children filled the playground with their laughter and games, I remained apart - a solitary figure at the edges of their world.
Most would have found my withdrawn nature troubling, but my grandfather saw something different in my solitude - something that brought a knowing smile to his weathered face. After school each day, he would guide me to his humble dwelling - an old house built of earthen bricks - where time seemed to flow differently than in the outside world.
Though the old mud-brick house might have appeared humble from the outside, its interior held a different world entirely. The rooms maintained an almost supernatural cleanliness, a pristine sanctuary where not even the smallest creature dared intrude - no serpent slithered across its floors, no insect crept along its walls, no rat or ant ever breached its mysterious boundaries.
My eagerness to visit grandfather's house had a secret source - his remarkable collection of books. The shelves held an enchanting treasury, from ancient tomes with pages yellowed by countless seasons to freshly bound volumes still crisp with printer's ink.
These weren't ordinary books - they were gateways to a hidden world. Their pages told tales of brave demon hunters battling dark forces, chronicled supernatural events from every corner of the land, and revealed the secrets of ancient divination arts. Some contained arcane knowledge of mystical arts passed down through generations, while others spoke of the seventy-two spectral beings from Buddhist mythology - each more terrifying than the last.