"With me and Master Wu here, Beidou won't come to harm."
"Master Wu?" My father and I exclaimed in unison, voices thick with confusion.
"Ah, you thought Master Wu had vanished? No—he's alive and well."
"Where is he, then? Six years ago, he saved my boy's life. I never got to thank him before he disappeared."
"By the Ink River's edge, ghostly hands tailor garments;
Through embroidered mists, silken veils dance with the wind." The old woman recited these cryptic verses, then fixed my father with a solemn gaze.
"Your boy is no ordinary soul. He is the seventh-generation Ghost-Hand Diviner of your Li family—a talent unseen for centuries. Yet you've withheld the ancestral arts from him."
"It's not that I refused to teach him," Father protested, "but his constitution was too frail to inherit this legacy. He belongs in the city, forging his own path. But look—after just a few years of work, his health worsens. Now he's quit his job... a cursed fate."
"I've come to take him to Brother Wu. He'll ensure the boy's safety. But before we leave, I must perform a Soul Inquiry for Beidou."
"Soul Inquiry?" I frowned, bewildered.
"The sooner, the better," Father agreed, as if this were long overdue.
"Now. At dawn, we depart."
"From formless void, born of heaven and earth,
Scatter as vapor, coalesce as form,
Essence of Five Elements, spirit of Six Jia,
By Buddha's decree, summon the wandering soul—
Let breath merge with breath, spirit with spirit,
Gods aid me, I aid gods,
Three beats of the ritual drum, ten thousand deities attend,
Guide the lost soul swiftly to this altar. **Swiftly, as decreed!**"
The ritual began. The old woman lit three incense sticks, their smoke coiling into the air, shrouding the room in mystery. Her eyes closed as she chanted, her voice low and resonant, piercing the veil of time.
With each incantation, the air rippled—an ancient power stirring. A woman's voice, heavy with malice, echoed through the chamber:
"The Li bloodline truly bears the Seventh-Generation Yin Essence! This boy… he is mine."
"You'll have to go through me first!" the crone roared—but her defiance dissolved into anguished wails, fading to labored breaths.
An icy miasma thickened, clinging to every surface. Furniture loomed like specters in the gloom, the room swallowed by an invisible pall.
The old woman collapsed, body contorted in agony. Her lips still twitched with unspoken words—a final, desperate warning.
"Granny!" I rushed to her side, shaking her shoulders though I knew it was futile. Her fingers twitched. I clasped her hand, straining to hear her whisper:
"Find… Master Wu… protection…"
Her breath stilled. Grief and terror surged through me. There was no time to mourn—I had to follow her last command. Only Master Wu could unravel this darkness.
Back in my room, I hastily packed clothes and supplies. Memories surfaced: Granny's riddles about "the Ink River's edge" and "ghostly hands tailoring garments." These fragments were my only clues.
I set out for the Ink River under cover of night, avoiding shadowy figures that drifted through the village—their forms half-seen, half-imagined. Silent prayers for Granny's peace trailed behind me.
Ink River—50 kilometers from the village, a place steeped in legend. Strange folk were said to gather here.
Moonlight struggled through the lakeshore's thickening fog. Each cautious step stirred whispers in the mist. After hours of searching, I spotted a ramshackle hut. A sign hung crookedly:
GHOST-HAND TAILOR
The door creaked open. A sweet, unfamiliar scent greeted me. Inside, an old man in flowing silk worked at a loom, fingers darting like phantoms over the fabric.