My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

Then he stood up, reached into his coat, and pulled out a cloth bag.

The bag was made of blue cloth, the edges were frayed, and it was covered with some dark stuff, it was hard to tell if it was mud or blood.

He placed the cloth bundle on the ground and opened it.

There were a few things inside. A stack of yellow paper, neatly folded, with rounded edges.

A packet of incense ash, wrapped in oiled paper and tied with a red string.

There are only three incense sticks, and each one is longer than normal.

There was also a small porcelain bottle, the mouth of which was sealed with wax, and it was unknown what was inside.

Old Zhou took out the three incense sticks and stuck them in the mud by the roadside.

His hands were trembling, but the three incense sticks were stuck in the ground very firmly, straight as if they were growing there.

He lit the incense with a tinderbox, and three wisps of smoke rose straight up into the sky.

Without wind, the smoke rose straight, like three thin pillars, standing there for a long time without dissipating.

Zhou Laoqi opened the incense ash and sprinkled it in front of the incense in a semi-circle.

Unfold the stack of yellow paper and lay it out one by one on the incense ash.

Then he opened the porcelain bottle, removed the wax seal, and brought the bottle opening to his nose to smell it.

He frowned slightly, then tilted his head back and poured the contents of the bottle into his mouth.

is blood.

It wasn't animal blood; it was his own blood.

He bit his tongue and collected two months' worth of blood from it, storing it in a bottle, sealing it, and carrying it with him at all times.

This is his most treasured possession, his talisman, and a rule passed down from his master's master—a person who travels to the underworld must carry a mouthful of blood from the tip of their tongue when they go out.

It should not be used unless absolutely necessary.

Once you've used it, it's time to go all out.

He held the mouthful of blood in his mouth, neither swallowing nor spitting it out.

He knelt in front of the three incense sticks, his hands on the ground, his forehead touching the soil.

He began to recite, his voice low and deep, as if it came from underground.

Ma Desheng couldn't hear what he was saying, but he felt the sound go into his ears, cool and creepy, like a snake crawling on his back.

Zhou Laoqi chanted for a long time, until the three incense sticks were half burned, and until his forehead was dented in the dirt.

He spat out the blood from his mouth.

The blood mist dispersed, landing on the incense ash, on the yellow paper, on the roadside weeds, and in the air.

The blood droplets didn't fall to the ground; they hovered in mid-air, each one like a red pearl, emitting a faint glow in the darkness.

Then those blood droplets started moving, not floating, but drawing something.

They draw lines in the air, like words or symbols, winding and twisting, which can make you dizzy if you look at them for too long.

Zhou Laoqi raised his head.

His face was covered in blood and mud, so mixed together that it was unrecognizable.

His eyes were closed, but his mouth was still chanting, faster and faster, and louder and louder.

He felt around on the ground and found the stack of yellow papers. He picked them up, raised them above his head, and then touched them one by one on his head, shoulders, chest, and back.

The yellow paper didn't catch fire, but it was melting, like ice, turning into water, seeping into his clothes, into his skin, into his bones.

Ma Desheng smelled a certain odor.

It wasn't the smell of blood, nor the smell of burnt paper; it was an indescribable odor, like dust that had accumulated in an old house for decades suddenly being stirred up, or like a coffin that had been buried in the ground for a long time being dug up.

He couldn't help but cough.

Zhou Laoqi opened his eyes.

His eyes have changed.

It wasn't black, it was gray, like it was covered in a layer of fog.

The mist slowly dissipated, spreading to the corners of my eyes, to my eye sockets, and to my entire face.

His face had changed too. It was no longer the thin, high-cheekbone face he used to have; it was another face—older, thinner, and more like a dead man than him.

That wasn't his face; it was the face of the "thing" he had invited.

When a person goes on a pilgrimage to the underworld, they are not inviting gods from heaven, but gods from the underworld—those influential figures in the netherworld.

They don't help for nothing; you have to give them something in return.

Incense, paper, and blood are all beneficial.

Whether it's enough or not, that's up to them.

Zhou Laoqi's mouth was moving, but it wasn't making his voice.

The voice was old and hoarse, as if it hadn't had water in a very long time.

"What...do you want?"

Zhou Laoqi moved his hand and took out something else from his pocket.

It is a string of copper coins, strung together with a red cord, seven in total.

The copper coins are very old, and the characters on them have been worn away, but each one is polished to a shine, as if it has been touched every day.

He placed the string of copper coins on the incense ash, pushed it out, and pushed it to the edge of the semi-circular arc.

The voice rang out again, this time clearer.

"not enough."

Old Zhou reached into his robes again and pulled out a wooden comb.

The comb is made of peach wood with closely spaced teeth, and a few of them are broken.

He pushed it out too, next to the copper coin.

"It's still not enough."

The voice was unhurried, as if it were bargaining with him.

Zhou Laoqi's hands began to tremble. He knew he had to take out more things, but he had nothing of value left on him.

He groped around in his pocket for a long time, until he touched something—a jade pendant.

It was left to him by his master and had been with him for forty years, never leaving his side.

He hesitated for a moment, then pushed the jade pendant out as well.

The voice fell silent.

There was a long silence, long enough that the three incense sticks had almost burned out.

Then the sound rang out again, this time not from Zhou Laoqi's mouth, but from all directions, from the ground, from the sky, from the unseen darkness.

"Can..."

Zhou Laoqi's gray eyes suddenly turned black again.

He suddenly stood up, staggered, and almost fell.

Ma Desheng helped him up.

"Go! Go quickly!" Zhou Laoqi's voice was shrill and hoarse, as if he was being choked.

Without waiting for Ma Desheng's reply, he turned and ran ahead.

Ma Desheng pulled Wang Laoshi and two helpers along behind him.

This time, they didn't speak again, nor did they look back.

They just kept walking, never stopping.

After walking for an unknown amount of time, the road ahead suddenly lit up.

It wasn't moonlight, it wasn't starlight, it was lamplight, so many lamps, red, yellow, green, hanging at the entrance of a small mountain village.

The village was small, with only a few dozen households. The houses were arranged in a neat and orderly fashion, with wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys and the lights shining brightly.

Some people are walking on the street, some are sitting at their doorsteps, some children are chasing each other in the alley, and some old people are playing chess under the trees.

The sounds of hawking, laughter, cursing, crowing of roosters, and barking of dogs mingled together, creating a lively atmosphere like the Chinese New Year.

When Ma Desheng saw the village, he was first delighted, then startled.

He was overjoyed to finally escape the maze of illusions; he was also shocked to know that such a village could not possibly exist in the darkness of night in these vast mountains.

This is not a village in the human world, this is a ghost market.

He had only heard of it, but had never seen it.