If the Deep Spring Holds Twin Fish, Part 4

Yun Yao didn’t immediately hear Mu Hanyuan’s answer.

After blurting out her drunken words, she held her breath, awaiting his response. Just as she saw him frown and lean closer, about to speak—

A furious Buddhist chant erupted from a room on the second floor.

The chant’s force was staggering, its echo resounding with the toll of Buddhist bells, flooding the entire building with a heaven-shattering intensity that shook souls to their core.

Mu Hanyuan and Yun Yao, locked in a glance, paled simultaneously.

“The Buddha!”

“Damn it, the bald donkey’s in trouble!”

As their voices rang out together, the uncontrolled Buddhist spiritual power within the building surged uncontrollably, its terrifying pressure causing the entire structure to quake. When the guests snapped out of their daze, panic ensued—screams and cries echoed from the building into the night market.

The Red Dust Buddha, now at the Buddhist Insight Realm, was equivalent to Mu Hanyuan’s Unity Realm in Qianyuan’s common cultivation terms.
If his Buddhist spiritual power went awry, its unchecked force could raze the entire city.

Drunk or not, Yun Yao had to sober up.

She pulled the wooden hairpin from her head, and as it fell, a refined glow spilled from her fingers.
The warm, lustrous wooden sword pointed diagonally to the ground, and her red skirt billowed as she rose—

“You save the people; I’ll go upstairs.”

“Master, be careful.”

The vivid red and pristine white figures intertwined, then parted, each to their task.

Yun Yao flew upstairs.

Mu Hanyuan sat cross-legged in midair, raising his hand to strum. From his fingers, a slender zither’s silhouette materialized, its jade-white form emerging from the void, tassels trailing like water under moonlight, calming the heart.
His graceful fingers brushed the strings, gentle and profound notes flowing forth.
Within a breath, they suppressed the chaotic spiritual wails within the building.

Yet, from a second-floor room, the uncontrolled spiritual pressure continued to pour out.

While playing, Mu Hanyuan glanced upward. Amid the invisible clash of spiritual forces, imperceptible to mortals, his zither’s strings contended with Liaowu’s runaway Buddhist power.
But within that golden Buddhist light…

Mu Hanyuan’s brows furrowed slightly. Amid the sea-like ripples of spiritual pressure, he saw threads of sinister, bone-corroding black tendrils, his abyssal eyes growing colder.

“…Ghost Body Buddha.”

As he spoke, his finger struck a sharp note, a silver string slicing through the air toward a crying child in the panicked crowd—

Crack.
The silver note halted just before the child’s nose.

It struck an invisible, colorless barrier.
Moments later, a grotesquely demonic black thread materialized within the silver glow, then shattered.
The child, tears forgotten, stared dumbly at the black dust drifting before them.

Simultaneously—

As the zither’s notes surged, ten more streaks shot through the building, mirroring the scene around countless others.

Endless black dust fell like filthy snow in the dark night.

Cultivators rushing from across the city froze in awe within the snowfall.
Unlike mortals, who saw only an otherworldly spectacle, the cultivators’ faces betrayed unmasked shock.
They sensed that the zither’s notes didn’t merely shatter the unknown black threads but transformed into countless transparent specks, each enveloping a fragment of the black “snow” to ensure no evil could persist.

The grand snowfall seemed poised to bury the city, a breathtaking display.

What vast spiritual sea, what terrifying control, could achieve such a feat, leaving every cultivator in awe?

Their gazes scattered, seeking the source.
Within a breath, some spotted, amid the chaos of scattered tables and chairs, a moonlit, ethereal silhouette.
The piercing string notes had faded; now, the zither’s gentle tones steadied the trembling building, dissipating the chaotic spiritual pressure like flowing water. The black snow gathered around him, guided by his music.

“Lord Hanyuan! It’s Lord Hanyuan saving us!”
Someone’s cry sparked a wave of voices, not just from cultivators—mortals, unable to cultivate, seemed even more fervent. If their voices were a tide, they’d form an ocean to engulf him.

He’d saved countless lives in the world.
Such scenes he’d experienced countless times.
Yet, his zither still played, his expression tinged with concern as he gazed toward the second floor.

“Master.”

Second floor.

Yun Yao, unusually flustered, gripped her sword, eyes closed, splitting her divine sense.

“Room” wasn’t quite accurate.

Liaowu’s room no longer existed. All four walls had been blasted away instantly, but Mu Hanyuan’s swift zither note had swept the debris aside, sparing mortals harm.

So, precisely, Liaowu sat amid the second floor’s ruins.

The unfortunate guest sharing his wall huddled together, trembling, on a bed several yards away.

On another day, Yun Yao might’ve greeted them to ease their trauma, but now she had neither the mood nor the time—

“Demon monk, you’re really a demon monk!”

“…”

Where Yun Yao’s gritted teeth directed, atop the ruins, Liaowu sat, eyes shut, his auspicious mole no longer blood-red but nearly black, matching his lips.

Even stranger, from his blood-red robes, countless black threads writhed outward, flailing in the air, each seeking its own path.
To Yun Yao, they looked like water weeds turned sentient.

The kind that, before gaining sentience, had tangled itself into a massive knot.

Yun Yao slashed through another cluster of ghostly faces, cursing fiercely, “Bald donkey! Are you so bald you obsessed over growing hair, and now you’ve gone demonic and sprouted a body full of it?”

A slander, of course.
Any cultivator could tell it wasn’t hair, though it looked like it—

Each thread, upon leaving his body, morphed into a snarling, smoky ghost face, lunging at Yun Yao without hesitation.

Yun Yao’s heart quaked at the sight; a single glance weakened her legs, so she’d fought with eyes closed from the start. She’d rather slack off, but with Mu Hanyuan saving people below—a task she couldn’t handle—she had to hold the line up here.

No matter how she shouted, the demon monk showed no sign of waking.

Her divine sense’s findings were grim—
Not only was Liaowu unconscious, but his face bore grotesque ghost faces, struggling as if to break free, only to be suppressed by his blackened lips and eyes.

“What are these things?” Yun Yao ground her teeth, unable to kill or defeat them. “If he’s a water-weed spirit, why didn’t Third Sister tell me?”

“Ghost Body Buddha.”
A blood-red transmission pierced the wall of ghostly wails, carrying Mu Hanyuan’s voice from the first floor to the ink-fogged second.

Yun Yao’s thoughts froze, but her sword didn’t stop.

She snapped her eyes open, cleaving a ghost face before her.

The split halves brushed past her, making her flinch. Trembling, she steadied herself. “What… Ghost Body Buddha? Don’t tell me it’s like your evil ghost phase.”

The Flame of Finality could destroy three thousand worlds—how could there be two of them?!

“No, the Ghost Body Buddha is still Buddhist practice, but a rare divine ability few monks pursue. The practitioner uses their soul as a prison, housing hundreds of ghosts. For life, they enter the ghost prison nightly, redeeming lost souls.”

Yun Yao: “…”
Yun Yao: “?”

Are all Buddhist cultivators this extreme, so harsh on themselves?

Amid her flurry, Yun Yao glanced at Liaowu in the ruins, her emotions complex.

Tonight, a storyteller in the winehouse had stirred memories of Third Sister Xiu Xin and the Red Dust Buddha, buried for centuries. Had she not gotten drunk, she might’ve turned and left.

Like three hundred years ago, when she sneered and called him “bald donkey” each time they met, Yun Yao still couldn’t forgive the monk who never visited her sister before she went to die at Twin Realms Mountain.
But if his Buddhist practice meant enduring this nightly, perhaps she had no right to blame him.

Amid the ghostly apparitions, Yun Yao’s eyes flashed with ferocity, her sword striking again.
Its killing intent scattered, cleaving even the clouds veiling the moon.

“…That’s why I hate saints.”

As the one sacrificed, her sister didn’t even have the right to blame him.

“Since you know his practice’s origin, do you know what’s happening now?” Yun Yao frowned. “Is he possessed by demonic fire?”

“The first century of Ghost Body Buddha practice is the hardest, with daily risks of demonic possession or soul dissipation.”

“…Practicing even at the cost of soul dissipation?” Yun Yao slashed, gritting her teeth. “If you’re sick, don’t drag others down.”

Mu Hanyuan chuckled helplessly. “Not afraid of ghosts anymore?”

“I want to split him in half,” Yun Yao said coldly. “His Ghost Body Buddha practice hasn’t reached a century?”

“Judging by the number of vengeful souls in his soul, it’s at least four hundred years.”

Yun Yao caught something. “Didn’t you say possession only happens in the first century?”

“Yes, so Master should wake Liaowu and find out why. I suspect tonight’s situation isn’t mere accidental possession.” His voice grew heavy.

Yun Yao’s mouth twitched. “…Want to come see his ghostly state? How do I wake him—slap him?”

‘Kill him, naturally.’

“—”

A chilling, heart-devouring voice crept up, its icy laughter making Yun Yao shudder.

Her pupils constricted, her gaze cutting through the ghost shadows, uncertainly toward the first floor. “Mu Hanyuan?”

“Master, what’s wrong?” His voice returned, warm and profound.

“You didn’t just speak?”

“No.”

“Oh, must’ve misheard. Too many ghost wails.” Yun Yao exhaled, slicing through a blocking ghost to reach the ruined bed.

No further sound came from Mu Hanyuan.
Yun Yao considered—having known Liaowu centuries longer, asking Mu Hanyuan how to wake him felt like bullying.
As a master, she should set an example.

After a moment’s thought, she cast a talisman.

A Clear Heart Array formed beneath her, golden light rising to shield her, insufficient to wake Liaowu but enough to protect her from the ghosts temporarily.

Then, Yun Yao raised her wooden sword before her.

“Mu Hanyuan.” Her voice rang clear.

Almost simultaneously, as if in sync, the zither player below shifted his tune—
To the immortal realm’s Soul-Calming Melody.

Light washed over her wooden sword, condensing into a small wooden hairpin.

Third Sister Xiu Xin’s hairpin.
She had many, all identically square and plain, almost ugly.
Except for Yun Yao, few knew this was the first square hairpin Xiu Xin received. Before heading to Twin Realms Mountain, she left it to her youngest sister, along with the mortal name of its gifter.

“Yan Taxue.”

Staring at the hairpin, Yun Yao’s voice was cold and trembling. “Open your eyes and see whose this is.”

“—”

Under the Soul-Calming Melody, the ghosts fell silent.

As her clear voice reached him, the blood-red mole on Liaowu’s brow flared with light—

His phoenix eyes, now tinged with ghostly aura, snapped open.
He stared at the floating hairpin, pupils quivering. His hands, once forming a dharma seal, loosened; his right hand reached tremblingly for it.

But before he touched it, the hairpin flickered, drifting back to Yun Yao.

As if avoiding him.

Yun Yao froze, caught off guard.
She hadn’t recalled it. No matter how much she resented the bald donkey, she wouldn’t play petty games when lives were at stake. But the hairpin…

She quickly checked Liaowu’s reaction.

Thankfully, though his gaze was stunned, it was clear.

No time for distractions, Yun Yao demanded, “Bald donkey, what’s with your Ghost Body Buddha practice? Possessed? Look at this city—ghosts wailing like we’re in the underworld. What a mess you’ve made!”

Her torrent of curses snapped Liaowu back.
He lowered his brows, smiling wryly. “Benefactor Yun remembers again?”

“Less nonsense,” Yun Yao gritted her teeth. “How do we fix this?”

“My soul holds a ghost prison. Tonight, entering it, I found someone had cast a soul-veiling spell on me. Caught off guard, it triggered the ghosts’ escape. The prison’s collapsing, and I can’t hold it.”

“Soul-veiling spell? How?” Yun Yao clutched the hairpin, paling. “You’re at Insight Realm; your Buddhist soul repels all evil. Who could overpower your soul and cast a spell unnoticed?”

Liaowu chanted softly. “Not a person.”

“Then what—” Yun Yao’s face changed, her words hissed. “True Dragon Yuyan.”

“…”

Yun Yao pressed, “Have you seen him?”

Liaowu’s swastika-sealed eyes glinted faintly, searching his sea of consciousness but finding nothing. He shook his head.

“Didn’t you open the Reincarnation Eye four hundred years ago, seeing past lives?” Yun Yao snapped. “Why not the True Dragon?”

“He’s not reincarnated, and True Dragons have been shielded by the immortal realm since ancient times. Benefactor Yun should know this better than I.”

“…”
Yun Yao’s gaze blazed over the monk.
But he’d lowered his hands to form a seal, brow furrowed, the clarity from the melody and hairpin fading.

“Fine, we’ll discuss later. How do we resolve your ghost prison?”

“Only temple elders can resolve it. I’ll seal my soul in the prison to suppress the ghosts. My body will be empty. Please, Benefactor Yun and Lord Hanyuan, escort me to Liaowu Temple for my master-uncle to handle.”

“…You’re really passing the buck.”

Liaowu closed his eyes, a faint smile tugging his lips. “I trouble Benefactor Yun with this journey.”

“Less talk. Anything else to say?”

“Well, one thing.”

“What? Spit it out.” Yun Yao slashed at encroaching ghosts, glaring.

Liaowu: “My fated donkey, please care for it too.”

“…”
Yun Yao clenched her fist. “Go die, bald donkey!”

Liaowu smiled, closed his eyes, and let his soul plunge into the endless black abyss of the ghost prison.

Amid the snarls, he heard a faintly uneasy, clear voice above.

“Bald donkey, don’t actually die.”
“I promised Third Sister—as long as I’m here, not a hair on Fantian Temple will be harmed.”
“…Oh, wait, your whole temple hasn’t a hair. Never mind.”

Liaowu smiled helplessly, about to reply, when his expression shifted.

He looked up urgently. “Beyond the mortal world, Fantian Temple is uninvolved in worldly affairs. Yuyan’s hidden move tonight must have a purpose!”

“…”

But his soul had sunk into the ghost prison, his words unheard.

At that moment—

Second floor, Yun Yao stood amid the ruins.
Before her, Liaowu had entered meditation, lifeless, the hair-like, terrifying ghosts around him subsiding under his soul’s suppression and Mu Hanyuan’s melody.

The building’s eerie wails ceased.

After chopping “ghosts” all night, Yun Yao was exhausted and weak, tempted to collapse.

But the floor was a mess, with nowhere to rest.

“It’s finally over.” She transmitted to Mu Hanyuan. “The monk was ambushed by Yuyan. He’s sealed his soul, leaving his body empty. We need to take him to Fantian Temple.”
Glancing at Liaowu’s shadowy ghosts, she frowned. “He’ll likely need your Soul-Calming Melody the whole way. Can your spiritual power hold?”

“No issue. Master needn’t worry.”

“Right,” Yun Yao muttered sourly. “You’re practically in Tribulation Realm, surpassing your master. I’ll rely on you now.”

Sensing her jealousy, Mu Hanyuan chuckled. “Master’s swordsmanship is unmatched. I only play the zither.”

“Hm?” Yun Yao’s eyes lit up. “True.”

Mu Hanyuan was about to reply.

Yun Yao cut in. “Wait. Doesn’t it feel… too quiet now that the wailing’s stopped?”

Inside, Mu Hanyuan’s eyes lifted slightly.

A breath later, his expression chilled, looking up. “Master! Behind you!”

As his voice trailed, a sword light laced with demonic patterns sliced through the darkened, extinguished lamplight, aiming for Yun Yao’s back.