Rain had been falling for three days straight, a relentless cascade that turned the narrow mountain paths to sludge and the forest undergrowth to sponges. The thick mist clinging to the foothills of Jiangnan made everything look like a half-remembered dream. Leaves glistened under the water's weight. Tree limbs drooped with exhaustion. Even the birds had stopped calling, perhaps too waterlogged to sing.
Through this wet and weary world, a crumbling footpath wound its way up toward a forgotten place: Guangyuan Temple. Or what remained of it. Hidden amid the trees and obscured by the weather, the temple stood in silent defiance of time—barely.
The exterior had seen better centuries. Walls of flaking white plaster leaned like weary old men, and whole sections of the tiled roof had caved in, allowing rain to fall directly into the central halls. Weeds claimed the stone steps. Vines choked the eaves. One stone lion, meant to guard the entrance, lay toppled on its side, mouth broken, looking less like a symbol of power and more like a cautionary tale. The plaque above the gate still bore the characters "Guangyuan Temple"—but most of the black lacquer had peeled away, the remaining gold outline clinging to the wood like a faded memory.
Inside, the main hall was a swamp of decay and rot. Moss bloomed in every corner. The floor tiles were cracked, their grout long since eroded by time and water. The painted murals of celestial beings on the walls were streaked with mold and rain stains, their once-fierce faces melted into abstract ghosts. Cobwebs hung like bunting from the rafters. The stench of mildew was thick, undercut with something sharper—like burnt paper and rust.
And yet, there was one source of light.
A single oil lantern hung from a rusted hook above the altar. Its flame sputtered between hues of gray and deep blue, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ruined temple interior. The lantern's glow revealed a figure lounging atop the central altar like it was a couch in a roadside inn.
The man—young, lean, and careless—was stretched out in a manner that suggested he had all the time in the world. His dark robe was pristine despite the filth around him, the deep indigo cloth stitched with subtle silver thread forming celestial patterns. A sheathed sword rested beside him, its scabbard worn but well-maintained. From his belt hung a gourd, the kind usually filled with wine, and judging from the lazy smirk on his face, it had already been put to use.
This was Li Hua. Taoist priest by title. Drifter by inclination. Professional meddler in things most people wisely left alone.
He held a half-finished talisman in one hand, the yellow fu paper curling slightly from the damp. The cinnabar ink had begun to smear, but he didn't seem to care. In his other hand, he held the wine gourd, which he tilted back for a long swallow. He exhaled, loud and content, and stared up at the temple's cracked ceiling like he was watching clouds drift across a summer sky.
"Three days," he muttered, voice barely louder than the wind. "Three days in this haunted pigsty and not so much as a flickering ghost. I swear, even the spirits are lazier than they used to be."
The temple replied with silence. No creaking wood. No moaning wind. Just the steady rhythm of rain pelting the broken roof and the occasional splash of water hitting the floor through holes above.
Li Hua sat up and adjusted the strap of his sword. He stretched, cracking his neck to one side. His movements were languid, but his eyes—sharp and gray like storm clouds—were alert.
Then he heard it: a sound too deliberate to be random. A soft scraping—like cloth dragging over wet stone—coming from the direction of the rear hall.
His grin returned, wider this time.
"Well," he said to no one in particular, "took you long enough."
He rose, sliding off the altar with barely a sound. In one smooth motion, he slipped the unfinished talisman into his robe and pulled out a small copper ruler, etched with arcane lines and tiny Taoist sigils. With a flick of his wrist, he tapped it against the stone floor.
A burst of purple-blue energy rippled outward from the point of contact, forming a glowing circle inscribed with three characters:"Barrier of Severed Yang." The energy crackled softly, casting a pale sheen over the floor.
Then the figure emerged from the shadows.
It crawled out slowly, dripping wet, its limbs moving in stiff, jerking motions. Water dribbled from its tattered robes, soaking into the floor. Its face was obscured by a curtain of matted hair, and the skin of its hands was pale, bloated, like something long submerged. When it lifted its head, two milky white eyes stared directly at Li Hua.
"A drowned corpse," he said, sounding almost bored. "What, no mask? No dramatic entrance?"
The creature let out a gurgling hiss and launched forward, faster than any human body had a right to move.
Li Hua was faster.
He stepped aside, slipping into the ghost's blind spot, and flicked three copper coins from his sleeve. They struck the corpse square in the forehead, embedding themselves like nails. The corpse convulsed violently, mouth opening in a silent scream as a burst of orange light surged from its eyes.
"By Heaven's command, return to dust," Li Hua said, voice low but firm.
The energy surged through the ghost's body, then extinguished it in a flash. The corpse dropped to the ground like a sack of soaked clothes, its form dissolving into a puddle of inky water that quickly seeped into the cracks in the stone.
Li Hua stood over the spot where it had fallen, watching as the final trace of the creature vanished.
He didn't smile this time.
Instead, his attention shifted to the altar, where something new now rested. A half-charred scroll, barely visible in the lantern light. Its edges were curled and blackened from flame, but the center remained intact, bearing two characters in faded gold:Huang Dao.
Li Hua frowned.
He approached the scroll, careful not to touch it directly. From his robe, he pulled a strip of protective fu paper and pressed it gently against the scroll. A shimmer of silver-blue light pulsed from the contact, calming the residual energy and stopping the scroll from burning further.
"Huang Dao Yin," he said, almost reverently. "Didn't think I'd see this one again."
Before he could examine it further, something caught his eye. On the wall behind the altar, black ink had begun to drip from the ceiling—not ink, exactly, but something like it. It pooled downward, spelling words across the stone:
Master of Jinling, gone and never returned.
Li Hua's pulse quickened.
He folded the scroll, tucked it securely into his inner robe, and turned toward the entrance. The lantern flickered, then dimmed, returning to its soft blue hue. The temple, once again, was still.
Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, though fog still clung low to the ground. Li Hua stepped beyond the temple threshold, the sound of his boots squelching through the mud the only noise for several paces.
He paused at a clearing just off the trail. The remnants of a campsite lay scattered: burned-out embers in a shallow firepit, a few footprints smeared in the mud—three sets, at least—and one strange circular mark, as if someone had pressed a copper seal into the wet ground.
Li Hua crouched and studied it.
Someone had been drawing ritual patterns in the mud. Sloppy work, but it bore the signature of Taoist training—half-formed symbols meant to ward or bind, their edges ruined by the rain.
He stood again, eyes scanning the woods. A low groan echoed from deeper in the trees. Not an animal. Not the wind.
He followed the sound to the edge of the clearing, where a hunched figure stood by the dying fire, poking at the embers with a long stick.
"Nice weather for camping," Li Hua called out, stepping closer. "You from around here?"
The figure turned. A girl—maybe sixteen—drenched and pale, but her eyes sharp. She pulled down her hood, revealing tangled hair plastered to her face. She studied him with a mixture of wariness and relief.
"You're the one who broke the seal in the temple," she said flatly.
Li Hua raised a brow. "Wasn't much of a seal left."
She held out a copper ring inlaid with glowing talisman paper. "This is a containment sigil. I've been tracking echoes of the Huang Dao Yin. I thought I was close—but I didn't expect someone to beat me to it."
He gave a low whistle. "You're no ordinary shrine-goer, are you?"
The girl ignored the sarcasm. "Name's Mei. My family kept records of the seal's origins. My grandfather said the Master of Jinling vanished when the spell was fractured. No one's dared go back since."
Li Hua's eyes narrowed. "Well, guess I'm the daring type. You live around here?"
Mei nodded. "There's a collapsed house just beyond the ridge. Dry enough for tonight. You coming?"
Li Hua considered her for a beat, then smiled faintly. "If you've got tea, I'll even carry your pack."
They started down the trail, rain misting around them. As the lantern in the temple guttered out behind them, the shadows on the mountain deepened.