Chen Xiazi, glancing at the old woman amidst the chaotic graves, felt his soul scatter and his hairs stand on end, a chilling dread sweeping over his entire body. His knees buckled, forcing him to the ground. Though his mind grasped the danger, his limbs refused to obey; from head to toe, he could not move an inch, save for his eyes and throat.

The blind man muttered inwardly, “This is ill fortune. I’ve heard tales from the Five Dynasties period of eccentric Sword Immortals, each possessing strange powers, capable of traversing vast distances in a blink. Some rode black or white donkeys that could cover a thousand li in a day, though the beasts were rarely seen—they could be summoned by cutting paper into the shape of a donkey and breathing life into it. This white donkey the old woman rides is flawless white, without a single misplaced hair; it doesn’t seem earthly. She is likely one of them, and next, she will be using a flying sword to take this humble Chen’s head.”

Yet, a thought turned the tide: how utterly transcendent and noble were the styles of the ancient sword heroes? This Old Lady Bai, gnawing on the entrails of a dead cat, her face etched with malevolence—she was either a demon or a ghost, certainly no swordsman.

In that instant, Chen Xiazi felt his body locking up. Being knowledgeable in arcane arts, he suddenly realized he had fallen victim to the "Yuan Guang" technique—what the Chinese call the art of "soul-capturing illusion," known in the West as hypnotism. It was the same principle. He surmised the one-legged old cat must have suffered the same fate, allowing the civet to wash its intestines without the slightest chance to resist.

At this moment, the Old Lady Bai urged her donkey right up to Chen Xiazi. The small civet beside her stood upright, fixing him with a cold, sneering chuckle. The harsh, grating sound of its laughter was enough to invite death. Chen Xiazi finally understood the terror the Bāi Māo (the cat he broke) must have felt; now, all he could manage were strange guttural sounds in his throat—“Hoo… Oh… Hoo”—the result of his body being so tightly strained that his vocal cords vibrated the air.

Chen Xiazi knew that sentient civets were adept at confusing the mind, but he never expected them to be this potent. His mind remained partially clear: he knew his body was paralyzed first, and soon, his consciousness would blur, forcing him to cleanse his own intestines like the Sān Zú Bāi Māo, submitting willingly to be devoured alive by the civet and the Old Lady Bai. Contemplating such a gruesome end filled him with utter despair.

His heart turning to ash, he resolved to close his eyes and await death. But his body was too stiff; he couldn't even shut his eyelids. He cursed the civet and the withered crone’s entire lineage through eighteen generations in his mind. Dying like this, he would likely leave not even bones behind. His only recourse would be to become a vengeful ghost after death to settle this score, for he would have no face to meet his ancestors otherwise.

A cornered beast still fights. Chen Xiazi was unwilling to let the civet tear out his guts, but the harder he struggled, the less his body responded. Moreover, the excessive effort generated a strange counter-force, as if all his strength were funneled into his throat, causing a continuous stream of strange noises from his mouth. Suddenly, he recalled a desperate measure: falling for this evil art was just like the sensation of being pressed down by a ghost in bed. If he could just bite his tongue hard enough to cause a full-body jolt, perhaps he could break free from the old woman's control.

But his jaw was locked rigid. Chen Xiazi began to feel numbness creeping upward. Below his eyes, he was like a wooden carving or a clay statue; even biting his tongue was now impossible. He thought, “It is over, it is over. My grand endeavor remains unfinished, and I am to die meaninglessly here in this ancient cemetery…”

Just as Chen Xiazi’s senses were about to fail and the civet was leading him toward the water for the ritual gut-washing, fate intervened—as it must in stories. A sound of crushing grass and snapping branches erupted in the grave forest. Then, a clear voice chanted from the distance: “The Earth holds righteous Qi, mingling and flowing into form; low, it becomes rivers and mountains; high, the sun and stars. In Man, it is called Vast Righteousness, pouring forth to fill the dark void…”

Every syllable and phrase of this "Song of Righteousness" was imbued with the vast, moral Qi of heaven and earth, potent in terrifying evil. Upon hearing it, Chen Xiazi instantly felt a sudden slackening in his body; some sensation returned, and his mind cleared. He instantly understood that a master had intervened, and his life was saved. But which hero was acting with such honor? He tried to ask, but his limbs had been paralyzed for too long, and only noise escaped his throat.

The hag riding the white donkey was also struck by the recitation. Her face shifted color, and she peered left and right with shifty eyes. Her accompanying civet was even more alarmed, hiding trembling beneath the donkey, poking its head out to peer around nervously.

Then, the tall grass parted, and three young Miao people—two men and one woman—emerged. Their attire indicated they were from the Bing family of the Miao clans. Each carried a large bamboo basket strapped to their backs, though no one knew what they contained.

The Miao woman led the way, holding a decorated parasol. It was the custom for Bing family women to carry umbrellas when traveling, along with flower sashes tied at the waist, used to ward off snakes and mountain spirits. Chen Xiazi watched clearly; by now, he could articulate sounds. Forgetting all about his status, he quickly called out, “Hey there, Immortal Lady! I wear the clothes of the Sa family, but I am a man of the Meng lineage. Hurry and save my life; I shall reward you handsomely!”

Chen Xiazi’s calculation was sharp: seeing they were Miao people, he immediately claimed kinship, asserting that Meng was the same as Miao, they were all the same clan; how could they watch him die?

Unexpectedly, the three Miao people ignored Chen Xiazi. Chanting under their breath, they surrounded the demoness on the white donkey and opened their decorated parasols. The umbrellas were inlaid with many mirrors specifically designed to shatter Yuan Guang techniques. Chen Xiazi felt a flash of dark mist under the moonlight, and his mind grew clearer still. When he looked again, there was no Old Lady Bai before the broken stele.

There was only an old civet, its fur mostly gone, covered in gray-white, scabby patches, riding a massive white rabbit. The old civet was skeletal thin, its hide nearly bare, leaving only scrawny, gray-white skin, but its two eyes were piercingly bright, darting nervously between the three Miao people. The smaller, yellow-furred, spotted civet, cornered by the three mirrored umbrellas, was forced into panicked circles, its previous air of extreme arrogance completely vanished.

Chen Xiazi now understood that the old civet’s illusory Yuan Guang magic had been broken by the three Miao people. The glamour dissolved, revealing their true forms. He felt his body regain mobility and sprang up in a "carp leap," intending to slay the civet himself and avenge his humiliation.

Seeing the newcomers were hostile, the old civet knew disaster was upon it. It urged the rabbit beneath it, and the large rabbit carrying the old civet charged first toward the Bing family Miao woman. Before making contact, it abruptly veered, darting back to the broken stele, leaping high off the stone fragment. It seemed intent on feigning an attack to catch the three Miao people off guard, intending to jump over one of their heads and flee.

There is an adjective called "swift as a startled rabbit." The fleeing rabbit was terrifyingly fast; its movements back and forth were like lightning. Chen Xiazi’s vision blurred. He shouted, “Bad! Do not let this wretch escape!”