Immediately after, he recounted his story. He claimed to be a drifter making a living, someone without any real methods for subduing ghosts or demons, yet he had seen a few things in his time and recognized the sarira in my hand—something that only appears when a monk attains nirvana. He admitted that he had been tempted, genuinely wanting to possess it, but some things one could do, and some things one could not. He already knew what I had done with that sarira. Though he couldn't see ghosts, he believed that my father and I had stirred up serious trouble.

Even though he considered himself a charlatan, he knew what lines not to cross, especially regarding anything connected to such grave matters. That was why he returned the sarira to me. Having spent so much time on the road, he understood the need to be cautious; he didn't want this treasure drawing trouble directly to him.

“Why tell me this?” I was genuinely puzzled by his intentions.

The Taoist smiled faintly. “Though I possess no magic, I can still offer some small assistance. Think of it as performing a good deed to accumulate some personal merit.”

I couldn't tell if he was sincere or not, but I offered him my thanks regardless.

This Taoist, just as he claimed, lacked true arcane power, but he understood a great deal. Being a doctor, at least, presented no major hurdle for him. He prepared several prescriptions of traditional Chinese medicine for my father and me, along with numerous tonics to help my father recuperate.

I was immensely grateful to Uncle Guang, who had invited this Taoist. The original intention was for the Taoist to perform rites for my father, but he arrived moments after I had used the sarira to save him, witnessing the event firsthand, which made him realize he was dealing with the real thing.

My own condition improved quickly; within a few days, I was back to normal. The Taoist speculated wildly that using the sarira must have drained a tremendous amount of my physical energy. As for my father, this course of careful treatment took several months just to stabilize, though his body remained somewhat frail. According to the Taoist, achieving a full recovery would likely require about a year of diligent care.

During this time, I vaguely noticed something strange about Uncle Guang. He seemed evasive and avoided spending time with my father and me. More significantly, I once saw him attending a meeting with other villagers. I stood far back and couldn't hear their conversation, but I could clearly see Uncle Guang looking intensely agitated.

Finally, one day, I couldn't hold back and pressed him to tell me what was truly going on.

At first, he dodged the question, but eventually, worn down by my persistence, he confessed.

The villagers were deeply concerned about what had happened to my father. Although things had calmed down, they had truly been frightened by my father's ordeal, worried that some lingering danger might involve their own safety.

By the time the Taoist had nearly finished treating my father, he had collected his fee from Uncle Guang and departed the village with a clear conscience. As he left, he warned me that whatever we had encountered was likely very formidable, and we needed to be extremely careful.

He taught me several methods he had only heard whispers of—unreliable perhaps, but worth trying if trouble arose.

Furthermore, he claimed that finding someone genuinely powerful enough to resolve the troubles surrounding me would be pure chance; most people outside were frauds like himself.

I felt a crushing sense of despair.

As my father recovered day by day, the village also became an unbearable place. Everyone looked at me with strange, wary eyes, as if I were the one who had dragged disaster into their community.

Eventually, Uncle Guang and I reached an agreement: I would sell him our house, and we would move away.

Uncle Guang hesitated, considering the matter for a long time, but finally agreed. The truth was, we were nearing the end of our tether in the village; people had begun to shun my father and me as if we carried the plague.

It seemed the power of rumors didn't diminish over time; it only grew stronger.

I couldn't help but offer a bitter smile. I couldn't really blame them; if I were in their shoes, I might have reacted the same way.

Uncle Guang scraped together some meager funds, though not much, it was enough for us to relocate. My father and I returned to the city we had left so long ago. After all this time, I knew I had to confront that place; evasion was no permanent solution.

Because of the sarira, I chose to leave it with my father. If Uncle Ye’s words held true—that as long as my father was safe, I might be safe too—then this was the necessary sacrifice.

I secured a small, independent residence for my father and, following the Taoist’s instructions, enshrined the sarira at home. This, I hoped, would guarantee his safety.

I told him I needed to find Pi Hou’er first to discuss our next steps, and that I might need to return. I was determined to find a way to fight that place to the bitter end, both to avenge my mother and for the neighbors who had perished because of it.

My father agreed with my plan. He told me not to worry about him; since the sarira would guard him, he would live well and watch his son achieve victory.

We buried the sorrow of my mother’s departure deep within our hearts; what remained was the fierce resolve to eradicate that place entirely.

It was a pity that we were still too idealistic.

I set off to find Pi Hou’er at the temple where Uncle Ye resided. The journey was anything but smooth; in fact, it plunged me into a state of chilling dread, because I discovered that after leaving the sarira at home, I had begun to see ghosts constantly, now that it was gone.

I had absolutely no comprehension of why this was happening, and initially, I didn't even realize the connection.

I was seated by the window on a long-distance bus when we hit a massive traffic jam. A serpentine line of vehicles stretched out ahead and behind us, and as the sky outside darkened, the bus remained utterly motionless.

No one on the bus knew what the holdup was. The driver got out to investigate ahead, but he never returned.

The passengers grew restless—children cried, adults argued—there was no peace for a moment. I had no choice but to roll down the window, sticking my head out partly for fresh air, and partly to see if anyone was walking by so I could inquire about the situation up front.

Just then, I noticed someone slowly approaching the bus from ahead. At some point, a light fog had rolled in, obscuring clear vision despite the illumination from various vehicle lights; everything seemed veiled.

Since someone was finally moving, I might get some answers. I leaned my entire upper body out the window, waiting for the figure to approach.

However, the person’s pace was agonizingly slow, like that of a tortoise. When the figure was still two or three cars away, I couldn't bear it any longer and called out, “Hey, excuse me, I just wanted to ask…”

The figure seemed to freeze at the sound of my voice, then suddenly accelerated. Before I could clearly make out the details, the person was moving at an incredible speed toward the bus I was sitting on.

That’s when I got a better look. Even "seeing clearly" is relative; the mist diffused the car lights, making everything look as though viewed through a sheet of gauze. I could only discern that it was a man, though his features were indistinct. He appeared relatively young, and he seemed to be wearing a bright red shirt.

Seeing him standing at the head of the bus with his hands clasped behind his back, not far from me, I raised my voice. “Buddy, quick question—what happened up front? What’s the delay? When is this traffic going to clear up?”

The man suddenly tilted his head. I didn't see his mouth move, but an eerie, chilling voice suddenly echoed in my ear.

“There was a car crash…”