‘A hallucination? Or not a hallucination?’
Lu Sheng’s eyes narrowed slightly as he suppressed the storm of doubt rising in his chest. “I’m fine,” he replied evenly, straightening his back.
“Young Master… Lord Xu and the rest, they all were such good men. Such good officials. How can it be…?” Little Qiao’s voice broke as tears welled up in her eyes.
Lu Sheng stood silently, his gaze fixed upon the corpses of the Xu family strewn across the floor. Their faces were tinged a ghastly greenish-gray, dark ligature marks stark against their necks.
The Prefect, after a brief, uneasy glance, left in haste, entrusting the matter to the Chief Constable. Nearby, several yamen officials gathered in hushed tones, discussing the case with grim expressions.
“Young Master, Old Master asks you to come over,” a servant called out softly as he approached. His eyes darted toward the Xu family’s bodies with barely concealed fear.
“I’ll be right there,” Lu Sheng replied, glancing sideways at the young man. “Are you scared?”
“I am scared,” the servant admitted. Though barely eighteen or nineteen, his tone carried the weight of someone far older. “But I’m a refugee from the Ju Rong Nation in the east. There’s famine there now—corpses litter the ground, and some even trade their children to survive. Pitiful scenes like this are… commonplace.”
He sighed, then quickly lowered his head, realizing he had spoken out of turn.
“Commonplace? Are there many such incidents in Ju Rong Nation?” Lu Sheng asked quietly.
The servant hesitated before answering. “More than a few.”
Lu Sheng’s chest tightened. Without slowing his pace, he moved swiftly toward his father—Lu Fang.
Lu Fang, also known by his courtesy name Quanan, was famed as the Golden Dollar Man. His wealth was renowned throughout Nine Links City. News of the Lu and Xu families’ upcoming union had spread far and wide, drawing congratulatory gifts even from the distant Zi Hua City in the west.
Yet now, that grand celebration had met a cruel and unexpected end.
Lu Quanan’s face was ashen, his features drawn tight with exhaustion and worry. “Tell Constable Zhao about what happened yesterday in detail.”
He stepped aside, making room for a bearded man who approached with a stern, investigative air.
Lu Sheng’s thoughts kept circling back to Xu Daoran’s words from the previous day. He was certain that the water ghost case was tied to the Xu family’s deaths. Thus, he carefully recounted everything Xu Daoran had told him, leaving nothing out.
Chief Constable Zhao listened in silence, his brows furrowing deeper with every word. Yet when the recounting ended, no new clues emerged from the chaos.
Seeing that there were no further questions, Lu Sheng quietly excused himself.
Behind him, the yamen’s men began cleaning up the scene, lifting the bodies with grim precision. Lu Sheng lingered at the edge, watching in silence. When Xu Daoran’s lifeless form was placed on a stretcher, he sighed and turned to a nearby constable.
“Brother, are there any surviving members of the Xu family?”
He had thought that, should there be a survivor, he might offer aid—or perhaps learn more about what truly happened.
“Nope… they’re all gone. Even their external relatives’ families were dragged in. Maybe a few distant kin still live in Zi Hua City,” the constable murmured, shaking his head.
Lu Sheng slipped a silver coin discreetly into the man’s palm, then turned away. Taking Little Qiao with him, he boarded the family’s waiting carriage.
The wheels creaked to life, carrying them back home through streets heavy with winter air. Yet the Xu family’s tragic fate lingered in every heart.
Upon their return, Lu Fang—known also as Lu Quanan—gathered the household in the main hall. His tone was cold and resolute as he announced, “From this day forth, the engagement with the Xu family is annulled. The women are to console Yiyi.” With that, he dismissed them and retired alone to his quarters.
One by one, the younger men drifted out into the night—some to the city’s winery, others to the brothels—seeking distraction in familiar vices. The women, meanwhile, went to the nearby Red Lotus Temple to pray for peace and protection, returning with talismans blessed by the temple priest to ward off misfortune and evil spirits.
The entire Lu household was steeped in unease. Fear lingered in every breath, every hurried glance.
But Lu Sheng did not leave with the others. Instead, he took Little Qiao and made his way toward the family library.
The air inside was still and heavy. As he pushed open the tall wooden doors, the faint creak of hinges echoed through the quiet room. A plump woman was dusting the shelves, her movements slow and deliberate.
The mahogany shelves stretched high, their dark polish catching faint traces of light from the latticed windows. Dust motes drifted lazily in the dim glow, and the mingled scent of aged paper and sandalwood lent the place a strange, almost sacred air.
Lu Sheng stepped past the carved wooden partition near the entrance, its circular frame adorned with painted flowers and birds. A soft fragrance of old wood brushed against his senses.
“Take your leave first. I’ll read some books by myself and take a rest,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Little Qiao answered, bowing slightly before leaving with the cleaning woman.
When the doors closed behind them, silence reclaimed the room. Lu Sheng exhaled softly, his gaze drifting across the rows of shelves. For a long moment, he simply stood there—then began his search.
His fingers trailed along the spines until he found several thick volumes of local prefectural records. He pulled them down, stacked them on a nearby table, and began to flip through them under the faint light filtering through the windows.
His eyes moved swiftly across the brittle pages.
“In the seventy-second year of the Great Song, a man appeared on the outskirts of Nine Links City and, in a crazed frenzy, slaughtered twelve with a saber before being killed by yamen constables.”
“In the eighty-fifth year of the Great Song, on the streets of downtown Nine Links City, a man’s head was suddenly severed from his body. Cause of death—unknown.”
“In the ninety-first year of the Great Song, fifteen tourists went missing near the deserted temple outside the city. The case remains unsolved to this day.”
“In the ninety-fifth year of the Great Song, the owner of Nine Links City’s Music Plaza disappeared. His limbs were later found in four different locations. The corpse had decomposed to bone within four days of death.”
“In the hundred and sixteenth year of the Great Song, a baby’s cry was heard outside the city at night. All who went to investigate vanished without a trace. The crying persisted for three nights before fading away.”
The flickering light danced across the inked pages as Lu Sheng read on, the silence deepening around him.
............
As Lu Sheng read through the countless records, both great and small, a cold shiver crept down his spine. The deeper he went, the more his shock grew. The sheer number of bizarre, horrifying events was enough to unsettle even the steadiest of minds.
It was terrifying to think how people managed to live with such things lurking beyond their doors, their sanity intact in a world where danger waited at every step.
He opened another volume. The accounts within were even more unsettling than before.
“In the hundred and nineteenth year of the Great Song, a blizzard struck Nine Links City. The Dragon Lord was said to have appeared, and within three days the snow ceased. The storm that had raged for over ten days ended abruptly.”
“In the hundred and twenty-eighth year of the Great Song, a thick fog blanketed the road to Zi Hua City. Those who entered lost their way, only to reappear on the shores of the White Frozen Sea, several miles distant. Ten days later, the fog vanished as mysteriously as it came.”
By the time he finished reading, Lu Sheng’s thoughts were heavy and grim. There was no longer any doubt—this world was far from ordinary. Monsters, demons, and ghosts likely did exist here.
He had never heard of any human method capable of commanding the weather.
Shifting his chair, he struck a flint and lit the candle on the table. The small flame flickered to life, its warm glow casting long, trembling shadows across his face.
“If this world is truly as dangerous as I think… then what must I do to protect myself? What can I rely on?”
The question lingered in his mind as he sat there, lost in thought.
After a moment, he rose quietly, blew out the candle, and returned the books to their places one by one. Then, pushing open the heavy wooden doors, he stepped out into the corridor.
“Young Master, you’re done reading?”
Little Qiao, who had been dozing off with her back against the door, startled awake at his sudden appearance but quickly straightened.
“Mm. Where’s Uncle Zhao now? Do you know?” Lu Sheng asked casually.
Among the many men in the Lu Manor bearing the surname Zhao, only one was addressed by everyone as Uncle Zhao. Even Lu Fang himself treated him with respect.
He was Zhao Dahu—the number one expert of the Lu family, its most formidable martial arts master.
“Er… around this hour, Uncle Zhao is usually at the martial arts arena—tempering his bones and training the servants,” Little Qiao said softly. She was on good terms with the other servants and often kept up with the manor’s goings-on.
“Let’s go find him.”
Lu Sheng had thought it through. Of all the people within the estate, Uncle Zhao was the most approachable—and the one most capable of teaching him how to defend himself.
The path through the manor was quiet. Passing through two rows of sleeping quarters, Lu Sheng soon reached the rear courtyard where the arena stood.
There, under the broad light of the morning sun, an elderly man with snow-white hair was leading a group of more than ten servants in martial drills. The rhythmic thuds of their movements echoed across the open yard.
The sunlight poured over the scene, softening the heaviness in Lu Sheng’s heart after the grim discoveries of the morning.
Zhao Dahu, the martial arts master, wore a fitted black tunic and grey pants, his frame still broad and powerful despite his age. Strapped to his back was a thick-bladed saber—its presence as much a part of him as his shadow.
Lu Sheng stood quietly at the side, watching. After a while, Zhao Dahu clapped his hands and let the servants pair off to spar on their own. Then he turned, his sharp eyes meeting Lu Sheng’s.
“Young Master, what brings you to the arena today? Is there something this old man can help you with?”
In the Lu family, Zhao Dahu’s standing was nearly equal to that of the Old Master himself. Several other martial instructors also enjoyed similar respect, treating the younger generation as equals.
Lu Sheng glanced briefly at the servants still training in the distance before speaking.
“Uncle Zhao, I wish to learn martial arts.”
For a brief moment, Zhao Dahu’s smile stiffened, surprise flickering in his eyes.
“Big Brother Sheng, you’re not here to make fun of an old man, are you?”
“I’m not,” Lu Sheng replied with a steady shake of his head.
He had already made up his mind. If he was to survive in this world, then the first—and perhaps only—step he could take was to learn the art of self-preservation from the martial masters within his own home.
Among all the martial artists in Nine Links City, those who could match the saber technique of Lu Manor’s own martial master—Zhao Dahu, known affectionately as Uncle Zhao—could be counted on one hand.
Zhao Dahu regarded Lu Sheng with a grave expression before slowly shaking his head. “If Brother Sheng truly wishes to learn martial arts, then whatever I know, I can teach you. But… you’re already grown. Your bones have long set, and many movements won’t come naturally to you. Without proper form, the power of these techniques will be greatly diminished.”
“It’s fine. Uncle Zhao, just teach me.”
Lu Sheng’s tone was calm, but beneath it lay a deeper intent—he wasn’t merely seeking self-defense; he wanted to test and confirm something within himself.
Zhao Dahu fell silent for a while, then finally nodded. “Very well. I have no heir, and I’ve lived well under the Lu family’s roof all these years. The Old Master has treated me kindly. By right, you should perform a discipleship ceremony to learn my craft—but considering our ties, forget about formalities. Just promise me one thing: never pass down my technique to outsiders.”
He waved his hand dismissively, though his eyes betrayed a faint warmth. As the Lu family’s eldest son and future heir, Lu Sheng’s goodwill was something Zhao Dahu naturally wished to strengthen.
“However, Brother Sheng,” he continued after a pause, “there’s something I must make clear to you first.”
“Please, go ahead,” Lu Sheng replied earnestly.
Zhao Dahu stroked his beard, his expression turning somber. “I know you’re learning this because of what happened to the Xu family this morning. But listen well—even the strongest martial masters in the pugilistic world are helpless against those strange, otherworldly things. Martial skill alone can’t confront what’s steeped in mystery and darkness.”
“…I understand,” Lu Sheng said quietly. “I just… feel uneasy. I’ll do what I can.”
“As long as Brother Sheng understands.”
After a moment of thought, Zhao Dahu reached into his robe and drew out a small booklet wrapped carefully in layers of yellow cloth. With slow, deliberate movements, he peeled away the wrappings, revealing an aged booklet beneath.
Across its cover, bold characters were inscribed: “Black Tiger Saber Technique.”
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and then Add to home screen.