Chapter 59

The cliff it rested upon was known as Contemplation Cliff.

Countless cages hung suspended from the sheer cliff walls, stretching endlessly for thousands of miles into the distance. Each cage consisted of merely a few writhing chains, within which were entangled malicious spirits, resentful ghosts, and souls burdened by deep obsessions.

Before Xue Tong had become the Ten Palaces Wheel-Turning King, the underworld had been quite lively. Difficult-to-exorcise souls were forever reflecting on their lives atop Contemplation Cliff, often needing a century or two before they could finally reincarnate. At that rate, humanity would have been pushed right to the brink of extinction.

That was why Xue Tong had to become the master of the Ten Halls. It was the reason for her existence and her solemn duty. Only after the Ten Halls gained their lord did they appoint judges, ox-headed and horse-faced attendants, day and night patrol deities to serve at their command. Later still came the bloodline-inherited families like Zhong, Xun, Wang, and Liu.

All of it had been for the sake of building a flawless reincarnation system.

Xun Ruosu now stood before Contemplation Cliff, her gaze distant and serene. To her, whether fierce ghosts that harmed the living or purely benevolent souls, they were all merely fleeting sparks of mortal life. Every debt arose from karma, rendering it neither unjust nor deserving of pity or favoritism.

Yet Xun Ruosu sensed a subtle shift within her own heart—a mere acknowledgment that this was “how things ought to be.”

True equanimity should resemble the stark, lonely chill of an endless plain. But Xun Ruosu felt instead like a solitary sail adrift on a vast river, suddenly granted a destination toward which to voyage.

For anyone else, such a discovery would have meant purpose in life, a blessing indeed. For her, though, it was a mistake that demanded swift correction.

With a sudden leap, she hurled herself from the Reflection Stone. Still lost in reminiscence, Xun Ruosu failed to register the suicidal impulse until the sensation of freefall jolted her soul awake. She drew in a ragged breath laced with the scent of flame and coughed twice, choking on it. Xue Tong’s face loomed enormous before her eyes, the woman’s hand already reaching to check her nostrils for breath.

Xun Ruosu’s gaze flickered to awareness a beat too late. She clasped Xue Tong’s hand, feeling its warmth and softness mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood. Xue Tong murmured softly, “My wound hasn’t healed yet.”

Wounds inflicted by heavenly thunder carried unique properties—even Xue Tong couldn’t mend them in an instant. She held out her palm. “It needs disinfecting.”

“Childish,” Xun Ruosu muttered, her head still throbbing faintly.

The ordeal had resembled her trial in the Ten Thousand People Pit: there, it had been the karmic obstacles of thousands battering her, while moments ago a colossal bolt of thunder had pierced straight through her chest, shuddering her very soul.

The previous set of recovered memories had unquestionably been hers alone. This time, however, carried an inexplicable estrangement, a profound distance—as if they belonged to her yet were not meant to be recalled.

Xue Tong’s blood continued to well slowly from the gash; it was red like any mortal’s, reeking of iron and radiating warmth. But thick merits imbued it with power, lending a faint golden sheen to any yellow talisman or copper coin it touched.

The cut refused instant healing but knit gradually all the same. Its edges had paled from blood loss as tender granulation bridged and smoothed the surface, though bordered by slight red swelling. Xun Ruosu counted them meticulously: twenty-six slender wounds crisscrossing her skin without mercy. An alcohol spray would have burned like fire amid such density, while band-aids offered no practical shield.

Suddenly recollecting something, Xun Ruosu slowly lifted her own hand—the one mirroring Xue Tong’s.

Her palm lay smooth and unmarred, flawless as untouched silk.

Xun Ruosu’s eyes sharpened in an instant. She yanked open Xue Tong’s collar without preamble. Xue Tong stood placidly, allowing the fabric to part down to her collarbone and lay bare the Sanskrit seal beneath.

“Why?” Xun Ruosu demanded, bewildered.

“You ought to be thanking me profusely,” Xue Tong huffed, averting her gaze awkwardly. “I took double the damage on purpose. I figured a direct lightning strike would scatter your soul to the winds.”

No wonder her hand bore such grievous injury.

Xun Ruosu lowered her eyes and fished a cotton swab and roll of gauze from her cloth pouch. She dampened the swab with alcohol, then dabbed meticulously at the inflamed edges of the wounds. Softly, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

“It’s tolerable,” Xue Tong replied. She flexed her finger joints experimentally, and the fragile flesh tore anew under the strain, fresh beads of blood welling forth. “I break the rules all the time, riling up the Heavenly Dao. Truth be told, not fearing pain much is what lets me get away with it…”

“I’m sorry.” Xun Ruosu cut her off gravely before she could finish. “I should have realized it would drag you down too. With proper forethought before acting, none of this would have…”

“But plans always hit snags,” Xue Tong shot back, irritation flickering in her tone. “You can’t stay thorough and predictable and by-the-book forever. Besides, I chose to get hurt. None of your damn business.”

Xun Ruosu fell silent. Xue Tong’s words sounded self-directed, yet somehow Xun Ruosu didn’t feel like the true spark of that ire. Digging deeper, it didn’t even stem from anything she’d said.

An inexplicable discontent stirred in Xun Ruosu too. She uttered a flat “Oh” and produced two fresh talismans from her pouch, slapping them over the renewed bleeding. Gesturing curtly, she added, “Whatever doesn’t clot, make the most of it. Don’t waste a drop—smear it all on those copper coins for me.”

With a smile, she continued, “Since it’s none of my business, go on and bandage yourself.”

Xue Tong eyed her warily, half-convinced a grudge soul had taken hold. Xun Ruosu had turned unnervingly sharp-edged in a blink.

Three bolts of heavenly thunder had struck, though Xun Ruosu’s meddling had blunted the third’s force. It merely pulverized the already bisected roof tile into dust. The humble tiled house fell short of modern reinforced concrete in resilience, yet beneath the tiles lay a substantial layer of brick and stone. Stripped bare, it would not reveal the rafters or anyone within.

Southern-style buildings shunned hollow designs regardless. Tiles already bore gaps between them; absent the brick barrier, a rainstorm would synchronize deluge indoors and out, turning the place into a lake.

Milking Xue Tong’s “value” like this was mere petulance on Xun Ruosu’s part—a rare indulgence for someone of her habitually even temperament, untried in all her twenty-odd years. And yet the mere thought of Xue Tong peering through her at others clogged her chest with stuffiness, demanding she assert her own centrality before relief came.

Xun Ruosu sighed and inwardly chided herself. “Childish.” The word had barely left her lips when she chuckled first.

Memories of past and present lives ought not to interfere. Reincarnation forged a wholly new soul; even debt-settling transpired mutually unaware, hardships accepted as life’s ordinary toll. That was the proper mechanism. Deviate from it, and you ended up like Xun Ruosu: one person, dual existences, memories proliferating into outright rejection.

Memories were but the final imprint of lived experience, and experience inexorably reshaped one’s temperament, outlook, and inner world. Xun Ruosu even wondered if fully reclaiming them would birth someone utterly new, unrecognizable from her present self.

She plunged abruptly into a philosophical mire.

She really should have minored in philosophy back in university. A spot of rigorous self-examination might have elevated her to timeless sagehood.

At that moment, a piercing scream erupted from within the house. Zhong Li wailed at the top of her lungs, “Help! Somebody help!”

The few meters passed in heartbeats. Xun Ruosu clutched over a dozen copper coins slick with Xue Tong’s merit-laden blood—valuable enough to reuse. She flung them ahead, and a gust of wind propelled them forth. She and Xue Tong had yet to reach the doorway when the lifesaving coins arrived at Zhong Li’s side.

Yet Zhong Li bore no trace of injury anywhere on her body. Huang Xiaoran recoiled in startlement too, drawing her knees tight and scooting sideways, though the two girls’ hands remained clasped fast. To guard against mishaps, Xun Ruosu had bound them together early with a red rope, one Xue Tong had specially consecrated—even a fierce ghost couldn’t snap it.

Zhong Li’s cries persisted, raw with terror too visceral to feign. She must have glimpsed horrors dwarfing mere bodily harm, ones assailing the soul itself. “I’ll take a look,” Xue Tong said curtly, abandoning Xun Ruosu in place.

Checking her out didn’t mean a cursory glance from afar. Xue Tong plunged straight into her dreamscape. Zhong Li’s state resembled wide-eyed daydreaming. Bearing Zhong family blood, her binding to Huang Xiaoran had inevitably dredged up the latter’s ancient sins for reckoning.

Xun Ruosu typically handled such matters, but this marked Xue Tong’s first voluntary charge—undertaken sans permission, no less. Xun Ruosu stood stunned for a moment before realization dawned: Xue Tong was wracked with guilt.

Pure impulse had spurred her fingertip to Zhong Li’s brow—then instant regret. Better to have stood arms crossed, playing spectator; now she reeked of guilt as if protesting innocence too loudly.

But the unfolding scene swiftly commandeered her focus, shoving aside all sentiment.

This was Zhong Mansion. A massive plaque dominated the entrance, inscribed in elegant clerical script with an official seal in the corner. Masterfully mounted on red damask with gilded lettering, its frame bore intricate peony carvings.

The plaque evoked antiquity, but the residence screamed modernity—even the central garden was faux, complete with a pavilion housing a washbasin pool.

No crime scene, this “Zhong Mansion.” Xue Tong surmised it harked back to before Huang Xiaoran became the vessel: her first visit to Zhong Cangyun, brimming with desperate hope.

The Zhong family gates repelled intruders, ghosts most of all. The plaque read “Zhong Mansion” on its face but depicted an Xie Zhi beast on the reverse—embodiment of justice, utterly impartial. Flanking doors bore images of day and night patrol deities. Wandering ghosts felt instinctive dread nearing it; forcing entry invited summary expulsion.

Huang Xiaoran scarcely dared stir. She watched her calling card—the guide—drift through the portal, only to return moments later escorting a middle-aged man.

By facial features alone, Zhong Cangyun appeared no older than fifty, hale and spry. Yet gray streaked his temples, and as Xun Ruosu’s paternal uncle, he neared sixty in truth.

Zhong Cangyun had a kindly, approachable countenance that faintly resembled Xun Ruosu’s, particularly in the upper half of his face. However, where she was cold-hearted and ungrateful, her brows and eyes forever carrying a faint air of detachment, he possessed far more benevolence—and, of course, even greater resolve.

At first glance, the old man seemed warm and inviting, nothing at all like the head of the household.