Morning fog hung over Taiping Town like gauze. On the wooden bed upstairs in the paper-effigy shop, I slept on—half numb with fear, half crushed by exhaustion—until nearly noon.

　　What finally dragged me out of that murky sleep was the itching. A numb, crawling itch from the rotting patch on my left hand, as if a swarm of ants were burrowing madly beneath my skin. I looked down. The small bottle of medicine Lu Yaqi had applied the night before was already empty. Worse still, the wound showed no sign of healing. Black, foul pus oozed out, filling the air with a sharp, nauseating stench.

　　Just then, footsteps sounded downstairs. Along with them came a child’s rhyme I didn’t recognize, drifting in and out, wavering as if carried from some distant, shadowed world:

　　“Comb the hair from root to end,

　　And the dead shall rise again…”

　　It definitely wasn’t Lu Yaqi’s voice. My scalp prickled.

　　I threw off the blanket—and froze. The bedsheet was smeared with winding trails of paper ash, snakelike in shape.

　　“Great,” I muttered to myself. “Even the sorcerer’s spirit snakes have slithered in here.”

　　Unease tightened in my chest.

　　At that moment, an old man stepped into the room, carrying a basin of steaming water. A few withered locust-tree leaves floated on the surface, spinning weakly as the water rippled. In his hand was an ebony comb. On the back of it were carved two stark characters: Imperial Command. The teeth of the comb were tangled with long strands of gray-white hair that shimmered faintly, as if dusted with phosphorescence. Tied to each strand was a copper coin—what I would later learn were called “life-buying coins.”

　　“Lad, it’s time to comb your hair.”

　　His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against rough wood, every word carrying the stale rot of age. Only then did I notice his right hand—three fingers were missing. The stumps were dark and bruised-looking, as if something vicious had bitten them clean off. It made my stomach tighten.

　　“Who are you?” I asked, forcing the words out.

　　“Your elder,” he said calmly, stepping up to my bedside and bending down. His shriveled fingers brushed my forehead. Instantly, a dry, rancid stench rushed into my nose. My stomach lurched; I nearly retched.

　　Up close, I saw his eyes narrowed to slits. The whites were clouded and webbed with bloodshot veins. His cracked eyelids looked like dead bark, every blink slow and labored.

　　“You saw the yin soldiers last night,” he said. “One of your seven souls has already been taken. When yin soldiers pass, the living who see them pay with their lives. I’m going to comb your hair now and mend that missing soul—but remember this: never let curiosity get the better of you again.”

　　As he spoke, he dipped the ebony comb into the water with the locust leaves.

　　Then he began to comb—against the direction of my hair.

　　With every stroke, a piercing pain shot through my scalp, as if countless needles were stabbing in at once. I couldn’t stop myself from frowning, my jaw clenching hard.

　　“Comb against the grain, send the wronged souls on their way.

　　Comb to the end, and the ghost gate swings open…”

　　The old man’s chant sank lower and lower, until it seemed to seep into the walls themselves. The room dimmed, the light draining away. The air grew colder, heavier, pressing down until it was hard to breathe.

　　I felt the veins in my forehead throb violently, as if something inside were about to burst through my skin. A chill spread from my scalp through my entire body, leaving me shivering uncontrollably.

　　“This is the Minnan song-rou-zong combing rite,” the old man explained, still working the comb through my hair. “A comb that’s touched the dead can call back a wandering soul that’s drifted outside your body.”

　　The moment he finished speaking, he suddenly yanked hard.

　　Crack.

　　The gray-white hair tangled in the comb snapped. The severed strands fell into the basin—and instantly transformed into writhing parasitic worms. On their backs appeared the pattern of the Big Dipper. In the blink of an eye, their bodies swelled, growing to the size of a thumb, becoming grotesque, ferocious soul-devouring gu.

　　“Ah—!”

　　The tearing pain in my scalp made me scream. Instinctively, I grabbed at my head and ripped out a bloody clump of hair. When I looked closer, I saw several black eggs clinging to the roots, reeking with a revolting stench.

　　The old man’s expression twisted into something profoundly unnatural. He shouted, “Damn it—living blood touched the comb! The wronged spirits are going to bite back!”

　　The words had barely left his mouth when—whoosh—an invisible force slammed the window open. A blast of black wind poured into the room, sending joss paper and talismans whirling through the air. At the same time, a creak-creak rose from downstairs, like bamboo strips grinding together. The paper effigies had come to life.

　　From above, I saw them shuffling forward with stiff, jerking steps, closing in on the second floor. What was most terrifying was this: when they reached the doorway, black tears of blood dripped steadily from their eyes, and their mouths stretched into grotesque forty-five-degree grins—faces so ghastly they looked like demons clawing their way out of hell.

　　“Get out of this hellhole with me!” the old man roared. He snatched up the ebony comb from the floor and plunged it back into the basin of locust-leaf water.

　　I stared at him, stunned. The leaves in the basin seemed bewitched—yellowing, blackening, and rotting in seconds, releasing a thick, acrid stench that turned my stomach. The room filled with the reek of death and decay.

　　Just as the paper figures were about to lunge at me, at the very brink of disaster, there came a thunderous bang. The door flew open under an unseen force.

　　Lu Yaqi stood in the doorway, gripping a peachwood sword, her stance sharp and resolute. Black blood dripped steadily from the tip of the blade, the dark red spreading across the floor like a flower of pure malice in bloom. On the hem of her white dress, the embroidered pattern of the Big Dipper glimmered faintly, casting an eerie, spectral glow across the room.

　　“Monster—you’ve crossed the line,” she said coldly.

　　Her voice was like frost drawn from the depths of the underworld. A flash of killing intent cut through her eyes, sharp as a winter blade, chilling me to the bone.

　　The old man reacted instantly. With the stump of his right hand, he scraped rapidly across the floor. A shrill screech rang out as three black marks appeared at once, faintly forming the dread script for life, death, and rebirth. In the next instant, his body began to swell grotesquely. Countless gu worms writhed beneath his skin, some bursting forth from the severed fingers, spilling out with a rustle-rustle that mixed with the stench of rot and nearly suffocated me.

　　Lu Yaqi frowned slightly and tightened her grip on the peachwood sword. The blade seemed to strain under an immense force, leaking thick, ink-black vapors. Her lips moved, trembling as she whispered an incantation:

　　“Heaven round, earth square.

　　The laws in nine commands.

　　I draw my sword this hour—

　　Let all demons bow and hide.”

　　Her voice was soft, yet carried an unquestionable authority that echoed through the warped space. As the final words fell, the black vapors at the sword’s tip surged together, coalescing into a ferocious black dragon. It lunged forward, bearing a freezing chill and overwhelming murderous energy, hurtling straight at the old man.

　　Faced with the onrushing dragon, the old man remained eerily calm. His hands flashed through intricate seals as he chanted in a harsh, archaic cadence:

　　“The sun rises in the east,

　　dark hosts surge and swarm.

　　Thousands upon thousands,

　　eyes black and misaligned.

　　Mountain before me, water behind.

　　Dragon banner to the left, tiger sigil to the right.

　　By the command of the Lords of Three Mountains and Nine Marshals—

　　I bind and command!”

　　The moment the final word rang out, the paper effigies pouring toward me from the corners abruptly changed course. As if obeying an unseen order, they darted in unison to the old man’s side, forming a tight, protective ring around him.

　　In the blink of an eye, Lu Yaqi’s black dragon slammed head-on into the old man’s paper effigies.

　　A blinding flare of fire erupted, flooding the dim room with white-hot light. The paper figures writhed under the impact, their blood-black tears pouring down in heavy drops. Their joints rattled and shrieked—creak, creak—like bones grinding in agony, the sound eerily close to wailing.

　　A cold smile curved Lu Yaqi’s lips.

　　Her left hand moved in swift, practiced seals, light and fluid. Moments later, a copper coin appeared between her fingers. With a flick, she sent it spinning skyward. Midair, it transformed into a streak of radiant golden light, sharp as a divine blade, punching straight through the paper figures. Wherever the golden light struck, flames burst forth. The effigies were instantly engulfed, the fire devouring them and filling the air with a choking smell of scorched paper.

　　Seeing his paper guards destroyed, the old man’s expression finally shifted. He threw his head back and spat out a mouthful of black blood. In midair, it split and twisted into countless small snakes. They writhed, tongues flickering, bristling with malice as they lunged viciously toward Lu Yaqi.

　　She remained utterly composed.

　　Drawing the peachwood sword in a smooth arc before her, she let its cold gleam flash. The moment the blade met the blood snakes, sparks exploded in showers, crackling without end. The snakes hissed and shrieked, their sounds mingling with the dying cries of the paper figures to form a chilling, unnatural chorus. Before long, the blood snakes dissolved into wisps of black smoke, fading into nothing.

　　Seizing the opening, Lu Yaqi moved like a specter. In a single burst, she closed the distance, the peachwood sword flashing straight toward the old man’s throat.

　　Sensing the lethal strike, he twisted aside with all his strength, barely evading death. But before he could regain his footing, Lu Yaqi’s kick landed squarely in his chest. His frail body flew backward like a kite with its string cut, smashing through the floorboards and plunging into the darkness below. Splintered wood sprayed into the air, drifting down in his wake.

　　“I spare your life as a messenger,” Lu Yaqi shouted toward the hole, her voice echoing through the room, sharp with dominance. “Go back and tell Shen Tianjun—if he dares to snatch someone from under my watch again, I will open a killing field upon his head.”

　　At the name Shen Tianjun, the old man’s falling body visibly shuddered in the darkness. Moments later, he struggled back to his feet below. Without daring to linger, he dragged his battered body away, vanishing down the stairwell. Only the sound of retreating footsteps remained.

　　Lu Yaqi slowly lowered the peachwood sword and turned her gaze to me. She stepped closer and lightly traced a finger across the wound on my forehead, picking up a bead of black blood, as if testing its nature.

　　“Good thing I got here in time,” she said, shaking her head faintly. “Otherwise this idiot would’ve ended up as meat on someone else’s chopping block.”

　　She let out a soft sigh and looked toward the sun sinking beyond the window.

　　“Looks like tonight, I’ll have to set up an altar and purge the corpse poison from you.”

　　Her voice carried a hint of weariness—but beneath it was firm resolve, as though she was already prepared for whatever trials the night would bring.