Chapter 239: The Master... Needs to Light the Lamps

“Retreat!”

Lu Yuan barked.

But before his voice could fade, the funeral bundle split with a “pfft,” and a pale-blue hand shot out from inside.

The fingers were long, the nails black and shiny, and a few red threads were wound between the knuckles.

When that hand touched the ground, a second followed, then a forearm wrapped in dirty white cloth emerged.

“It’s the master’s body…” Zhou Heng’s voice tightened.

Lu Yuan didn’t look back. With a reverse grip he slammed his blade across the ritual ledger, and said in a deep voice:

“That’s not the true master’s body, it’s a hand-born puppet raised from the earth. The real master hasn’t left the coffin yet.”

He gritted his teeth, then plunged into his chest and pulled out one final Yellow Talisman folded so tightly it creaked.

This talisman was older than the rest, its edges brittle—clearly the backup stored at the bottom of his box.

Lu Yuan pinched it between his fingers and murmured:

“Song Qinghe, angle the Tai Chi Seal to Suppress Evil Plate to give me a slit.” “Lin Zhaoxuan, press lightning on the right, don’t step three feet from the coffin.” “Zhou Heng, with me—seal that hand first.”

Song Qinghe did not immediately step aside, but the Yin-Yang Fish at the plate’s center rotated slightly and opened the tiniest gap for Lu Yuan.

He drew in a long breath and slapped the talisman hard against the blade.

“The talisman borrows the blade, the blade borrows the flame; the flame borrows thunder, thunder borrows earth; earth borrows the gate, the gate borrows the malice; malice falls to paper, paper seals the form! Urgently, urgently, as by the law’s command!”

He flipped his wrist, the short blade arced out, and talisman-fire streaked straight toward that pale-blue hand thrusting from the soil.

At the same moment Zhou Heng lunged with his sword, the tip aiming at the wrist bone.

Blade and sword fell together through the air.

The talisman-fire struck first, making the palm twitch violently; immediately afterward Zhou Heng’s sword hit bone with a crisp clash like metal on wood.

The hand retracted with a violent jerk, and a deep, muffled groan rose from inside the bundle—as if whatever lay within had been suddenly knocked half-breathless.

But in that instant, the paper-masked figure at the far end of the stone path slowly lifted its head. A thin black light threaded through a crack in its paper face.

It raised the ledger and intoned in a flat voice:

“Supplement the seat, one lacking.”

As the words fell, the last white lamp behind the broken red sedan suddenly flared alive.

The light wasn’t white but tinged blue, and every paper face along the stone path seemed to come alive, their eye-sockets opening all at once.

Lu Yuan’s expression darkened. He knew the worst had come.

The “seat” was beginning to be named.

Once that final white lamp lit, the whole stone path felt slapped by ice water from head to toe.

The blue-white flame wasn’t large, yet each paper face looked as if a pulse had been painted onto it; the hollow eye-sockets opened in unison.

The paper hands and feet, the faces that had only hung on banners, now swelled under the light as if about to vomit out all the Yin energy pasted onto them.

Lu Yuan’s gaze turned cold. He braced the short blade across his chest and barked:

“Don’t look at the light!”

It was already too late.

Xu Erxiao had barely glanced once when a buzzing struck the back of his head.

It felt like a fine needle pierce his nape; his vision blurred and a thin suona melody echoed in his ears—part wedding cheer, part funeral lament.

“I…I hear someone calling me…”

His voice trembled.

Wang Cheng’an pulled him roughly and hissed:

“Shut up! Don’t answer!”

Song Qinghe’s face went pale. She shoved the Tai Chi Seal to Suppress Evil Plate forward; the Yin-Yang Fish spun faster and a thin cold glow overlapped the plate.

Through gritted teeth she said:

“Lu Dao-you, this lamp is calling the soul!”

Lu Yuan didn’t turn. He stared coldly at the paper-masked figure and spat two words:

“Name the seat.”

The paper-masked figure lifted its ledger and drew a finger across a page. Its voice remained monotone, yet now it scraped like splintering wood:

“One seat lacking.”

“Whoever lacks, take the place.”

It actually flipped the ledger forward a page.

That page had no words—only a faint red fingerprint, like someone long ago had depressed a final seal.

As the fingerprint rose from the paper, the blue-white lamp behind the paper-masked figure flickered, and the entire red-and-white procession seemed to receive an order: all the paper banners drew inward an inch.

The Yin wind flowed back at once.

The gust smelled of damp earth, of old paper, with the faintest tang of stale blood—like an old tomb whose earth had just been turned.

Lu Yuan’s heart sank. He realized they’d actually begun the “supplement seat” method.

One of the cruelest folk Yin formations wasn’t to snatch a life outright, but to use a seat to claim a person.

Once the seat was filled, the person on that seat had no escape—either pressed under the table or dragged in to serve as the formation’s destined guest.

And this time it would claim a living person—not a paper shell or wooden bones, but a real body.

“Zhou Heng, hold your ground half a step!”

Lu Yuan barked suddenly.

Zhou Heng understood instantly, crossing his long sword and planting his toe firmly on the edge of the ash circle.

“Understood!”

Lu Yuan continued:

“Song Qinghe, press the plate flat to your chest, don’t look up!”

“Lin Zhaoxuan, press the Thunderclap Token on the left-rear lamp, don’t let it relight for a second breath!”

Lin Zhaoxuan didn’t answer; the Thunderclap Token was already held high, blue-white lightning patterns crawling along its rim. He joined two fingers and recited a rapid lightning incantation:

“Heavenly thunder finds the road, earth-fire returns to root.

East Mountain open gate, western stars guard the soul.

Press the lightning, sink the lamp’s flame.

Urgently, urgently, as by the law’s command!”

No sooner had he spoken “command” than he tilted the token toward the left-rear. A thin, sharp arc of blue-white lightning sliced outward and struck the tassel of that white lamp.

Crack!

The tassel burst, the blue-white flame shrank.

With the lamp dimmed, the slender suona melody in their ears was trimmed by a hair’s breadth.

But at that instant the hand- doorway at the stone path’s end shoved upward.

Pfft!

The funeral bundle split. The second and third hands pushed out in quick succession.

It wasn’t just two hands; it seemed as if a whole body, once crushed beneath earth, was forcing itself up bit by bit.

White cloth, black mud, red thread, and shredded paper rose layer by layer from the bundle, like a headless carcass wrapped in mud.

“It’s going to rise!”

Song Qinghe cried out.

Lu Yuan’s eyes flashed cold. He reversed his grip, the blade pointing down, and pressed a foot into the short formation.

“Left green dragon, right white tiger, front vermilion bird, rear black tortoise!

Body is altar, step is lock!

For every inch I step, I press you an inch!

Three steps I take, three bridges you cut!”

He shouted the formulas as he strode forward; the short blade dragged faintly across the ground, tracing a shallow line of fire.

The scorch line wasn’t long, but within the ash circle it spread swiftly, as if a thin gold light rode along the earth’s energy and forced that mound of earth to recoil half an inch.

Seeing this, Zhou Heng advanced and struck precisely at the pale-blue wrist joints.

Clang!

The sword drove in as if into the seam between wood and metal.

The thing in the mound shrank violently, and a low, hoarse gasp came from under the soil.

Lu Yuan halted and said in a low voice:

“It’s not a living corpse, it’s a hand-led body.”

“It raises the hand first, then borrows the lamp, then borrows the seat.”

“This is the old formation’s Three-Borrowed Rising.”

Song Qinghe’s spine chilled at the name.

“Three-Borrowed Rising?”

“Yes.” Lu Yuan’s eyes were icy:

“Borrow the lamp to show the path, borrow the seat to fix the position, borrow the hand to stand up.

When lamp brightens, seats align, hand appears—the whole formation can log the living into the ledger.”

The instant he finished, the paper-masked figure flipped the ledger and slapped the spine with its right hand.

A soft “pap.”

The thing in the mound reacted as if to a bell; it pushed out harder.

The white cloth tore with a wet rip, and a damp arm slithered from the mud.

Then a shoulder, and finally half a paper face smeared with the soil’s stink.

That paper face had no features except a mouth sewn with red thread, split wide at the corner as though smiling.

“Damn!”

Zhou Heng cursed under his breath.

Lu Yuan snorted coldly. He drew a small copper coin and flicked it from his fingertip; it flashed coldly through the air.

“If it wants to come out, let it first pass the opening coin.”

He slammed the coin into the pommel of his short blade, then pressed two fingers to the mid-spine of the blade and chanted a terse door-breaking charm:

“Coin seals the gate, route’s root severed.

If the gate won’t accept, the body won’t hold!

Urgent!”

With that shout the blade swept, and the coin on the back rang with a clear, bright ping.

But—

At the sound the split on the paper face twitched as if something had been lodged in its throat.

The half-formed body that had been emerging staggered; its shoulder froze, neither in nor out.

“Good!”

Lin Zhaoxuan’s eyes brightened. He raised the Thunderclap Token again:

“I’ll seal its head!”

He pressed two fingers to the token and intoned like thunder:

“Lightning subdues the head, electric light caps the top.

Head will not break the earth, soul will not leave the well!”

“Save!”

A thin blue-white filament of lightning leapt from the token and struck above the mound.

Boom!

Black soil blasted outward; the half-exposed paper face uttered a shrill, brittle scream—part infant wail, part paper singe.

Its shoulder instantly charred, the paper skin curling, and it slumped back in.

Before they could exhale, a light, rhythmic clapping rose from the deep of the stone path.

Pap, pap, pap, pap.

The sound was soft but measured, like someone slowly clapping a wooden board in the dark.

Lu Yuan’s face shifted. He turned and saw the paper-masked figure had somehow reached the ledger’s last page.

That once-blank page now slowly bloomed five faint red dots.

Each dot looked like a nail hammered into the paper, and with each clap it pushed outward a little more.

“It’s naming five seats.”

Lu Yuan’s voice was as cold as ice:

“If five seats are filled, the master will take the table.”

Song Qinghe’s grip on the plate tightened.

“Lu—what do we do now?”

Lu Yuan did not answer at once. He lifted his eyes slowly, scanning the paper-masked figure, the shrunken coffin, the blue-white lamp, and the red-and-white banners, before returning to the far end of the stone path.

There, under the black soil, something seemed to be pressing upward at an impossibly slow pace.

He said in a low voice:

“Then first sever its five seat-bridges.

Zhou Heng, cut the banners on the right.

Lin Zhaoxuan, press lightning on the white lamp; don’t let the flame form.

Song Qinghe, don’t lower the plate from your chest; use the plate’s center to shine on those five red dots.

Cheng’an, Erxiao, come with me—scatter the earth salt.”

“Scatter salt?” Wang Cheng’an blinked.

Lu Yuan had already scooped a handful of earth salt from the bronze box and said coldly:

“Not scattered on the ground—scatter on the seat road.

For a seat to form, it first needs a road.

If I don’t let it recognize the road, it can only claim malice.”

He flicked the white salt with a wrist, hurling it toward the paper-masked figure’s feet.

At the instant the grains hit the ground, the red thread at the paper-masked figure’s feet hissed like boiling water, spuming white vapor.

The figure took half a step back for the first time.

Lu Yuan’s eyes gleamed. The formation hadn’t died, but he’d pinched its road-bone.

What was truly deadly was the thing in the coffin. It was using these breaths to break the seal.

Under the pressure of the white steam and salt, the shrunken coffin trembled.

It didn’t sink—rather it felt as if an invisible hand pressed down on the bottom, forcing the thing inside not to burst out.

A lift in the coffin lid’s edge let out a black gas that first pressed down, then surged like a coiled snake, rolling in the crack.

“It’s borrowing the seat-road to breathe.”

Lu Yuan said softly:

“Don’t give it a second breath.”

Before his voice finished, the five red dots under the ledger flared a little brighter, as if someone dripped blood onto each one.

The paper-masked figure stood beyond the barrier; black light flowed through the cracks of its paper face like a smoke-dark grin.

“One lacking.”

It repeated softly:

“Add one more, the seat is fulfilled.”

Zhou Heng slashed through the right banner’s support and the red cloth fell; a thin blue smoke rose from the severed edge.

But that cut didn’t collapse the formation. Instead, the paper faces stuck behind the banner all shuddered, like being jerked off their wooden frames.

“Don’t stop!”

Lu Yuan barked.

“You cut the root, not the skin!”

He stamped, reversed the short blade, and dragged its spine along the ground, scoring a single short brushstroke in the ash circle that looked like the character for “break.”

Where the stroke fell, the black ash on the ground gleamed as if scorched, and then a pale ring of qi-lines slowly unfurled outward.

“This is the Break-Seat Seal.”

Lu Yuan said in a low voice:

“The seat’s road has cracked—now, while we can, blind its five road eyes.”

Song Qinghe flipped the Tai Chi Seal to Suppress Evil Plate so the face was outward. The Yin-Yang Fish spun rapidly and cast a braid of black-and-white cold light that hit those five red dots on the ledger.

Once the red dots were lit, they shriveled like insects touched by salt.

Seeing this, Lin Zhaoxuan pressed the Thunderclap Token half a foot down and chanted urgently:

“Lightning is the eye, electric light the beam.

Name you, seal your post.

If lamp fails, gate won’t open.

Five seats unfulfilled, master will not come!

Save!”

A filament-thin blue-white lightning sprang from the token and struck the wicking of the last white lamp.

The lamp, already a pale sickly blue, shrank the flame to a pinprick; a fine frost appeared across the lamp’s surface.

“Good!”

Wang Cheng’an couldn’t help whispering.

At that moment the shrunken coffin gave a small click.

The sound was soft, but like a knuckle tapping inside the lid.

Then a thin black vapor shot from the seam, and in midair it condensed into a long, narrow paper hand that slapped the coffin rim with a sharp resonance.

“It’s going to flip the lid!”

Xu Erxiao screamed.

Lu Yuan’s gaze hardened. With his left hand he formed a rare Fuchang Seal with his fingers.

Thumb presses the base of the ring finger, middle finger folded into the palm, index and little finger pressed together—like a tiny invisible nail.

He intoned in a deep voice:

“The coffin has a lid; the lid has nails.

Nails must not loosen; the malice cannot wake.

I borrow the hand-seal to press your bones—press an inch, sink an inch, press to the coffin’s bottom so it dares not sound!

Urgently, urgently, as by the law’s command!”

Before the last words left his mouth he thrust his left hand down in midair.

The paper hand that had smacked the coffin rim collapsed as if struck on the head by some heavy weight; it fell back with a slapping thud.

Black gas scattered into a cold mist.

But the thing within the coffin did not retreat. Instead it emitted a very deep, very low laugh.

The laugh did not come from a mouth but scraped up from the coffin bottom, from the paper layers and earth itself, as if rubbed out of those layers.

“The master… is going to light the lamps.”

The paper-masked figure slowly raised its head, setting the ledger against its chest. With the other hand it reached into its sleeve and pulled out a strip of red tinder.

Lu Yuan’s expression shifted dramatically:

“It still kept a fire seed!”

Before he could finish the thought, the paper-masked figure struck the tinder.

A tiny crimson spark sparked to life and dropped into the wick of the last white lamp.

The blue-white flame flared up violently, suddenly blindingly bright, turning the whole stone path a ghastly white.

When the lamp brightened, every paper face inhaled at once as if in unison.

“Regis—ter—your—name—”

This time it was more than voice.

It turned into song.

Like the old wedding chants sung crossing a bridge, and like the long-drawn wails at a funeral—interwoven into a dense, creeping melody that dug into bone seams.

Lu Yuan’s face went utterly grave.

“It’s too late.”

“It’s singing life into the supplement.”

Without hesitation he spun, shouting to the others:

“Hold your breath! No one answer!”

No sooner had he spoken than the coffin lid thudded outward—pushed entirely open by an inch.

A ribbon of very thin white smoke slid from the coffin and did not disperse; instead it condensed on the earth into the blurry outline of a human form.

That silhouette had no face, but had shoulders, a waist, legs.