Chapter 1005

“How is this possible?”

Under the blessing of Great Vehicle Dharma, not a single one of these ghosts—none even at the Ascent Stage—had their souls scattered, nor were they even weakened. It defied all logic!

It wasn’t only Kuliang and Kushen who were astonished.

Even Kuxin could not help but pause his chanting, curious as he looked at the surrounding ghosts.

He could clearly feel that their cultivation was pitifully low.

The only oddity was the strange devices perched on their heads—those must be blocking the {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} sutras!

What exactly were they? And why did every ghost wear one?

Lost in thought, Kuxin was startled by a shrill voice as a shrewish female ghost yanked off her headset and snapped, “You bald monk, confess—did Grand Steward Ye send you? I thought that brat had truly reformed and voluntarily resigned, and we’d finally be free of torment.”

“But here you are! No more spirit stones for recording sutras, huh? You send fake monks instead? Tell me where Steward Ye is—we’ll confront him ourselves!”

Her words stirred the crowd like a stone in a pond, and many ghosts raised their fists in agreement, ready to fight to the death.

They were driven to desperation—just as they’d tasted relief, torment returned.

“Enough already!” they clamored. “Today we demand answers!”

Kuxin, Kuliang, and Kushen all looked on bewildered. “Who? Who is Steward Ye?”

Smack!

A crisp slap rang out.

Kuliang stared in shock at the shrewish ghost before him. He could not believe that a mere Nascent Soul Stage ghost dared strike him.

“How dare you!” she spat. “You old dried eggplant, pretend you don’t know me? Ugh, that really hurt!”

As she flailed, golden light seared her right arm, reducing it to nothingness.

Yet the golden glow did not dissipate; it climbed her shoulder.

Luckily, a quick-handed ghost behind her severed the limb with an Underworld implement, saving her life.

The shrewish ghost eyed her missing arm, then turned to the monk whose body now gleamed with golden radiance.

“A Golden-Body Monk!” she screamed in terror.

Legend held that once a monk perfected the true fruit of cultivation and ascended to the Celestial Buddhist Realm, he gained a golden body—ordinary ghosts could not approach without being reduced to dust.

It seemed the legend was real.

At her scream, every ghost scattered in panic.

In that moment, they finally understood: these three emaciated monks were not impostors sent by Ye Yu, but genuine high monks.

What a relief!

Insulting true monks would be like striking at the heavens!

Kuliang and Kushen, seeing the ghosts flee, regained their composure. “So they weren’t mad—they simply thought we were fake!”

“Don’t mistake a tiger’s silence for weakness!” Kuliang declared, clasping his hands. A hundred-zhang-tall golden Arhat avatar appeared behind him, its strikes shattering dozens of ghosts’ souls at once.

Kushen followed suit, while Kuxin resumed chanting, golden light pulsing from his form.

The ghosts who had torn off their headsets writhed in agony—but none suffered soul tremors, and they still wandered on, albeit pained.

Kuxin frowned. He had assumed the headsets alone had shielded them—but clearly, something else was at play. These ghosts were truly extraordinary.

As Kuxin pondered, Qian Qian, City Lord of Liaonian, arrived with several allies. He had waited until now, having discerned the monks’ strength and summoned reinforcements. Had the ghosts not delayed the invaders, he would never have had time to call for aid.

Now, the tide had turned. “Your end has come, bald monk!” he snarled.

Two hours later...

All three monks lay fallen.

The city’s guards tallied the dead. When they learned fewer than a thousand ghosts had perished—and all by the wrathful Arhat phantoms, not the sutras—Qian Qian’s eyes widened in disbelief.

He recalled Ye Yu’s words:

“Hear more sutras, build resistance!”

“Deeds in the present; praise for ten thousand autumns.”

It was all true—Ye Yu had foreseen Liaonian City’s crisis and come to help, enduring insults without a word. With only his own strength, he had saved countless ghosts.

He was a true Saint of Ghosts!

Tears welled in Qian Qian’s eyes, and blood-red tears fell as he clenched his fists. “Brother Ye Yu,” he whispered, “you cared nothing for fame, but I cannot let them continue to misunderstand you.”

He immediately commanded a monument be erected in Ye Yu’s honor in the city plaza, engraving his deeds for all ghosts to see.

The guards set to work. Soon, a grand stele stood in the city’s heart, drawing a crowd of curious spirits.

When they read that Ye Yu had spared most of them from annihilation, every ghost refused to believe it—until they remembered their newfound resistance to the sutras and survival under the chanting.

At last, they realized Ye Yu’s true intentions: he had acted for their benefit. Yet how had they repaid him?

With insults and scorn!

A chorus of wails rose as many ghosts slapped their own faces in remorse. “I am not a ghost—I deserve death!”

“Steward Ye Yu cared for us deeply, and we showed no gratitude!”

Amid the mournful cries, a masked ghost stepped forward. After months of hiding, he dared remove his mask under the blood moon.

Ye Tong exhaled deeply, watching as other ghosts knelt before the unmasked figure.

“Old Ghost Ye,” they said, “you have begotten an extraordinary son. We erred in blaming him—and you. Please do not hold it against us.”

Ye Tong’s heart ached with guilt. Not only had the ghosts misunderstood Ye Yu, but he himself had doubted his son. Remembering their parting moments filled him with sorrow.

Great son, your father was wrong—please forgive me.