Chapter 15: Summoning the Soul (Seeking Recommendations and Favorites During the Release Period)

Qin Ye nodded. This was the reward for winning over Arthas.

The other’s vast and intricate experience would become the foundation upon which he survived in the coming upheaval.

“Well then… let’s wait.” He gazed out the window. Tonight was for preparation.

Tomorrow and the day after—those would be the moments when truth clashed with steel. Even if Death crawled out of the television, he would kick it right back in!

The day passed swiftly. Wang Chenghao was utterly terrified, unable to be alone; he clung to Qin Ye all day like an accessory. By evening, after school, he dragged Qin Ye without a word toward the outskirts of the county.

Summer’s weather was as fickle as a child’s mood. The day had been clear, but by six o’clock, when they returned to Funeral Street, the sky was shrouded in clouds, blackness stretching across the horizon, and occasional flashes of lightning flickered pale and blue.

The paranormal broadcast had just ended; every household had shut their doors, and the long, somewhat antique street was deserted. The evening wind swept the scattered funerary paper from the ground. Paper soul banners hung at some doorways, and the entire funeral street seemed swept by a chilling breeze.

Wang Chenghao stayed glued to Qin Ye.

With a creak, Qin Ye pushed open the little shop’s door and switched on the lights. Only then did Wang Chenghao relax. Qin Ye dropped his bag and rubbed his arm, then pulled Wang Chenghao close, staring into his eyes and enunciating each word: “In a moment… whatever you see, remember it in your heart, forget it in your mouth. Speak a single word of it…”

He left the sentence unfinished, the meaning heavy.

Wang Chenghao nodded desperately. He too sensed that tonight… he would witness things science could never explain.

Qin Ye ignored him and hurriedly busied himself. Arthas spoke in his mind: with Qin Ye’s abilities, summoning a soul was impossible without auxiliary tools.

Funerary incense, made from ground ashes. Not necessarily human bones—any ashes would do.

A portrait of the Impermanence Lords, intermediaries between the living and the dead, must be present.

A bowl of rice—not ordinary rice, but ghost rice, steamed glutinous rice dried in the shade.

A bowl of chicken blood, and a chopstick made of willow wood.

Gathering all these took until eleven at night. Qin Ye rested in a chair with his eyes closed. Soon, the midnight bell tolled.

As Arthas instructed, first, he hung the Impermanence portraits on either side. With a swish, two images of pale-faced men in black-and-white robes, tongues hanging a meter long, were set upon the altar.

The altar was standard in any funeral establishment.

On Black Impermanence’s tall hat, four characters declared “Peace under Heaven.” On White Impermanence’s, “Prosperity at First Sight.”

Next, the ghost rice was placed before the altar, chopstick stuck upright. This was to beg the Impermanence Lords for mercy, granting the spirit a final moment.

If they agreed, the chopstick would fall.

If not, and the three incense sticks burned out without the chopstick falling, then… no one should attempt soul summoning.

Whoever tried would die.

If the King of Hell decrees death at midnight, none dare linger till dawn.

According to Arthas, the underworld might no longer exist, but the Heavenly Dao maintained some of its rules automatically. Otherwise… the mortal realm would have long descended into chaos.

Qin Ye had no concern for Wang Chenghao. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Suddenly, wisps of ghostly energy surged from his side. Wang Chenghao’s mouth fell open for a scream, but he clamped it shut, trembling as he retreated to the corner.

With a rush, the spirit energy coalesced, and the ghost official’s attire appeared on him. His mortal identity shed, he prayed as a ghost messenger.

He lit three gray-white sticks of funerary incense; their flames burned an eerie green, filling the room with uncanny light. He bowed deeply to the Impermanence gods and, as Arthas instructed, murmured, “Humble novice, ghost messenger Qin Ye, begs Impermanence to open their eyes.”

He set the incense firmly in the holder, then placed the soul-sealing orb before the ghost rice.

“There is a restless spirit causing harm in the mortal realm. I beg Heaven to grant a sliver of life, leaving a trace of yang energy for the Wang family man. I borrow, and will repay.”

The Wang family man? His own father?

In the corner, Wang Chenghao was nearly out of his wits, sweating profusely and ice-cold, not daring to utter a word.

Just then, the Impermanence portraits stirred.

As if blown by wind, both images lifted like couplets, then gently fell.

Wang Chenghao’s scalp tingled—he nearly cried out.

For… every window and door was closed! There was no wind in the room!

How could they move? What was happening?

Qin Ye said nothing more, half-kneeling before the altar. The funerary incense burned slowly. Five minutes, ten… one incense stick’s time was fifteen minutes.

In the thirteenth minute, his eyes suddenly brightened.

The chopstick in the ghost rice twitched.

Then slowly toppled over!

At the same time, the ghost rice began to diminish, as if something invisible were eating it—not quickly, but steadily.

“Quick!” Arthas shouted. “You only get one chance to summon a soul! This borrows a sliver of yang energy from Heaven; the ghost messenger is honored. If you don’t finish before the rice is gone, the soul will disperse completely!”

Qin Ye’s nerves were taut; he had never done this before. He pressed his palms together and called out, “Fishing Light guides the soul, opens the underworld, nightly crystal shines on the spectral gate. Open!”

As he finished, the soul-sealing orb dissolved into a talisman, which ignited without wind. At the center of the room, a vortex of blue ghostly energy gathered, and from its heart, a white, misty figure slowly emerged as if rising from water.

“Uh…” Wang Chenghao let out a muffled groan, clutching his mouth as he fainted.

Qin Ye exhaled deeply, and asked in a low voice, “Wang Zeming?”

“Ahhhhhhh!!” But what answered him was a soul-rending scream. The spirit, clad in a sharp suit, collapsed to his knees, gripping his head and howling wildly in pain.

Qin Ye hesitated. “I understand your feelings, but isn’t your reaction a bit excessive? Can you restrain yourself?”

“This soul is problematic,” Arthas said. “Hold him down.”

Qin Ye’s temples throbbed—this felt oddly like spotting a wild Gastly, and sending out Pikachu.

Before he could act, Wang Zeming, still trembling and clutching his head, suddenly looked up and spewed two meters of green flame from his mouth, his voice no longer human. In the darkness, during this soul summoning ritual, the ghost fire cast the Impermanence portraits upright, everything flickering in the ghastly green glow, making the room bone-chilling.

Crack… As the fire shot skyward, Qin Ye’s soul-hooking rope stabbed into the spirit’s crown. With a piercing scream, the green column finally extinguished within Wang Zeming’s mouth.

“Light the heavenly candle,” Arthas said, surprised. “Open his mouth—you’ll see something unexpected. Lighting the heavenly candle is the cruelest torment for a soul; the dead cannot reincarnate, suffering endless burning. Who hated him so much?”

Qin Ye gripped the spirit’s jaw; the soul’s touch was icy cold, intangible. Yet, inside its mouth, he found a candle.

He pulled it out. The candle was gray-white, reeking of rot, with a pitch-black wick. As soon as it was removed, the corpse sighed in relief, and two points of green flame slowly lit within its eyes.

“A corpse oil candle, made by pouring corpse oil into the belly, from stomach to mouth, then threading a wick made of hair. It burns for a hundred years without dying out. Also called the soul-nailing candle—once nailed by it, a soul cannot escape, and the corpse remains undecayed. Similar to Egyptian mummification,” Arthas explained.

Qin Ye handled the broken candle. “Does this explain why Wang Zeming died, yet his body remained alive?”

“At least for a month, it’s hard to tell.”

“Are you… a ghost messenger?” At that moment, a voice trembling with disbelief sounded. Wang Zeming’s soul spoke, “Is it you? Did you save me?”

“Yes. Time is short, so I’ll be brief. You’re dead, but your body still lives. There’s a vengeful ghost hiding in your home. If it’s not resolved, your son will die tomorrow.”

“Ah Hao… Ah Hao? She—she’s going to harm Ah Hao?” Wang Zeming’s voice sharpened with terror after a moment’s confusion.

Unfortunately, only Qin Ye could hear him.

“See that bowl of rice? Before it’s finished, tell me how you died and what you know—quick! Otherwise, once it’s gone, you’ll move on, and I won’t be able to save your son.”

“Alright…” Wang Zeming’s soul closed his eyes. To become the richest man in the county, he was no indecisive person. His spirit fluctuated, then he opened his eyes and gritted his teeth: “It’s all because of that woman…”

He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and continued quickly: “My company is called Haiyue, Haiyue Corporation. Not large, you may have heard of it…”

“Haiyue?” Qin Ye looked up in surprise. “Is it the Haiyue I’m thinking of?”

Wang Zeming smiled bitterly. “Trademark law forbids identical names—so yes, it must be the one you’re thinking of.”

Arthas was puzzled. “Is it well-known?”

“Quite famous,” Qin Ye replied. “Originally not so, but its notoriety comes from why it moved here.”

“So you’ve heard of it…” Wang Zeming’s smile was full of bitterness. “Back when Haiyue was thriving, a post appeared online. I still remember the poster’s name—‘That Fleeting Romance.’”

“A charming name,” Arthas remarked dryly to Qin Ye. “But he’d better hurry—there’s no time for nostalgia.”

Qin Ye continued, “Let me take over, Mr. Wang. Your emotions are unstable. Fill in as needed.”