Chapter Eight: Passing on Knowledge

Hearing the Daoist mention that the Gluttonous Talisman could also conceal his identity as a zombie, Liu Chen pondered for a while before finally putting it away. The person he sought for revenge was a Daoist of the Lingbao sect, whose order was a renowned sect in this world, with a lineage passed down through his family. Such a man would be surrounded by many practitioners; if Liu Chen wanted revenge, those people would certainly not stand idly by. Without a means of concealment, a zombie among humans would be in grave danger, especially under the hostile gaze of many.

“Since everyone here is dead, let’s go. Before news spreads, let’s deal with the rest.”

Seeing Liu Chen put away the talisman, the Daoist wasted no time lingering. He immediately led Liu Chen away from the Fu residence. In the following hours, they visited several more households, eliminating each person who had not gone to the Fu family that night.

Once everyone involved had been dealt with, the two followed the river running through West City and left town altogether, avoiding trouble once word of the deaths inevitably spread.

With a deep thud, after leaving the city, the two stood by the riverside. The Daoist unfastened his longsword and tossed it into the flowing water.

“What are you doing?”

Liu Chen found this rather odd. For ordinary people, discarding a murder weapon was sensible. But for a Daoist, roaming the land as he did, it was almost impossible for anyone to trace him by sword wounds alone. More importantly, Liu Chen had witnessed that sword drawn: cold light flashing, sword energy menacing, making even him feel threatened. Even without expertise in weaponry, he could tell that this was an extraordinary, precious blade. He truly couldn’t understand why the Daoist would simply throw it away.

“This is a magic sword,” the Daoist explained. After discarding the sword, perhaps it was Liu Chen’s imagination, but the Daoist’s expression seemed livelier. Still, Liu Chen listened in silence, curious about his reasoning.

“When I was young, my family was poor. At twelve, I wandered the world. Later, I met my benefactor, who saw I had some talent and took me as a disciple, teaching me the arts of the Primordial Dao. My nature was restless, so he gave me this sword, its keen edge meant to sever mundane thoughts. But fate is unpredictable. My family had only two brothers; when my elder brother left, I was alone. I do long for immortality, but how can I be at peace if my ancestral line ends with me? So after this journey, I plan to settle elsewhere and find a wife to continue my family line.

Now that worldly desires have arisen, how can I still wield this sword meant to sever them? Better to let it drift away with the current. Perhaps it will find a more suitable master.”

As he spoke, the Daoist’s gaze lingered on the spot where the sword had sunk. Though his back was to Liu Chen and his expression hidden, his tone betrayed regret.

“As far as I know, Daoism has different branches like Alchemy and Talismans. While I don’t understand their distinctions, surely there’s more than one path. That Lingbao Daoist inherited his family’s arts; even if you take a wife, can you not continue cultivating?”

Liu Chen had known the pain of being unable to pursue what he loved due to circumstance, so he offered words of comfort.

“You’re not a cultivator and can’t grasp the subtleties. The Lingbao sect is a divine branch of Daoism, with established methods, but they are often constrained by spirits and gods. My pursuit is freedom, our aims fundamentally different—how could we be compared? But you need not worry for me. My lineage descends from the Supreme Lord himself; though we speak of ultimate roots, every successor since his time has met disaster and achieved nothing. I foresaw my current plight long ago. It’s just that, for a moment, old feelings are hard to restrain, so I grieve a little.”

The Daoist laughed heartily, turning to comfort Liu Chen in return.

“You are remarkably sanguine!”

Shaking his head, seeing the Daoist so open-minded, Liu Chen found himself at a loss for words.

“It’s not so much sanguinity as understanding. I know you’re seeking revenge against that Daoist named Lu Qingcai, and I won’t say more on that. But right now, war is breaking out all along the Huai River—soldiers bring disasters that eclipse all others: water, fire, wind, thunder, none compare. My advice is to escape as quickly as possible, or you may find yourself dragged in until death.”

The Daoist did indeed seem to have come to terms with things. His air became light and untroubled; glancing at the sky, it was clear he was ready to part ways. But before leaving, he gave Liu Chen a final warning.

“I’m not afraid of any so-called disaster. But you’re right; war brings endless trouble, and I do need to get away soon. Still, there’s nothing I can do—who knows what bizarre abilities that Lingbao Daoist possesses? I’ll just take things as they come,” Liu Chen replied. He didn’t care much about disasters, but remembered how Zhao Qian had suppressed his emotions and asked him to spare the city’s powerful families for a few months. When real war came, there would be no room for sentiment—survival and loss would be all that mattered.

As for when he could take his revenge, Liu Chen truly had no idea. He’d been an ordinary man in the twenty-first century. If not for his zombie body, he’d never have survived in this world, even without the disaster in the valley. He barely had the skills to survive alone, let alone undertake such a perilous journey of vengeance.

“That’s true. From your manners, I’d guess you were a scholar in life. Here’s what we’ll do: take me to that mountain valley so I can pay my respects to my brother before I leave. Along the way, I’ll tell you about the various arts and teach you a set of boxing techniques adapted from military spear arts—a token of our fateful meeting.”

The Daoist’s words filled Liu Chen with joy; it was like receiving a timely gift in a desperate moment. Yet, thinking it over, he felt awkward accepting such kindness without reason—but for now, he could only remember it silently.

Thus, they traveled northward together. Along the way, the Daoist spoke to Liu Chen about the two branches of Daoism, focusing mainly on the Talisman sect and the Lingbao Daoists. He also touched on military and martial arts, as well as the ways of Confucians and legalists, and finally gave a brief account of the shamanic traditions.

After covering all these topics, he demonstrated a boxing technique. Once Liu Chen memorized it, the Daoist continued, explaining each move in detail.

He explained that this technique, the Eighteen Forms of Defeating the Enemy, was created by a general who, fleeing punishment, took refuge in the mountains. Before dying, the general entrusted it to the Daoist, asking him to find a worthy successor. Liu Chen’s zombie body gave him great strength but also made him much stiffer than most martial artists, making this battlefield-derived boxing style ideal for him.

Having taught Liu Chen the boxing style, the pair finally reached the valley. After a brief ritual for the Daoist’s brother, they parted ways. Before leaving, the Daoist reminded Liu Chen that, should the opportunity arise, he ought to find a successor for the boxing technique as well, thus fulfilling the general’s dying wish.