Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Corpse Gu

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The Fifth Kind, No Popup — Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Corpse Gu

Gangzi lay on a bamboo bed right beside Tang Xin, the two beds less than a meter apart. Gangzi’s robes had been removed, leaving him bare-chested. I spoke to Gu Jing about the Money Curse and the corpse gu from the southern seas; he paused for a moment before saying, “Unraveling a corpse gu is not difficult, but whoever laid this gu is vicious enough to use a curse within a curse. Very well, I want to see just how capable this person is.”

Laying a gu is different from casting a curse. The gu master must be intimately linked with their gu; if the gu is broken while the host lives, the gu’s backlash will strike its master. No wonder the methods are so ruthless—a fail-safe to ensure that if the gu is broken, the victim dies. Gu Jing, in breaking this corpse gu, would inevitably offend the master and face them in a duel. Among practitioners, grudges are dreaded; usually, they avoid conflict to prevent mutual destruction, but once a feud is formed, it’s a fight to the death. Gu Jing had his concerns, but such tricks were beneath his notice.

Daoist arts are a branch of metaphysics, but are closer to Buddhist meditation. Throughout history, Daoism and Buddhism have been pillars of the state’s spiritual life. Buddhism emphasizes faith and self-reliance, teaching that all beings possess Buddha-nature and can cultivate goodness and harmony. Daoism, with the Dao De Jing as its core scripture and Laozi as its founder—honored as “The Supreme Elder”—is loved for its lofty and profound philosophy. Daoists advocate not only active living and cherishing life, but also cultivation of truth and peaceful coexistence.

Sadly, after thousands of years, both Daoism and Buddhism gradually declined, especially from the nineteenth century onward, as China suffered oppression. Both sects fell into deep decline.

Yet, the dying camel is still larger than a horse. Though waning, they were not extinct. Wudang, Shaolin, and the esoteric schools of Buddhism and Daoism still struck fear into foreign sects, preventing their expansion in China. The Maoshan sect, like the esoteric Buddhist schools—especially the minor ones—was one of Daoism’s most mysterious branches. Southern sorcery and the gu arts of Yunnan’s Miao regions evolved from Daoist offshoots; but to the orthodox Maoshan, such skills were mere child’s play.

Outside, the large cauldron was burning with nine sticks of thick incense, their smoke curling skyward. Gu Jing inserted silver needles into sticky rice, while I supported Gangzi, allowing Gu Jing to insert the needles into Gangzi’s major acupoints one by one. Each time a needle entered, a wisp of white vapor escaped; Gangzi, previously unconscious, let out a faint groan.

Corpse gu are raised with corpse water, entering the body and moving like corpse worms throughout. Sticky rice is the best remedy against corpse worms. Each needle brought forth more white vapor; Gu Jing pointed and said, “The corpse miasma is out—this is only the first step. The second step is to force the corpse gu out and break their spell; that is the most crucial part.”

Gu Jing furrowed his brow. “The Money Curse has scattered Gangzi’s soul. We must retrieve it before dawn. But what about Tang Xin?”

To find someone’s soul, you must go to the place they loved most in life, see their soul without startling it—lest it scatter—and never tell it it’s a soul, for souls do not realize they are no longer alive.

Tang Xin’s case was unresolved, and now Gangzi was another concern. Whether Gangzi or Tang Xin, one was my student, the other my friend; I could not let either come to harm.

But one person cannot be in two places at once. Now I could only do my best. I clenched my teeth and said heavily, “When the boat reaches the bridge, it will straighten itself—let’s take it step by step.”

That was all I could say, though I had a plan, unsure if it would work. I knew little of Tang Xin—even his hobbies and habits were a mystery. But I knew Gangzi well; even the color of underwear he preferred, and where he first kissed a girl, I knew. Finding Gangzi’s soul would be more certain than Tang Xin’s; unless absolutely necessary, I’d ask Gu Jing to use the soul-flag to summon Tang Xin’s soul.

Twenty-four needles were inserted into Gangzi’s twenty-four major acupoints. Gu Jing bowed to the ancestral master, then took a slender incense stick from the altar, pinched its base between his fingers, and gently placed it in Gangzi’s mouth. Wang Yatou and I helped Gangzi sit up.

Gu Jing’s left hand inserted gently, muttering incantations, while his right measured a length, using his right index and middle fingers to secure the incense, then steadily pushed it deeper into Gangzi’s mouth.

Wang Yatou watched, her scalp tingling, swallowing nervously, forcing herself to stay calm. The incense was at least forty centimeters long; if Gu Jing pushed it in as he did, it would reach the throat, perhaps even the stomach. Such a long object inserted through the mouth was terrifying.

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Gu Jing paid no mind to Wang Yatou, his focus fixed on the incense. With two fingers, he rotated and pushed the stick, as if turning a key. Wang Yatou, being a girl, could not bear to watch, closing her eyes and dutifully holding Gangzi steady. Martial discipline made her patient—though usually lively, Wang Tingting maintained one pose, unmoving, for over ten minutes.

Curiosity finally got the better of her; she peeked at Gu Jing.

The incense had been pushed in more than halfway, only a quarter remaining outside. Strangely, the tip inside Gangzi’s mouth now emerged from his nose.

Gu Jing signaled to me; sensing the critical moment, I grew tense, alert. After so much time together, Gu Jing and I had developed a silent rapport.

From the table, I took prepared talisman slips, placed them nearby, along with a small bowl of sticky rice—the same from before—and several glass fire cups.

Starting from the forehead, each time a needle was withdrawn, a talisman was placed in a fire cup, where it burned to smoke. Gu Jing sealed the fire cup over the acupuncture site. Twenty-four needles, twenty-four talismans, twenty-four fire cups.

Wang Tingting found it fascinating; each time Gu Jing tossed a talisman into a cup, her eyes flashed with admiration and envy.

Fire cups covered Gangzi’s body. Gu Jing and I each took a red cord, tied it around Gangzi’s index finger, then stretched the cords and fastened their ends to two incense sticks atop the cauldron. The cords were thin and weak, but when I signaled Wang Tingting to let go—no longer supporting Gangzi—the cords held him upright, preventing him from lying down. Wang Yatou, doubting her senses, hesitated, but relaxed only after I spoke.

From Gangzi’s acupoints, milky white fluid began to seep, flowing into the twenty-four fire cups. Gu Jing, seeing the substance, grew tense and whispered, “Watch closely—corpse water is coming out. Once it’s out, the corpse gu can no longer stay in the body.”

He then told Wang Tingting and me to each grab a handful of sticky rice; once the corpse gu appeared, we would use it to subdue it.

After a while, each fire cup was half-filled with white corpse water. If each cup held 200 ml, they now contained 100 ml apiece; twenty-four cups, all half-full—an astonishing amount.

Gu Jing muttered, “So much corpse water—this gu master is truly vicious. Not even a vendetta would warrant such cruelty.” This corpse gu was hidden in Gangzi’s body, meant to ambush anyone trying to rescue him, delivering a fatal blow. Yet the master hadn’t anticipated encountering Gu Jing and me.

As the corpse water dwindled, Gangzi shuddered; the water in the cups threatened to be reabsorbed. Gu Jing glanced at me—I knew my role. Quickly, I made a hand seal and struck at Gangzi, shouting, “Break!”

The corpse water, about to be sucked back, was shattered by my seal. In an instant, the twenty-four fire cups exploded, their contents spilling onto the floor, sizzling as they seeped into the ground.

With the corpse water gone, the corpse gu had no place to hide, and began frantically darting about Gangzi’s body. On his back and chest, we could see a ball of flesh, like a rat, scurrying beneath the skin.

Gu Jing, Wang Tingting, and I hurled sticky rice at the moving lump. At first, a few grains at a time, then increasing as it moved faster. The rice struck the flesh ball, penetrating the skin and vanishing, releasing wisps of green smoke; the gu beneath shuddered in pain and moved faster. Missed grains stuck to Gangzi or fell away, leaving his pale skin dotted red, as if bitten by mosquitoes. Our wrist strength was considerable, especially Wang Tingting, who showed no mercy, treating Gangzi as a target.

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We forced the corpse gu toward the Money Mark at the base of Gangzi’s neck. Gu Jing shouted, “Narrow the area—push it out through the Money Mark!”

The Money Mark was the first place the spell was cast, at the root of the neck. The incense inserted in Gangzi’s nose and mouth still burned, its smoke wafting out of the Money Mark.

The three of us drove the corpse gu to the Money Mark. The gu, battered by our sticky rice, was pitiful—once vigorous, now barely alive, crawling sluggishly.

The square opening of the Money Mark gradually protruded, the skin cracking like parched earth, oozing black blood.

The corpse gu was about to emerge. The skin split open, forming a small opening—not precisely a hole, but a tiny aperture. Blood, black as ink, flowed from it, dripping a few times before stopping, congealing into a stain. The hole kept bleeding, growing wider, and emitted a “sss sss” sound—like someone cutting cloth with scissors in the dead of night.

The sound was more like a rat gnawing on a corpse in a coffin, the chewing echoing, swelling the heart with dread.

Wang Yatou gripped her sticky rice tightly, terrified by the ripping sound, and hurled her last handful at the gu. Sticky rice is a blade against corpse gu; each grain pierced it like a knife, intensifying the “sss sss” sound, now urgent and frantic, sending Wang Yatou cowering behind us.

Girls, no matter how exceptional, never become men. She once defeated several karate dojos in Japan with her bare hands, yet now she shivered at the corpse gu.

The hole bled a few more times, resembling a snake bite. The corpse gu, drained of vitality, rested beside the opening—a small lump of flesh, breathing weakly.

Gu Jing, holding a silver needle, quietly approached, intending to pierce the lump. A premonition surged in my heart: the corpse gu would not be so easily subdued. I blurted, “Be careful—it’s feigning weakness!”

No sooner had I spoken than the hole burst open with a “crack,” and a green shadow shot toward Gu Jing, moving instantly, none of its previous exhaustion evident. Unexpectedly, Gu Jing seemed prepared, reaching out with his right hand. To grab it bare-handed would be folly—corpse gu can penetrate skin and flesh, making such a move unwinnable.

Yet Gu Jing did exactly that. As an orthodox Maoshan disciple, he would not be so foolish; unbeknownst to us, he had already drawn an eight-trigram pattern in black dog’s blood on his palm. As the corpse gu lunged, Gu Jing was ready. He thrust his hand forward, but his face tensed as he shouted, “Careful!”

The corpse gu rushed at him, but he warned us instead; before he finished speaking, the gu changed direction, shooting toward me. It was a feint—a distraction. My heart raced; if gu mastery could reach such cunning, its master must have fused his essence with the gu, giving it a will of its own. I was certain: somewhere, the gu master was conducting rites, controlling the corpse gu.