As Old Zhou vanished into the crevice, Feng’s mycelium-scarred left arm convulsed violently. He slapped half a bone-suppression talisman onto his forehead—the ash searing his eyeballs confirmed reality. His gas mask filter oozed a nauseating blend of incense and rot.
“Uncle Zhou, which slope holds the POW bones?” Feng pressed his trekking pole against a phalanx embedded in stone. Old Zhou froze, his canteen clattering against his belt. “Washed away by landslides years ago,” he rasped, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Just…experimental materials from old facilities.”
Feng’s UV light swept Old Zhou’s neck. The half-coin scar glowed corpse-blue. “Unique talisman,” Feng feigned casualness. “Mind if I study the pattern?” Old Zhou erupted in coughs, bone fragments speckling his phlegm. His navy work shirt bulged along the spine like vertebrae pushing through flesh.
At Eagle’s Beak Rock, the mountain winds died abruptly. Feng’s boot kicked something warm—Old Zhou’s canteen, still body-warm. Ten meters ahead, the “Old Zhou” imitation turned, its face melting like candle wax to reveal a flesh-draped skull.
“Gak-gak-gak…” The impostor’s throat bones scraped out Japanese sutras. Bone-dust-infused mucus seeped from the cliffs. Feng retreated, hurling talismans that ignited into green flames, illuminating squirming bone fragments—knuckles, toes, ribs assembling into seven headless skeletons.
“戌时三刻 (7:48 PM)—yang wanes, yin thrives.” Feng glanced at the dying sun and splashed black dog blood across the rocks. The crimson liquid sketched a lopsided Taiji symbol. Bone shards hitting the bloodline erupted in acrid smoke. He hastily drew emergency sigils inside his mask with vermillion, dampening the chants by 30%.
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Annals of Folk Mysteries flipped to the “Japanese Occult Arrays” section. The yellowed illustration of a bone woman rising from a swastika pile merged with reality—a skeletal schoolgirl in Showa-era uniform emerged from the crevice. Rotting flesh clung to her frame, a rusted dagger lodged in her right eye socket, a twitching heart cradled in her left palm.
Seven copper nails studded her jawbone, their “Showa 17” inscriptions forming the Plough-Swallowing Soul Array—a modified Japanese version. To break it, both the Celestial Pivot (left eye) and Celestial Spinner (right ear) nails must be shattered.
“Kaere… (Go back…)” Her jawbone clacked, sutras materializing as soundwaves. Black blood seeped from Feng’s ears as his mycelium arm swelled instinctively. He lunged with a peachwood sword toward her right ear’s nail. Metal screeched against bone as the blade struck.
The sword snapped. Feng collapsed with a rib-cracking crunch, shoving a talisman into her left eye socket. Green flames cracked the surrounding bone.
The heart in her palm exploded, corrosive fluid etching characters into stone. Retreating, each step branded charred footprints into the cliff. The mountain groaned—no natural cavern echoed like this.
Feng slumped in the fading Taiji diagram. Two talismans remained. Black dog blood steamed into acrid mist. Chains rattled deeper in the cave as something multi-limbed scaled the walls in sync with the bone woman’s chants.
The hungry ghost’s skull emerged first—a canine cranium tripled in size, copper bell dangling from its jaw by sinews, eye sockets writhing with centipedes. Behind it, the bone woman’s heart reconstituted from putrid blood, her uniform stitching itself like living tissue.
Feng groped for the urn. His scarred arm burned—Zhou Xiaofeng’s remnant consciousness trembled within the mask. The hungry ghost’s bell froze mid-swing. Coughing blood, Feng smeared a blood sigil on the broken sword. As the sun vanished, Ghost-Weeping Cliff echoed with eight-decade-old screams.