In Municipal Hospital No.3’s orthopedics wing, Feng’s X-ray glowed on the lightbox—mycelium webbing through his arm bones like spider silk. “Requires bone scraping surgery,” the young doctor tapped deformed protrusions. Feng rolled down his sleeve. The mycelium-scarred arm writhed, sending the doctor sprawling in his chair.


    The aging herbalist’s clinic hid deep in an herb market, copper cauldrons simmering unidentifiable pastes. Eighty-year-old Dr. Chen painted a yin-yang fish on rice paper after taking Feng’s pulse: “Your yang leaks worse than a sieve.” His vermillion brush scrawled a Yang Restoration Powder recipe:


    Deer antler velvet: 15g


    Calcined dragon bone with sulfur: 25g


    Lightning-struck wood ash: 10g


    Take with rice wine.


    From the cabinet’s depths emerged a porcelain vial: “Add this—one spoon weekly.” Feng shook golden powder inside.


    On the Kunming-bound flight, Feng rephotographed the Grey Sect contract. At maximum zoom, a partial fingerprint emerged—matching Lao Wu’s hospital diary smudge. As flight attendants cleared his coffee, cumulonimbus clouds outside flickered with Lord Grey’s silhouette.


    City Central Hospital reeked of antiseptic and incense. Nurses checked logs: “Wu Jianjun? Pulled his IV last Wednesday. Cameras caught only shadows.” The bedside bore claw marks piercing wood grain. When Feng’s scarred arm neared them, Annals flipped to “Rat Bride” chapter—Lao Wu’s silhouette materialized, kneeling before an altar in bronze chains.


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    Midnight found Feng spreading century-old ritual paper in his rented room. Black dog blood mixed with Yang Restoration dregs formed new sigil ink. Enhanced bone-suppression talismans now bore interlocked yin-yang fish—effective against animal spirits. On the seventh talisman, his mycelium arm spasmed, adding a rat-skull sigil.


    At Qingyang Temple’s millennia-old ginkgo tree, Feng offered Nuo mask fragments at the altar. The Taoist master swept them with a horsetail whisk: “Too much sha—suppress under True Warrior statue for 49 days.” His gift: Five Emperors coins strung with gray rat whiskers. “Qing Dynasty relics,” he flicked a Kangxi Tongbao, “survived seven death disasters—cracks mark proxy lifes spent.”


    The coins’ red thread, soaked in vermillion-realgar wine, followed Annals’ “Yang Shackles Yin” principles: Century-circulated coins carry mortal essence. Linked by yang elements, they heat when yin forces approach.


    A trending forum post autoplayed at 3 AM: “Sow Moon Worship.” The video showed a 250kg Yorkshire sow standing upright, front hooves pressed in prayer. Ultrasound flashes revealed fetal skulls—rodent-jawed with bulging foreheads. Screenshotting this, Annals displayed a bronze vessel photo marked “Grey Sect Conveyance.”


    Turbulence rocked the plane as Feng dozed. The Five Emperors coins burned his wrist. In dreams, he stood onstage before spectral spectators—the bone woman, hungry ghost, Lao Wu. Lord Grey’s shadow oozed from the curtains, rat claws clutching yellowed tickets: “Next act—your proxy turn.”


    End of Taihang Bone Temple