Heaven-Subduing Scripture

The early years of the Zhenguan reign. Hongzhou, in the Great Tang. Xinyang County, and within it, Xiaosha Village.

Dusk.

”Three masters, if you would, please step into the coffins.”

Squire Wang—the wealthiest man in Xiaosha Village—bowed with a smile that made him look like a weasel who had learned to wear silk.

Behind him, besides his servants, stood three figures who looked entirely out of place among the villagers: an old monk, an old witch, and a young Daoist priest.

The young Daoist was named Li Daoxuan. His robe was worn at the cuffs. A wooden pin held his topknot. He kept one shoulder angled toward the lane out of the courtyard, counting steps.

He had come from a later age, carried here by an ancient book—the Heaven-Subduing Demon Scripture—and woken in this little Daoist’s body, making his living by subduing ghosts and driving off demons.

The Zhenguan Tang teemed with things that should not walk. He had accepted that faster than he accepted the book itself.

Li Daoxuan eyed the three grim coffins, frowned, and hung back, making no move to choose first.

He knew well enough: because of his youth, these people did not think much of him.

Next to him, the white-browed old monk and the old witch with painted cheeks looked far more the part—the sort a village would trust at a glance.

The old monk swept a glance over Li Daoxuan and chuckled. ”Little one,” he said, ”with barely a few years of cultivation to your name, you dare come to subdue demons?”

So saying, he lifted his head high, settled into the leftmost black coffin, and even stretched.

But in the instant the servants lowered the lid, Li Daoxuan thought he caught a flicker of tension in the old monk’s eyes.

The old witch looked the place over before climbing in. She first carefully produced an urn of ashes, set it in the southeast corner of the courtyard, and muttered a string of incomprehensible incantations. Then the urn began to tremble violently, and slowly settled back to stillness, as if answering her words.

A night wind swept in, carrying a biting chill that shot from the base of the spine straight to the scalp.

Squire Wang and his servants stepped back several paces, hardly daring to look at her.

The old witch gave a cold laugh, said nothing, and with perfect composure stepped into the middle coffin, closed her eyes, and lay still.

Only under Squire Wang’s urging did the servants timidly approach and set the lid in place.

Then all eyes turned to Li Daoxuan.

He had already drifted to the doorway. Facing their stares, he smiled, ran through the escape route once more in his heart, then walked to the last coffin and lay down inside.

The author publishes this chapter on the NovelPhoenix site, while this page shows a reproduction made without permission.

The coffin was not large; he fit with room to spare—except for a whiff of mildew, and a faint trace of blood.

As the lid closed, the light dwindled, until he sank into total darkness.

After a few muffled thuds, the footsteps outside faded. Nothing remained but his own breathing.

He circulated his thin trickle of mana into his eyes.

The pitch-black world snapped into clarity. When his gaze swept overhead, it stopped.

On the underside of the coffin lid were dried bloodstains—fingernail scratches, carved by someone’s hand.

Li Daoxuan pushed at the lid. Not a tremor. Solid as bedrock.

Midnight. In the pitch-black courtyard stood three coffins, silent, each lid weighed down by a square stone.

…

Squire Wang returned to his bedroom, dismissed everyone, then opened a hidden wall niche to reveal an enshrined idol.

The idol had a green face and bared fangs, wings sprouting from its back—fierce and malevolent.

He took three blood-red incense sticks, lit them, planted them in the censer, and kowtowed. ”The offering is prepared,” he intoned. ”Pray, honored deity, partake!”

”May the honored deity continue to bless my Wang family—riches ever flowing, fortune without end!”

…

Certain now that he was trapped, Li Daoxuan was not especially anxious. He closed his eyes. In his mind the ancient book blazed; four seal-script characters burned on its cover.

Heaven-Subduing Demon Scripture.

The book had carried him from the twenty-first century into this demon-haunted Tang, and taught him enough to stay alive. So long as he slew demons and monsters, it paid him in kind—arts, cultivation, tools. Nearly half a year since transmigration, he had some means.

He formed a seal, bent his knees, straightened his back, sank his heart into the deep valley, and let every muscle go slack.

His breathing grew lighter and slower, drawn out like a snake in hibernation; even his heart slowed.

Draw from Kan to fill Li…

The art was the Pengzu Valley-Immortal Sleeping Induction Exercise—granted when he first opened the Scripture, said to be Pengzu’s, who lived eight hundred years. It was how he cultivated mana at all.

Two streams rose in him: warm heart-fire answering the southern fire of the verse; cool kidney-water answering the northern metal. They met at the dantian, melted into a wisp of pure mana, and slammed toward the lower gate.

The gate held. A stone door. Unmoved.

He opened his eyes. Pain flickered through his lower abdomen—faint, familiar, worse each time he cultivated lately.

The Scripture had poured the art’s experience into him, yet he was still an outsider to the Daoist path. Had he violated some taboo without knowing?

He would need a proper priest to ask, when he had the chance.

He knew not how long had passed when a faint whistling wind pierced the silence—shrill as a ghost’s wail.

Then the old monk’s terrified shouts:

”Let me out! Quick!”

”I’m a fraud—I can’t subdue demons at all!”

”I only wanted to swindle some money…”

”Get away! Get away! What are you, you monster!”

A final shrill scream. Cut off.

Li Daoxuan’s eyes sharpened. He drew a talisman, formed the seal, and recited inwardly.

”Sound-woman Six Ding, protect my body; Sun-bright Six Jia, guard my soul. Swiftly, swiftly, as the law commands!”

The paper melted into golden light and sank into him. His racing heart steadied a measure.

Six Ding Six Jia Protective Talisman. Once used, it would trigger on demonic attack. At his mastery, one seal lasted a quarter-hour.

He was still uneasy. He burned through the seals he had painted beforehand—ten in a row—then stopped.

Paper could be redrawn. A life could not.

Just then he faintly heard the old witch’s coffin open, and outside, a struggle like the wailing of a ghost infant.

He formed another talisman—no longer a protective one, but a Five-Thunder Talisman. The script was complex; he had only a few.

He did not strike at once. The witch seemed to have skill; better to let her wear the thing down.

Scarcely a few breaths later she gave a single scream and went silent. The ghost infant’s crying ceased as well.

Li Daoxuan’s face went black.

Were his teammates too weak, or was the thing too fierce?

Before he could decide, a footstep halted before his coffin.

The lid was being pushed open, inch by inch…