Chapter 53: Newly Born Under Heaven, Yet Calamity Strikes Again

Chapter 53: Reborn and Yet Another Calamity

“It’s just… I wonder if we might have the fortune to become disciples of the immortal master,” Guo Qi said humbly.

At this moment, Zhang Sanlu was still caught in shock at what Old Yao had said—reborn with a new head. He raised his hand to touch his face and found that, indeed, it no longer felt like the withered visage of an old Taoist, but rather as if he had regained his original head—his true self!

“The Daoist must have prepared this magic long in advance; otherwise, why would he bring a human head as a hammer? That must be some means of external incarnation.”

Zheng Ji took up the thread, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as well. “Yes, we were all stunned at the time. The moment that demon’s head fell, your body collapsed to the ground, and suddenly your chest burst into flames. Then, that headless body just stood upright and started searching for its head. But the original head had already been swallowed by the demon. We thought all was lost, and even wanted to rush forward to help.”

Of course, this talk of helping was mere bravado; the fact that they hadn’t run off was already a testament to their courage.

My chest burned? A sudden thought struck Zhang Sanlu. He reached into his chest and found that the talisman of “Dread,” as well as that mysterious book he had no idea how to use, were both still there. But when he felt for the leather talisman paper, what his fingers touched was nothing but fragments. Hurriedly, he drew out the talisman, only to find a handful of ashes, drifting away in the faint light.

He raised his hand to touch his eyeball—the one he used to summon “One-eyed Wu.” But that, together with the old Taoist’s head, had become food for the demon’s belly. Try as he might, he could no longer summon it.

It seemed that in that moment of utter despair, the destruction of the demon must have been triggered by the “Dread” technique—a brutal method that killed both enemy and self, a mutual annihilation no one could have foreseen. As the demon bit off Zhang Sanlu’s head, it also tore off its own.

The reason Zhang Sanlu survived what should have been certain death was likely due to the protection of those mysterious talisman papers. Even more fortunately, he still had that uncanny severed head hammer in his hand; without it, he would never have survived in that headless body, talismans or no.

It was as if all of this had been orchestrated by fate—one coincidence after another, each interlinked, ultimately pulling Zhang Sanlu back from the brink of doom. This was more than luck; it felt like the mockery of destiny itself.

The three men continued talking as they walked, the wind rustling through the woods, insects chirping, and their heavy footsteps blending into a chorus. Zhang Sanlu felt his strength and vitality gradually returning. By now, he was mostly recovered, though he still didn't understand why such grievous wounds always healed so quickly for him—he had no clue and little energy to spare for pondering.

Near dawn, they finally emerged from the mountains. The sky was just beginning to lighten, a heavy gray veil draped across it, letting through only a few faint rays.

In this dim light, the three men slowly carried Zhang Sanlu back to the village. As the sight of home drew near, their heavy steps quickened with anticipation. Despite having lost many companions, they had at least rid Mount Mourning of its demon, a feat worthy of pride. So, though their faces bore exhaustion and fear, there was a spark of excitement as well.

But as they walked on, even the most unobservant among them realized something was amiss in the village. Villagers typically rose with the sun, but the sun was already up—by now, the roosters should have crowed, and the farmers should be working the fields or fetching water.

Yet the village was deathly silent, not a soul in sight.

The old willow at the entrance swayed in the wind, its leaves whispering. If one listened closely, there were faint sounds of weeping drifting from somewhere.

“Is anyone still alive?” Guo Qi suddenly shouted, “Brothers, we’ve returned victorious from Mount Mourning!”

At his shout, the weak sobbing paused for a moment, and the sky was already tinged with pale light.

In the dawn, the imagined scene of a jubilant crowd welcoming home their heroes was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the village headman and the villagers emerged from their doors like the walking dead, their faces drawn with fear and exhaustion.

The headman’s voice trembled as he spoke, “You have finally returned. Thank you for your efforts. But from the look of you, it seems you fared no better than those of us left behind.” His eyes swept over the group, lingering on Zhang Sanlu’s face, as if a question had arisen in his mind.

“Indeed, we should have prepared food and drink to celebrate, but who could have foreseen… who could have foreseen…” An old man could no longer hold back his grief; muddy tears spilled from his eyes.

Villagers crowded around, their faces devoid of joy, brimming instead with despair and helplessness. An elder sighed and whispered, “On the third day after you left, disaster struck.”

“A band of bandits came. They were many, armed with blades and spears. The few able-bodied men in the village were no match for them. They stole much of our food, and now, with winter nearly upon us, we don’t even have enough seed for next year. What shall we do…”

His voice choked, tears brimming in his eyes. Other villagers bowed their heads, and the old, the weak, the women and children began to sob again, their cries low and mournful.

It turned out that just after dusk the previous night, the bandits had crept into the village under cover of darkness. Their scouts reached Old Han Guo’s house, where he and his son were preparing tools for the next day in a side room, when suddenly they heard a commotion from the cowshed outside.

Old Han Guo went out and saw two bandits leading away his old yellow ox. For a farming family, an ox was not only their labor and a beast of burden, but almost counted as a member of the household.

In a panic, Old Han Guo grabbed the hoe leaning against the wall and rushed to fight, but was easily knocked down by the two bandits.

They turned to take the ox, but whether the old beast recognized its master or was simply terrified, it refused to budge. One of the bandits, angry, struck the ox with a knife, and the wounded animal went berserk, charging wildly in the pen. In the chaos, it tossed one of the bandits to the ground and trampled him to death.

The other bandit, frightened, fled the cowshed and ran for the outskirts of the village.

Realizing a man had died—and a bandit at that—Old Han Guo was seized by terror, scared that the bandits would return for revenge. He hurriedly took his ox and his son, and hid in a cave in the woods behind the village.

While hiding, Old Han Guo remembered the sack of grain for this year and the seeds for the next. Fearing the bandits would take them, and that without them they’d starve this winter or have no harvest next year, he steeled himself and told his son and the ox to stay hidden while he returned for the food.

But as soon as he got home, he ran straight into the vengeful bandits—thirty or forty of them.

They beat Old Han Guo mercilessly, tied him up, and then found his son and the ox in the woods. In the yard, they slaughtered the ox, gutted it, and roasted it on the spot.