Chapter Forty-Eight: The Two Factions of North and South

There’s strength in numbers—a saying that was never more true than at this moment. Twelve burly men managed to pin down the zombie, and, summoning their courage, forced pesticides down its throat—everything from parathion to imidacloprid, even some brought chemical fertilizers from home, throwing whatever they could find at it. Yet, the effect was minimal; if anything, the zombie’s ferocity was only heightened.

During the chaos, Da Pangzi used up quite a few talismans. Though they temporarily suppressed the zombie, their effects soon wore off. In front of so many people, Song Nianqiang dared not resort to the Five Thunder Incantation, and even if he did, it was doubtful it would help much.

As everyone grew desperate, a sudden flash of inspiration struck Song Nianqiang. He dashed toward the clinic. Arriving, he breathed a sigh of relief—the iron box was still sitting safely at the head of the bed. He hurried over, opened it, and found the battered talisman still inside.

“Whether we survive this ordeal or not is up to you now!” he muttered, grabbing the iron box and racing back to the mourning hall. By the time he arrived, the men were at their limits. If the zombie wasn’t dealt with soon, none of them—including Song Nianqiang—would leave this place alive.

“Here goes nothing!” With a determined shout, he leapt onto the zombie’s chest, pulled the talisman from the box, and slapped it squarely onto the creature’s forehead. Despite its worn and ancient appearance—likely old enough to be Song Nianqiang’s grandfather—the talisman worked wonders. The zombie instantly fell still.

A collective sigh of relief escaped everyone present. “Hurry, burn it!” someone shouted. Though the zombie was motionless for now, no one could say what might happen next. Best to seize the moment and burn it to ashes.

The village chief appeared with a can of gasoline from who-knows-where, gritted his teeth, and doused the corpse. With a strike of a match, flames roared up taller than a man. As the fire consumed the form beneath the talisman, the deceased elder’s face slowly returned to its peaceful expression in death.

Half an hour later, all that remained were ashes and a few charred bones. Only then did Song Nianqiang understand why the old man had visited him the night before. Had he left, or lacked that talisman, the village would have been doomed.

“It’s done.” Glancing at the busy crowd, Song Nianqiang and Da Pangzi slipped away. No one could have guessed things would end this way—an elder once so respected reduced to nothing but dust and bones.

When everything was finally settled, the two prepared to leave. Just as they were about to go, they stumbled upon something curious—a text message with an address, inviting them somewhere.

“Shall we go?” Da Pangzi asked. It was clearly a trap, but Song Nianqiang just grinned. “Why not? Let them see we’re not to be trifled with!”

They said their farewells to the village chief, who wanted to send them off with some local specialties, but with all that had happened, he simply hadn’t the time. That suited Song Nianqiang just fine—carrying gifts would only get in the way, and he told the chief to bring some next time he visited the county.

The chief agreed, and the two departed quietly. Their status in the village was high enough that a grand farewell would only stir up trouble; best to slip away unnoticed.

Once out of the village, they both breathed easier—though a new problem soon arose. There were no buses back to the county at this hour, so they had no choice but to amble along the mountain paths. Though both were country boys, these wild mountain vistas were still a rare sight.

"A love hard to sever, sorrow hard to end, hatred unending, memories of the past drifting like mist, deeply buried feelings left unresolved..." Da Pangzi’s phone began to ring, interrupting his tuneless singing. He answered, but his expression quickly soured. He put the call on speaker.

“We’re at the mass grave. If you don’t show up, I’ll tell the world the North Maoshan Sect cowers before the South. Then not only will you be shamed, your master will be a laughingstock!”

The call disconnected. They weren’t wrong—the rift between the North and South Maoshan Sects was hardly a secret. Song Nianqiang and Da Pangzi had wanted to return home and prepare, but there was no time now.

“Damn it! The Southern Sect’s gone too far, always picking on us!” Da Pangzi fumed. The South had never thought much of the two, but after they’d handled a string of strange cases, their names had begun to spread—especially as they were disciples of the Northern Sect’s representative, the vice president of the World Paranormal Association. The president himself had never appeared; for all intents and purposes, the vice president ran the show. Though the Southern Sect held considerable sway, there was only ever one vice president.

So, friction between the two sects was constant, though rarely did it escalate. This time, however, Song Nianqiang had a bad feeling. The choice of the mass grave as a meeting place was telling—there would be blood, and only one side was expected to survive.

“Qiangzi, we don’t have any advantage this time. Going could be dangerous,” Da Pangzi said, concern in his voice. Song Nianqiang understood. “If we don’t go, the Northern Sect’s reputation will be ruined. We have to do this!”

His gaze was resolute as he set off towards the mass grave. They had a ways to go yet, and lunch—and perhaps dinner—would have to wait. “Call Master and let him know our situation, in case we need backup.”

After a moment’s thought, Song Nianqiang instructed Da Pangzi to make the call. Only a select few knew their master’s number, but as his disciples, they did. Song Nianqiang had forgotten his phone, so they relied on Da Pangzi’s.

They explained the situation, but their master forbade them from going—clearly, it was a trap. Song Nianqiang, however, had already made up his mind. With their master far away and unable to intervene, he reluctantly agreed to send help, though the mass grave was so remote that no one could arrive in time. For now, the two were on their own.

After ending the call, they set out. Their stomachs grumbled, but in the depths of the forest, there was nothing to eat. If luck was with them, they might find some wild fruit—September was harvest season, after all.

Following the directions in the text, Song Nianqiang and Da Pangzi trekked through the mountains on foot. When the wind blew, it was tolerable, but when the air turned stifling, the heat was unbearable—like being trapped in a steaming basket, too oppressive to move.

Especially for Da Pangzi—never in his life had he sweated so much. His T-shirt clung to him, soaked through, and his pants fared little better. “Qiangzi, I can’t go on,” he groaned, flopping to the ground, defeated. Hunger was no longer their greatest enemy—heat was.

“Damn it all! Who knew the path would be this tough? Now I’m exhausted, starving, hot, and thirsty!” Song Nianqiang echoed his friend’s frustration, sinking to the ground beside him.