The Whisper of the Headless Ghost

At the stroke of midnight, the dead return!

The night stretched wide like the gaping maw of a beast, devouring every sliver of light in the city.

Songjiang City, the old southern district.

Here, the roads were uneven and cracked, the wooden houses on either side low and densely packed. Overhead, tangled power lines hung like a chaotic spiderweb in the darkness.

The air reeked of dampness, thick with the musty stench of decay and last night's rain.

In a narrow alley, a single red lantern swayed, casting a dim, wavering glow.

"Thud… thud… thud…"

A faint but heavy footstep echoed from the depths of the alley.

The owner of the footsteps was a man without a head.

His tattered dark suit clung to his gaunt frame, the fabric ripped open at the chest, exposing pale, withered flesh.

His neck ended in a jagged, raw stump, dark coagulated blood crusting over the severed flesh, forming a thick, clotted scab.

Yet—

He kept walking.

The wind lifted the torn edges of his clothing, droplets of rain slid down his sleeves, and his shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Was it still… alive?

"AAAAAAAHHHHHH—!"

A piercing scream shattered the silence!

At the mouth of the alley, a street vendor on his way home from work froze in horror, his face turning ghostly pale.

The plastic bag in his hand slipped, sending a few loose vegetables rolling across the wet pavement.

The headless corpse stopped moving.

Even without a head, it seemed to sense the sound, slowly tilting toward the vendor—

As if it were… looking at him.

"D-Don't come near me!"

The vendor staggered back, legs buckling, his back slamming against the alley wall.

His knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground.

The headless figure shifted slightly, its shoulders rising faintly, almost as if… in thought.

Then—

It lifted its right hand.

Slowly. Precisely.

And gripped the severed stump of its own neck.

"Grrrk… grkkk… krk—"

A sickening, bone-grinding sound cracked through the night.

Like a rat being crushed alive.

Like rusted iron scraping against bone.

The vendor's pupils dilated, cold sweat dripping down his forehead.

What was it doing?

Was it… searching for something?

For its… head?

"Plop."

The corpse suddenly turned toward the glass storefront beside it.

It was looking at itself.

In the darkened reflection of the window, a headless shadow swayed—ghostly, unnatural.

"CRACK!"

The corpse lunged, smashing its hand through the glass!

BANG!

The window shattered instantly, shards of glass spraying outward, a thick, black liquid splattering onto the pavement, reeking of rot and death.

For a moment, the corpse froze, as if stunned.

Then—

Its entire body convulsed violently.

"UUUAAAHHH—AAAAAHHHH—!!!"

A horrific, ear-piercing shriek erupted from deep within the severed throat.

The temperature plummeted.

Dark mist gushed from the gaping wound, twisting like spectral tendrils, devouring the surrounding air and light.

The vendor's face drained of all color.

Letting out a terrified wail, he turned and ran—

But before he could take three steps—

A pale, withered hand seized his throat.

The vendor choked, his eyes bulging, his face flushing red as he clawed at the ice-cold grip around his neck.

But the fingers were like iron, locking tight.

Then—

The corpse lowered its head (if it had one)—

And from the depths of its throat, it whispered:

"Return… my… head…"

"Return… my… head…"

The voice was rasping, like rusted wires scraping over bone—

Hoarse, piercing, soaked in boundless hatred.

The vendor's vision blurred, his consciousness fading into darkness…

"PAH!"

Just as he was about to lose all air, a golden talisman shot through the night, striking the headless corpse's wrist!

WHOOSH—!

The talisman ignited, flames of pure gold engulfing the corpse's arm!

The corpse howled, its grip loosening, staggering backward in agony.

A figure in a long black robe stepped into the alleyway.

In his hand, a black peachwood sword, its blade covered in intricate lightning talismans, gleaming with a chilling glow.

He lifted his gaze—

His dark pupils were as calm as still water, deep and unreadable.

"A headless ghost?"

He scoffed.

Then, raising his sword slightly, he spoke in a low, commanding tone.

"Go back."

Thunder Strikes the Dead

In the next instant—

The blade fell.

BOOM!

A purple lightning bolt erupted, splitting through the alleyway!

The headless corpse shrieked, a sound that tore through the silence, before—

It was engulfed in golden flames.

The black mist was ripped apart, and with one last agonized wail,

The corpse collapsed into ash.

The alley fell silent once more.

The man knitted his brows, scanning the charred remnants on the ground.

"As I thought…"

His voice was low, grim.

"Someone's been raising corpses."

A Shadow in the Rain

Just as the words left his mouth,

A soft, deliberate footstep echoed behind him.

He stiffened, beginning to turn—

"My, my, Senior Daoist… you're so ruthless."

The voice was lazy, playful, with a touch of mocking amusement.

A woman stepped forward, a black oil-paper umbrella resting lightly on her shoulder.

Her lips curled into a smirk, her dark eyes flashing beneath the dim lantern light.

Raindrops slid off the umbrella's edge, splattering against the wet stone pavement.

Her long black hair swayed in the wind, carrying a scent of incense and something intoxicatingly sharp.

Li Wenhao's gaze darkened.

Jiang Wuyue.

Why was she here?

The night had yet to fade, and the stench of death still lingered.

A cold wind swept through the alley, stirring up ashes and remnants of scorched remains, while the air remained thick with the acrid stench of burnt ghostly flesh—a foul mix of decayed rot and sulfur, enough to sting the lungs.

Jiang Wuyue walked leisurely toward the scene, holding a black oil-paper umbrella.

Raindrops trickled from the umbrella's edge, rolling off her shoulder, yet she remained utterly indifferent.

Her eyes lifted slightly at the corners, her lips curling into a lazy, teasing smirk.

"Senior Daoist, how ruthless—won't even let a ghost have a way out?"

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze settling on the pile of blackened remains, her expression unreadable.

The Standoff

Li Wenhao sheathed his sword, his expression impassive.

"This isn't where you should be."

Jiang Wuyue chuckled.

"Oh? Am I in your way?"

Her voice was husky, carrying a touch of languid sensuality.

One hand casually toyed with the umbrella handle, her posture relaxed—so utterly at ease, as if the lingering remnants of the supernatural didn't concern her in the slightest.

Yet—

Her fingertips tapped lightly against the umbrella's surface.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like the faint echoes of a heartbeat.

Or perhaps… a hidden signal.

A Second Presence in the Dark

Something was wrong.

Li Wenhao's gaze sharpened, his senses reaching outward.

The silence around them was unsettling—

Yet the cold aura in the air hadn't dissipated.

No—

It was growing stronger.

As if invisible hands were reaching out from the darkness, grasping at the edges of reality.

The ghostly aura hadn't faded.

Which meant—

There was never just one corpse.

Li Wenhao's expression darkened.

With a swift motion, he stepped back three paces, his fingers flicking a talisman into the air.

"Open!"

BOOM!

A burst of golden light erupted from his fingertips, banishing the darkness for a fleeting moment.

And in that brief instant—

His gaze landed on the depths of the alleyway.

There—

A row of headless corpses stood in perfect alignment.

Their necks severed cleanly, torsos motionless, lined up like soldiers awaiting orders.

And beyond them—

A man stood in the shadows.

He wore a black Daoist robe, half of his face obscured behind a bronze ghost mask.

In his left hand, he held a horsetail whisk.

In his right, a black cloth sack.

From beneath the mask, his eyes narrowed, as if studying Li Wenhao.

"A disciple of the Daoist sects?"

His voice was low, almost amused—

Like the hiss of a serpent, slithering through the cold night.

Li Wenhao's grip on his peachwood sword tightened.

"The Black Sorcery Society?"

The masked man smirked but gave no answer.

Instead—

He slowly raised a hand.

"The ritual is complete."

The March of the Dead

At that instant—

Every headless corpse took a synchronized step forward.

Thud.

Blood trickled from their severed necks, staining their clothes.

Their footsteps were slow, but heavy, uniform, like a marching army of the dead.

The Woman Who Walked Toward Death

Jiang Wuyue blinked, her smirk widening.

"Interesting."

She closed her umbrella with a casual flick, tossing it aside.

Her exposed wrist was pale, delicate—her fingers curling slightly, as if testing the air.

A single raindrop slid down her fingertip, falling into the puddle at her feet, creating a ripple.

She did not retreat.

She walked forward.

Li Wenhao's brows furrowed.

"What are you doing?"

Jiang Wuyue glanced over her shoulder, giving him a languid, almost seductive smile.

"Playing with them for you."

Before he could react, her palm flipped, and—

A single drop of blood dripped from her fingertip.

The scarlet droplet fell into the puddle below, spreading outward in eerie crimson ripples.

At that moment—

The corpses froze.

The Blood That Commands

Something primordial stirred.

A hunger.

A need.

The black mist around them churned violently, as if an ancient instinct had been awakened.

The masked man's smirk faltered.

His gaze flicked toward Jiang Wuyue, his voice laced with suspicion.

"Ghost Bone?"

Jiang Wuyue's lips curved higher.

"Bingo."

Then—

Her wrist turned, and the blood in her palm flared, forming a crimson sigil.

The very air within the alley trembled.

The wind died.

The fog stilled.

The undead halted.

Every single corpse had its attention riveted on the scent of her blood.

A flicker of deep red light gleamed in her eyes.

And then, in a soft whisper—

"Kneel."

BOOM!

The headless corpses trembled—

And then, in perfect unison—

They fell to one knee, like soldiers bowing before their master.

A Revelation

The masked man's expression turned to ice.

"…Who the hell are you?"

Jiang Wuyue only laughed, extending a single slender finger, curling it toward him.

"Why don't you guess?"

And at that moment—

Li Wenhao finally saw it.

The corpses—

They weren't kneeling because of her blood alone.

They weren't just drawn to it.

No—

They were afraid of her.

Li Wenhao's breath caught, his gaze landing on the nape of her neck—

A single thought struck him like lightning—

Her Ghost Bone…

What exactly was it?

Retreat into the Shadows

The masked man scoffed, flicking his whisk.

A surge of dark energy erupted, and without hesitation, he turned and vanished into the darkness.

Jiang Wuyue narrowed her eyes.

"Tch. Quick little rat."

She retracted her hand, lazily turning back toward Li Wenhao.

"Senior Daoist, you owe me one."

Li Wenhao studied her for a long moment, his voice steady.

"What exactly is inside you?"

Jiang Wuyue simply smirked, tilting her head playfully.

"Why don't you take a guess?"

His grip on his sword tightened.

Jiang Wuyue's blood—

It didn't just draw the dead.

It made them bow in submission.

And that meant—

She wasn't just a Ghost Bone host.

She might be…

The Key to the Yin-Yang Gate.

And this—

Was just the beginning.