04,Hunted by Ghosts

After boldly revealing his full name to Leander, Han Ling completely ignored the shocked stares around him. He swaggered back to that wealthy young man with a pleased look on his face.

This wasn't the Immortal Realm anymore—there was no need to keep up the facade of the calm, reserved, and venerable sect master. Here, in this unfamiliar world, he could finally let himself go. Han Ling was in such a good mood that he actually allowed himself a bright, carefree smile. The corners of his lips curved up slightly, and the smile lit up his entire face like spring sunshine.

The original owner of this body had already been extremely handsome to begin with—sharp, proud features. After Han Ling took over not long ago, that face had quietly changed, bit by bit, to more closely resemble his own in the Immortal Realm: softer lines, yet more striking, carrying an unearthly brilliance.

That smile only made his face even more dazzling, like it had been dusted with starlight. Leander, who had been frozen in place, saw that smile and couldn't help but feel a subtle, dark gleam flash in his eyes.

And those who had been fuming moments ago, thinking Han Ling was just "lucky" to latch onto Leander, could no longer bring themselves to say anything. The brilliance in Han Ling's eyes stung so much it was impossible to look away.

Han Ling stopped next to the wealthy young man—An Yan.

"I don't have a protective charm on me," Han Ling said lightly. "Give me your hand."

"Huh?" An Yan blinked in confusion. He had no idea what Han Ling was planning, but still obediently stretched his hand out.

Han Ling closed his eyes, focusing his breath. A faint golden glow began to form at his fingertips, like the light of dawn. He lifted An Yan's palm, and with a flick of his finger, a talisman pattern slowly appeared there, spiritual energy flowing through the lines, shimmering gently.

"Skylight dispels shadows. Earthly fiends retreat. Three souls stay calm, seven spirits at peace. By command of the law—begone!"

The incantation fell, and the talisman shimmered faintly before rippling like water and then vanishing into An Yan's palm without a trace.

An Yan stared in shock the moment Han Ling's fingertips lit up. Oh heavens—he'd really run into a master! Though the full talisman wasn't visible, he clearly caught a flash of pale blue light before it disappeared.

"M-Master…!! What's wrong with me these days? Wuu…" He stammered, his voice even carrying a sob. Ever since one day last week, he'd been plagued with bad luck, inexplicably beaten, scolded, misfortune following him everywhere—until tonight, when Han Ling intervened at the banquet.

"You've been cursed," Han Ling said plainly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I've removed part of it, but that's just temporary. The source is still there—someone cast the spell somewhere familiar to you."

He paused, looking at that face which reminded him so much of his disciple. In the end, he added, "I don't know who did it, but it's likely your family has been implicated too. Tonight, they'll probably come for you. Remember—if you encounter ghosts, raise the hand with the talisman and strike."

"And tomorrow," he finished, "find a proper exorcist and deal with it completely."

With that, Han Ling turned and walked away, his figure quickly vanishing into the crowd.

As he left, he thought to himself: "I wonder if this world even has anyone capable of banishing spirits…" But for now, he had other matters to handle.

—

Only after Han Ling left did An Yan come back to his senses. His palm trembled uncontrollably as he quickly called his driver, his voice shaking.

"Pick me up… right now…"

The cold, luxurious banquet hall of the Mophiel family receded behind him as he fled, as though he'd finally broken free of some suffocating curse. But soon enough, that oppressive feeling crept back in—and faint, barely-audible sobs brushed against his ears.

He told himself he'd misheard. But when the sound came again, closer this time—right by his ear—he couldn't lie to himself anymore.

The cry was infantile at first, then cracked into a trembling woman's voice, choked with sobs and faint pleas for help.

His whole body went cold. He didn't dare look back, nor close his eyes. The sound alternated between weeping and laughter, near and far, like invisible fingernails scraping at his eardrums. He curled up, fists clenching so hard they hurt, afraid that letting go would mean losing everything.

When he finally got home, he locked the door, drew the curtains, and shut off the lights, plunging his room into dead silence. Even his breathing was shallow, like he feared disturbing something.

He pulled out a bottle of pills from a drawer and swallowed two blue-and-white capsules, telling himself it was just to sleep better. But deep down, he knew—this wasn't insomnia. He was terrified of hearing those damnable voices.

The drug took effect quickly. His consciousness grew heavy, and just as he started to feel relieved, the cries faded into the distance—until a soft sigh echoed in the darkness.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in thick fog, limbs icy and pale, feet sinking into damp earth. Ahead, the familiar crying and the woman's trembling voice grew closer—

"Give it back… give it back…"

Tiny feet emerged from the fog, toenails crimson like fresh blood. The infant's head lolled to the side, half its face crushed to bone, little hands leaving streaks of blood on the ground.

Beside it stood a girl in a university uniform, her chest stained with blood, eye sockets hollow, cheeks streaked with tears of scarlet, mouth curved into a chilling grin, shards of glass stuck between her teeth.

An Yan's stomach churned, throat tightening until he could barely breathe. The two figures pressed closer like mother and child.

He turned and ran—through woods, hospital corridors, a decrepit amusement park… a maze of fog, the cries and laughter chasing him relentlessly.

Until finally, they appeared in front of him again, the infant's face bursting apart, the girl's grin splitting to her ears, fresh blood dripping and spelling out glowing, blood-red words in midair:

"I want your life."

That voice was eerily similar to the one who'd handed him the scented sachet while smiling.

"Mom! Dad! Brother! Sister! Nooo!!" He screamed as he saw the ghosts closing in on his family. The mother-and-child ghosts blocked his way, shrieking:

"Life!! Give me your life!!"

Their jaws opened wider, wider—

Then he remembered the talisman in his palm. Summoning his strength, he raised his hand and slammed it into the infant ghost.

Blue light exploded in the black fog, transforming into chains that bound the two ghosts. The infant screamed as black smoke billowed from its face.

A sudden force yanked him out—

He woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding out of his chest. Looking down, the talisman in his palm had turned to ash, his fingertips faintly burning.

The house was eerily quiet. He called for his mother, but no one answered. Father, mother, brother, sister—all lay still and pale.

Clutching his mother's hand, he murmured, "Mom… wake up… you always said you'd be here when I had nightmares…" Tears wet her skin.

At last, he took a deep breath, wiped his tears, and found the butler.

"Contact Han Ling. Whatever it takes—bring him here."

Not long after, the Han family butler replied:

"Young Master Han Ling agreed. He'll be here before dawn."

At that moment, An Yan clenched the ashes in his palm and finally broke down, crying in the cold night.

—

Meanwhile, Han Ling was just finishing his late-night snack.

"Uncle Liu," he said calmly, "I need to make a trip to the antique market."

Uncle Liu blinked. "This late?"

"Mm. I need to prepare a few things. If I'm late… that family won't make it back."

He traced a finger across the table, golden talisman light sparking faintly like a quiet resolve in the dark.

"After all…" he murmured, a subtle softness flashing in his eyes, "that boy… looks too much like Xie He."

His gaze turned toward the night outside, glinting coldly.

"I need to see what dares to lay a hand on my people."

—

Han Ling changed into a dark overcoat and descended the stairs at an unhurried pace, his tall figure wrapped in an air of detached chill that made others avert their eyes.

The door was already open. Without so much as a glance, he stepped forward.

"Young Master!" Uncle Liu's voice rang out behind him, slightly panicked.

Han Ling paused, casting him a cool, autumn-water gaze that made Uncle Liu shiver.

"What is it?" he asked, tone calm but edged with faint impatience.

Uncle Liu hurried forward, lowering his voice. "Young Master… are you going out like this? Alone? It's been so long since you've left the house at night. I worry…"

Han Ling simply replied, "Antique market."

He turned to go, but Uncle Liu quickly stepped in his way.

"Forgive me, Young Master… but it's messy there at night. If you really must prepare things, why not let me arrange it and have everything delivered? No need for you to go personally…"

Han Ling fell silent for a moment, as though weighing the notion of "having someone to rely on."

He wasn't used to letting others handle things—he preferred doing it himself.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly, a faintly cold arc curving his lips.

"…If you're here," he said in his deep voice, "then why are you still standing there?"

"Y-yes! Of course, Young Master! I'll handle it right away!" Uncle Liu stammered, cold sweat beading on his forehead. There was no way he'd let Han Ling, who so rarely went out at night, leave now.

Finally, Han Ling withdrew his gaze and sat back down in the living room, his hands clasped behind his back. Even doing nothing, he exuded a natural air of authority.

As Uncle Liu retreated, he couldn't help stealing a glance at that distant, cold figure on the sofa, sighing inwardly:

This Young Master… really is something else.

At that moment, deep inside, Han Ling thought:

This is so awkward…

________

Han Ling sat on the sofa, his long legs casually crossed. He lightly rubbed the ring on his finger, but his tone carried an unmistakable chill as he ordered:

"Prepare a spiritual brush… if you don't have one, then cinnabar will do. Doesn't matter if it's been blessed or not. And some talisman paper."

Butler Liu froze for a moment, as if he hadn't fully processed the command. After a pause, his expression still hesitant, he asked cautiously:

"Young Master… should we prepare anything else? Like… black dog blood, glutinous rice, a Bagua mirror, peach wood sword…"

"Enough."

Hearing that long list, Han Ling couldn't help but let out a low laugh, laced with mockery. He leaned lazily back against the sofa, the corners of his lips lifting in a faint, ambiguous smile — but his gaze, as sharp as a blade, fell on Liu's face. His voice was cool:

"How interesting… you mortals really are… unnecessarily troublesome when dealing with evil spirits."

As he spoke, he reached up and unfastened the buttons of his suit jacket, casually tossing it onto the sofa. His slender fingers then moved to unbutton his cufflinks — and suddenly, a cold glint flashed at his wrist, something sharp and fast shooting out from his sleeve.

The spiritual sword, which had been disguised as a bracelet, was forced to slide up to his elbow when he undid his cuffs. Having been suppressed all night, the spiritual ring could finally hold back no longer — it burst out in a stream of light, humming angrily in midair, clearly fed up.

Butler Liu's eyes flickered with surprise at the sight of the sword spirit, though he quickly schooled his expression, his thumb subconsciously rubbing the black ring on his own index finger.

Without sparing the furious spiritual ring a glance, Han Ling said indifferently:

"No need for black dog blood, glutinous rice, Bagua mirror… none of it. Those mortal things are useless."

Liu froze in place, stiff, unsure how to respond.

"…I'll prepare it right away," he finally muttered.

After Liu left, Han Ling looked at the spiritual sword, which was still circling him sulkily, and chuckled mischievously:

"Oh? Still angry? Don't worry, I'll stuff you back in there next time too. Haha."

The spiritual sword spun even faster, trying to make him dizzy — but in the end, it was the sword itself that got dizzy, tumbling to the floor with a clatter. Han Ling reached out helplessly and stroked the blade. The cold touch made him think of his natal sword back in the immortal realm — Xiaoyao.

It was a sword he'd forged with his own blood, divine sense, and countless rare materials from the immortal world, binding it with his life in the highest form of swordmaster pact: man and blade as one.

The natal sword was no longer a mere tool, but an extension of the cultivator's life itself. It grew with its master, sensed his heart, shielded him from calamity, and struck back at his enemies. But if the master's soul was destroyed, the sword would perish with him — and if the sword was broken, the master would suffer grave injury.

That sword had accompanied him through countless tribulations, fending off disasters, slaying demons, defending him when death seemed inevitable. But when he fell in the immortal realm, the sword perished as well.

Now, in this mortal body, no trace of Xiaoyao's contract runes remained.

Thinking of this, a rare trace of loneliness flitted through Han Ling's eyes. He would never again see the little sword spirit who always took the form of a chattering young girl, spinning circles around him with her laughter.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Butler Liu returned, holding a delicate wooden box and a stack of talisman papers. Han Ling glanced at the speed of delivery but wasn't surprised — this world seemed just as convenient as the immortal realm when it came to finding spiritual items.

He opened the box and saw a brush crafted with the traditional core of purple bamboo, cold iron, or blackwood, encased in modern materials like carbon fiber and reinforced crystal steel to prevent spiritual leakage and wear.

Even the nib was an alloy-cinnabar blend polished with micro-conduits to evenly channel spiritual ink, with self-refilling circuits, and the ink cartridge inside the shaft could be swapped out or manually refilled for old-fashioned charm.

Of course, Han Ling didn't know all that — he just thought it looked a bit ugly. But at least it was a proper spiritual brush.

"As long as it's a spiritual brush…" he murmured, sweeping his divine sense over it, sensing the faint awareness within the brush timidly greeting him.

Butler Liu patiently introduced the family crest's projection and ink-refilling features, but Han Ling just smirked faintly:

"Convenient enough, I suppose."

He tucked the brush and talisman papers into his storage pouch, shaking his head at the stack of papers:

"I'm just drawing a few peace talismans. You really didn't need this much."

After changing into more practical clothes, he took his spiritual sword and storage pouch, following Liu out to the car. On the way, he opened the chat app on his comms device, pulling up the new contact he'd added at the banquet — the one who'd caused quite a stir: Leander Ashcroft.

This was a pick-up line he'd learned from the original owner's memories — and it'd actually worked, which amused him greatly.

After a moment's hesitation, he opened the chat:

[Lonely Ling]: I'm so tired and sleepy but I still can't sleep ahhhh.

(Lies — as a cultivator, he didn't truly feel fatigue.)

Unexpectedly, the reply came almost instantly:

[Leander Ashcroft]: What's wrong?

[Lonely Ling]: Gotta go exorcise a ghost.

[Leander Ashcroft]: Will you get hurt? Is it dangerous?

[Lonely Ling]: I'm super awesome!

The two continued their idle chat, surprisingly natural, like old friends who'd known each other forever.

---

Meanwhile, in the dimly lit room elsewhere, An Yan sat stiffly. The cold white light revealed the pallor of his fingers as he stared blankly into space, listening to the butler say "Han Ling will come."

It felt like a heavy stone on his chest had been lifted slightly. He dismissed the servants and stood up alone, his steps heavy.

A teacup toppled and shattered behind him, but he didn't even flinch. The carpet muffled his footsteps, but each one still felt like it carried invisible chains.

Passing a mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself — haggard and almost unrecognizable, with dark eyes and a shadow between his brows that looked like a fog he couldn't cut through.

Back in his room, he didn't dare lock the door. His gaze darted around nervously, as if something might be lurking in the dark, watching.

Taking a deep breath, he crouched beside the bed and pulled out a black suitcase. The lock popped open with a click. He dug through it and finally found a small sachet — dark red silk with a black drawstring, embroidered with faint symbols and a faint scent of incense.

He didn't dare pick it up — afraid of what might be inside — but his mind kept replaying that memory:

His cousin, smiling, sitting on the hotel bed during that trip, handing him the sachet: "We prayed at the temple for this. May it keep our Yan safe."

At the time, he'd been moved. He never imagined his cousin would want to harm him.

But afterward… misfortune after misfortune struck. His parents' car crash, his brother nearly stabbed on the street, his sister beaten by her longtime boyfriend — it was as if the whole family had been cursed overnight.

Regret gnawed at him. Maybe they should've called a Daoist priest earlier. Now it was too late.

The memory of that gentle cousin, who'd once shielded him and carried him to the hospital, handing him the sachet and saying "to keep you safe"… yet now the family lay in ruins.

"If only… I hadn't taken this thing… would none of this have happened…"

His voice was dry, his eyes red, fingers trembling as he covered his face.

The room was silent save for his unsteady breaths, as helpless as a lost child.

Until a voice outside the door announced softly:

"Young Master, a guest has arrived."

An Yan wiped his tears quickly, took a deep breath, and rose to open the door.

---

Meanwhile, Han Ling stepped into the An residence, his brows furrowed. In his eyes, unseen by mortals, the ground was littered with shredded corpses and foul miasma curling through the air. Two underworld enforcers lounged on the roof, chatting casually.

Han Ling frowned, waving a spell to block out the stench.

"So ruthless," he muttered.

Following the butler into the living room, he suddenly froze when he saw the familiar figure — his pupils darkened.

Why… is he here?!