Chapter Thirty-One: The Headless Ghost

The middle-aged couple leaning against the wall let out a strange cry and dissolved into shadows, vanishing completely. There was not a trace left, as if they had never existed at all—even with Fang Mu’s power at the Dragon Gate, he could not perceive them. The alley returned to silence, leaving Fang Mu alone.

“Meow—”

A Bai turned his head, growling low in a particular direction. There was a hint of ferocity in his voice, and whorls of black mist issued from his mouth, curling about him. Gone was the usual image of a fragile little kitten; at this moment, A Bai looked truly menacing, his entire body wreathed in darkness like some terrifying otherworldly beast.

Fang Mu turned to look in that direction, frowning. “Is it there?”

A Bai’s growling stopped abruptly, though his eyes did not waver, fixed intently on that spot, and in them flickered a glimmer of… hunger.

“Let’s go take a look.” Fang Mu sheathed the butcher’s knife, then proceeded in the direction A Bai was staring.

He wound his way through twisting paths and several more alleys. When Fang Mu finally arrived at their destination, he drew both his butcher’s knife and the Ghost Thorn. Not far ahead was none other than the home of the little girl where the murder had occurred that morning.

Fang Mu lifted his foot and kicked.

With a crack, the wooden door shattered into pieces, exposing the dim interior.

In the darkness, two blurry figures could just be made out.

“Meow—”

At the sight of these two shadows, A Bai yowled even louder, the midnight cry of a cat especially chilling.

A crisp clatter sounded—inside, the two figures were bowing their heads, busy at something, but it was too dark to see clearly what they were doing.

Fang Mu stepped inside. The instant he crossed the threshold, a faint green light filled the entire room, letting him see clearly.

The two indistinct figures gradually came into focus. It was none other than the middle-aged couple who had vanished inexplicably. They were hunched over the table, using chopsticks to pick at bowls—the earlier clear sound had been the clatter of chopsticks on porcelain.

Suddenly, Fang Mu felt a chill in his heart. Wind stirred behind him—a response triggered by his true energy.

There was no time to think. He ducked swiftly and saw a hand swipe just above his head.

Behind him, two adults and a child—three ghastly beings—were staring at him with eerie malice.

“Old Wang... eat...”

The apparition at the table let out a dull, mechanical voice, tapping the bowl again.

“Clack... clack... eat...”

The one at the door echoed, reaching toward Fang Mu again...

“Eat your damn fill!” Fang Mu shouted, unleashing the hairpin technique and stabbing at the three apparitions.

With a boom, Fang Mu felt his hand strike nothingness, and the three specters vanished without a trace.

"Eat, eat, eat..."

From behind came the strange chanting. Fang Mu turned to find five apparitions sitting in a circle, eating at bowls full of nothing but air.

The apparitions paid him no heed and continued their ghostly feasting.

Fang Mu approached the table. They acted as if he didn’t exist. He hesitated, then reached out to touch them.

The middle-aged couple felt tangible, but his hand passed straight through the other three as if they did not exist at all.

“Strange...” Fang Mu muttered. Normally, ghost corpses could be touched directly, and the couple were certainly of that type—he had tested this before. But the other three could not be touched, not even slightly. This meant they were not of the corpse category, but perhaps belonged to another kind—phantoms, or perhaps rule-bound entities.

Before he could ponder further, A Bai on his shoulder let out a cry.

Black mist poured from A Bai’s mouth, sweeping toward the five apparitions.

The apparitions froze, then began to tremble violently.

With a snap, the black mist withdrew.

Fang Mu pressed A Bai’s mouth shut. “It’s not time for you to eat yet.”

The Devourer Cat, a beast that feeds on the supernatural.

There were still three he hadn’t examined—if A Bai ate them now, wouldn’t he lose out?

The five apparitions, as if facing their nemesis, shrank back and stopped chanting about eating.

Fang Mu placed his hand on the corner of the table. “Eat? In front of me—no, in front of Fang Mu—can you ever eat your fill?”

With a flourish, he flipped the table high into the air. It crashed to the ground, splintering with a sharp crack.

“Come on, why aren’t you eating now?”

Fang Mu grinned, watching the five apparitions with interest, then pointed at the middle-aged couple. “You can eat these two first.”

Ghostly corpses—he already knew what he could from them. Since this was their lair, where could they possibly run?

If any outsider saw this, they would be paralyzed with terror.

Creatures that ordinary people would flee in horror were, before Fang Mu, merely a question of which died first.

A Bai, after receiving Fang Mu’s command, sent black mist surging once again toward the middle-aged couple.

But just as the mist was about to touch them, the couple, along with the other three apparitions, vanished weirdly into thin air once more.

Fang Mu frowned—something was wrong.

“Big brother, do you want to play a game?”

Suddenly, a child’s voice sounded from behind.

Fang Mu turned, grinning.

Behind him stood a ghostly figure dressed as a little boy, holding a ball, seemingly gazing at him.

The word ‘seemingly’ was necessary, for the boy had no head.

In the ancient land of Guyue, there was a legend: if you encounter a headless ghost at night, never speak. If the ghost addresses you, you must not ignore it either; instead, cover your own head with a yellow cloth and wait until dawn.

Superstitions about the dead are many, but one of the gravest taboos is an incomplete corpse.

Any corpse missing parts, especially the head, harbors tremendous resentment. Of these, the headless ghost is the most terrifying.

The head is the master of the whole body. Without it, the resentment is all the greater.

As for the prescribed way to handle a headless ghost, there were rules: if a headless ghost speaks to you, it’s to claim your life. If you answer, it proves you have a head, and you’ll die. If you refuse, the ghost will try to touch you; if it finds your head, you’ll also die. Covering your head with a yellow cloth is said to work because yellow signifies nobility; the ghost won’t dare touch you, and as long as you don’t reply and wait until dawn, you’ll be safe.

Of course, Fang Mu had little patience for such convoluted rituals.

He drew out a bloodstained bellyband from his coat and cast it over the headless ghost.

Strangely, the cloth passed right through and fell to the ground, useless.

No physical form?

This was the first time the bloodstained bellyband had failed—even against the woman in blue, it had always worked.

Upon reflection, it made sense: the thing seemed to lack substance.

It had worked on the village chief’s head and the woman in blue because both were ghostly corpses with physical form. The bellyband could cover them.

But just because he couldn’t use this trick, did that mean he couldn’t deal with the ghost?

“Brother... you have a head, you have a head...” The headless ghost lifted the ball in its hand, speaking in a chilling tone, “My ball still lacks many, many more... Brother, won’t you give me your head?”