106: Little Demon

Xunyang, a land crisscrossed by rivers and rich in fertile soil, had long been known as the land of grains. As long as one was not lazy and the fields were tended, no one would go hungry. Though not wealthy, the people lived in peace and health.

Unfortunately, these past years of chaos and warfare had brought frequent bandit raids. The local authorities paid little heed, only managing to keep some semblance of security around the county seat. In the countryside, clans fortified themselves, forming strongholds for self-protection, which in turn bred fierce warriors.

Some of the larger strongholds even took the initiative to hunt down bandits, often proving more effective than the official government. Villagers rarely reported incidents to officials, preferring to settle matters according to the rules of their own strongholds.

The wedding procession comprised the groom’s relatives and friends, all from the same village—which was more like a small fortified hamlet, a dozen or so men each carrying clubs, moving swiftly. The groom pushed a wheelbarrow, a foolish grin brightening his face. After several miles, he showed no sign of fatigue, much to the embarrassment of the bride seated atop the wheelbarrow. Her cheeks flushed deep red, and her fingers clutched at her dress so tightly they nearly broke into a sweat.

“Everyone, pick up the pace! The weather’s fine—let’s get back early. There’s fresh fruit and wine waiting at home,” an old man said, squinting into the sun, tapping his yellowed tobacco pipe as he led the way.

At his words, the group responded enthusiastically, the previously silenced horns blaring once again, filling the air with festive cheer.

The southern weather was fickle, much like a young bride’s mood in spring—at times radiant and bright, at others overcast and gloomy, unpredictable. After walking over ten miles and passing through a dense forest, the villagers neared the village, only to see dark clouds roll in from the horizon, bringing a chilly breeze.

“Keep moving, don’t stop now,” someone urged.

They pressed forward into the woods, the sky darkening ominously, signaling an impending downpour. Even the air felt heavy and oppressive.

Suddenly, the bride felt something warm against her chest. Reaching down, she found a talisman tucked close to her—a charm her sister had given her before setting out. It was said to be a gift from a Taoist priest, meant to warn against evil spirits.

Her face drained of color as she cried out, “Stop!”

No sooner had she spoken than a fierce wind swept through, swirling stones and lifting dust, blurring vision in a murky darkness. A cold glint flashed through the gloom, accompanied by a scream, plunging the group into panic.

The men were mere villagers, unaccustomed to such terror; their legs turned weak. Hearing the scream, their spirits shattered, they scattered in all directions, crawling and stumbling in frantic escape.

Amid the chaos, the bride fell, her red veil torn away by the gale and nowhere to be found. Her newly sewn dress was stained and disheveled. In her confusion, she felt the talisman burning hotter against her skin—as if it were a branding iron. The pain was sharp but bearable. Holding the talisman up, she saw faint flickers of light pulsing from it.

Clearly, this was no ordinary charm. She dared not let go, enduring its searing heat. Remarkably, at the very moment she drew out the talisman, the howling wind diminished significantly. Those paying close attention would notice the storm abating and visibility improving.

A few meters from the path lay a patch of dense undergrowth, tangled with vines and roots. The bride sensed something watching her from the shadows—chilling and unnatural. This deepened her dread. Around her, most had fled; only the groom remained, clutching the wheelbarrow, head bowed and trembling.

Suddenly, the talisman in her hand twitched as if alive, startling her. She flung it aside, watching as it fluttered in the breeze without falling. From the thicket came eerie sounds, like a frightened beast’s cries—fearful and angry.

Seeming to sense the provocation, the talisman suddenly flared with light. From the brush leapt a creature, part wolf, part something else. It tried to flee, but barely a few steps later, it was pinned to the ground, unable to move, emitting pitiful whimpers. Its body trembled violently before dissolving into a puddle of soft mud, silent and still.

The wind ceased. The talisman drifted down, lifeless once more. The groom finally lifted his head, gathering his strength before grabbing the bride and running without looking back, too terrified to verify the fate of the creature.

...

Shortly after, from the quiet woods approached an old donkey carrying a figure, followed by a silver-furred monkey bearing luggage. None but Yifan himself could travel this way.

Drawing near, he spotted the talisman he had gifted lying on the ground beside the slain monster. Examining the corpse, he realized the creature had died of fright, and he chuckled softly. “What an ignorant little demon.”

Any being with a modicum of wisdom would have turned tail at the sight of the talisman, which was called the “Little Exorcising Talisman.” This talisman did not attack on its own but would kill those who resisted. To dare confront it was to court death.

Even those unfamiliar with the talisman should have sensed its power. Any knowledgeable demon would have fled at the scent.

Picking up the talisman, Yifan noted the diminished magical energy within and gauged the demon’s strength—a mere minor monster, likely a mountain spirit that had acquired some dark arts. Instead of remaining in the mountains to cultivate, it had descended to prey on villagers, even abducting brides to use their virgin blood in spells.

In truth, if the villagers had been brave enough to band together with clubs, knives, firebrands, and stones, they could have defeated or even slain the creature.

But human nature was complex. Faced with the unknown and haunted by tales of past misfortunes, fear quickly spread, collapsing their courage. Judging from the absence of corpses, the villagers had fled, indicating the demon’s power was not great.

“The world is chaotic, and human hearts are inscrutable,” Yifan murmured.

He flicked a fiery talisman onto the demon’s corpse, then mounted his donkey and ambled onward, unconcerned with the smoldering fire behind him.

Though he had left the village, as he approached Xunyang County, he sensed a faint but harmful demonic aura. Hesitating, he touched his belly, recalling the few eggs saved by a poor family. The day was still young, so he changed course.

By the time he arrived, the matter was resolved—the demon had died of fright. He saw no need to linger; as long as the people were safe, the rest was none of his concern.

What he did not know was that, years later, the story would spread. Villagers built a small shrine in memory, carving a deity’s likeness from the family’s recollections. Though originally depicted wielding a sword, the figure now held a talisman, renamed the “Demon-Subduing Talisman.” Though few worshippers came, the legend traveled far, growing into something akin to myth as the years passed.