Chapter Fifty-One: The Grand Finale, Part Two

Chapter Fifty-One: Final Conclusion

I had just handled this pistol earlier; it was perfectly ordinary then. Could it have changed after being struck by lightning? No, this current of warmth is unusual, and there’s a sense of familiarity about it.

I gestured for Ren Tianxing to stay calm, gathered my spiritual energy, and quietly channeled it into the pistol.

“My old friend, we meet again!” a voice echoed from within.

I was surprised and delighted. “Hey, it’s you?” A wave of joy emanated from the pistol, as if reuniting with an old companion. Influenced by this feeling, an image appeared in my mind: a being with a conical head, a long tail swaying from side to side, and two tiny hands making faces at me.

Though we didn’t share a common language, our thoughts connected. We understood each other perfectly.

It was the spirit once imprisoned within that eighty-million-yuan stone, suppressed by Soul Devourer—yes, the same spirit I’d encountered in the professor’s lounge with Ma Junfeng and the others. After I rescued it, it left to find a new home. That stone had been its home, but as Soul Devourer’s power grew, it would eventually be consumed if it didn’t escape. It tried to leave but was pulled back, barely surviving. If not for my intervention, it would still be trapped there. I’d even given it a guiding talisman for its journey.

From what it told me, after leaving, it struggled to find a suitable place to reside, unable to tolerate the outside environment. Today, following the talisman, it found me, hoping I’d bring it to a temple. But upon finding me, it discovered the pistol.

It didn’t explain exactly what was special about the pistol, but I understood—the material of the pistol must be closely related to that stone. When the powerful lightning struck the pistol, the spirit seized the opportunity to enter it, using the force of the lightning. The dark clouds overhead were its sustenance. No wonder the clouds vanished in an instant; the spirit’s immense gravitational pull absorbed them, along with the lingering power of the malevolent ghosts within—its delicacy.

There was no doubt—Morita’s death was its doing as well. Morita never imagined the spirit would come to my aid. When Morita threw the grenades, and Ren Tianxing pulled the trigger, the spirit, seeing my life in danger, made the grenades disappear and swapped the restaurant owner’s shoes drying in the sun with the ones on Morita’s feet.

This clever trick reminded me of an ancient story Old Gu once told me: the Five Ghosts Transportation Technique.

I praised the spirit’s power and sincerely thanked it for saving my life. It was clearly unfamiliar with modesty, leaping about in joy at my compliments.

What puzzled me was its keen interest in Ren Tianxing—sometimes calling him fascinating, sometimes asking me questions about him with visible concern.

As it turned out, when a spirit enters its new dwelling for the first time, the first person it encounters becomes its master. This spirit was powerful and pure-hearted, and combined with Ren Tianxing’s righteous aura, it was a perfect match. The pistol now possessed a soul.

Ren Tianxing was skeptical at first, but eventually had to believe. Following my instructions, he bit his tongue, smeared his blood on the pistol, guiding and blessing the spirit, merging his essence with it.

Morita’s death was his own doing—he summoned so many malicious ghosts, and after I broke the formation, even if he survived, he would have eventually suffered their backlash. Don’t think the lightning wiped out all the ghosts; anyone who commits such evil is bound to pay the price sooner or later.

Looking at Morita’s corpse, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was divine retribution.

Sakurako had already fled—she slipped away while I was calling upon the Grandmaster of Xuanyang, knowing she couldn’t escape if she lingered. Poor Morita died, never realizing he’d been used.

In a corner outside the iron door, we found their ritual site. On a nearby tree hung a note: “Wanyan Changfeng, I will return for you.”

A week later, I was discharged from the hospital. My arm wound wasn’t serious; it was overexertion of spiritual power that nearly caused me to collapse.

I was in high spirits, especially since Ma Junfeng was discharged the same day. Gu Jing, Xiaoqiu, Shisanfei, Tang Xin, Gangzi, and others came to pick us up. Seeing Tang Xin and Gangzi well made me happier than anything. Though they still looked a bit pale, Gangzi joked that a few more meals of dog meat would fix that, and even insisted that I treat them.

Throughout that week, I had Wang Yatou’s egg and lean meat porridge every day. Despite her temper, her porridge was truly exceptional—even the plump hospital director would only visit during porridge time, his eyes glued to my bowl. Wang Tingting always brought an extra portion to “bribe” the director, which probably helped me get discharged a week early.

Yueyue and Ren Tianxing had already said their farewells two days earlier. Yueyue returned to America. Not knowing when I’d see that beauty again, I felt a pang of loss, but Wang Tingting’s sharp glare quickly brought me back to reality. Before she left, I gifted her a book on Chinese Daoist arts, hoping it would assist her research.

When I returned Ren Tianxing’s ancient pistol, I placed a protective restriction on it. Now that the spirit had found its home, no other power could enter. I warned Ren Tianxing that from now on, only he should handle the pistol—anyone else would invite trouble.

Shortly after Morita’s death, the authorities arrived—not the police, but the military. When Ren Tianxing reported the incident, I noticed a pair of sharp eyes scanning every corner—Li Baoguo was in that vehicle.

The military collected the deformed pistol—whether twisted by lightning or explosion, they treated it as a treasure, then proceeded to clear the site.

I stayed temporarily at Gu Jing’s villa, as many things remained unclear.

I recounted the events in detail, leaving everyone dumbfounded.

Gu Jing was especially intrigued by Yueyue’s theories, asking question after question, not missing a single detail. After some thought, he agreed with Yueyue’s view: Daoist and Buddhist arts are means of manipulating spatial forces, though only partially.

True Daoist and Buddhist arts require cultivation; without adequate training, one cannot wield the corresponding powers. For instance, the Nine Syllable Mantra of Esoteric Buddhism requires proper initiation and ritual blessing.

Gu Jing had always been curious about why talismans could produce such unexpected effects. A devout Buddhist would attribute it to the blessings of the Buddha, but in this modern age, even believers have some scientific understanding. Yet, Gu Jing couldn’t find a scientific explanation.

According to Yueyue’s theory, the balance of forces might provide some rationale.

Gu Jing elaborated: our three-dimensional world is filled with various forces, their balance invisible. Any imbalance, for whatever reason, causes anomalies—rain, wind, lightning, all are results of such imbalances.

At this point, Tang Xin asked, “If there is a balance of forces, what conditions could disrupt it?”

Her question left everyone speechless.

After much discussion, we speculated that the Earth’s rotation and revolution might be the key factors.

Earth is but a speck in the galaxy, a minor unit within the Milky Way. If Earth rotates, does the Milky Way also rotate, or revolve around another galaxy?

No one could answer. We lacked the means to study such matters, but it was certain that Earth’s movements cause weather and climate changes.

Could Daoist and Buddhist powers be another form of force manipulation?

If so, talismans, their symbols, mantras, and mudras are all mediums for controlling these forces. Human willpower is the tool that manipulates one force to disrupt the balance of another. The greater the will, the stronger the control.

I grew concerned—if this hypothesis proved true, would Daoism and Buddhism lose their mystery? Would their teachings still be respected?

Regardless, Gu Jing’s proposal left us silent for a long while. We had no grounds to refute it. No wonder Yueyue had said that even with all our efforts, fifty years wouldn’t be enough to unravel the Bermuda mystery. For her to share their research with me must have taken great resolve. The supper organization had studied this for over a century—would they really allow her to disclose it so easily?

I shared my doubts with the group, recounting every recent event in detail, hoping for their insights.

I was worried Tang Xin might not handle the supernatural talk well, considering I was her teacher, but apart from being amazed, she had no adverse reaction. Whatever ideas Gu Jing instilled in her, her worldview remained unaffected. This mindset would later make her an outstanding psychologist.

We talked until dawn, still unsatisfied. Afterward, everyone went their separate ways.

I’d planned to stay longer, but an email forced me onto the next available flight.

The message was from Lama Waldo: “Changfeng, my son, the ten-year period is up. Return within two days.”

Ten years—when Lama sent me to the Central Plains, he told me to come back after a decade, promising to give me what my father, Wanyan Duojie, had left behind. Thoughts of my father reminded me of Morita—what connection did he have to my father’s death?

High above the clouds, I left without saying goodbye to anyone, alone on the plane. I closed my eyes, reflecting on recent events. Despite our long discussions, some mysteries remained. Why did Tang Xin’s soul get trapped in the stone? How did she and Tan Da escape after being hunted with Yueyue? And how did Gangzi get cursed?

My thoughts were chaotic. I ordered a double coffee; the flight attendant’s sweet smile eased my nerves. Gazing out the window as layers of clouds flew by, I wondered: are we moving, or are they?

This question had plagued me for half a year. Upon reaching the Potala Palace, Master Waldo first took me to the Brahma Pool, where I soaked for three months to cleanse myself of worldly dust. For three months, I stayed motionless, sustaining myself on lotus seeds when necessary. Having trained this way since childhood, I found it familiar.

Three months later, I emerged and waited for Master Waldo in my old quarters. With time to spare and a laptop at hand, I checked my email—one from Gangzi, one from Yueyue, and one from Ren Tianxing. After reading them, I sighed, murmuring, “Human power is boundless; magical power knows no limits!”

Below are the contents of their letters—each moved me deeply.

Gangzi’s letter home:

Dear Changfeng,

Since you slipped away, Officer Ren has come looking for you many times, saying it’s urgent. Big Brother Qu and Shisanfei have set up a dragnet for your return. Don’t think I’m exaggerating—your girl nearly drove Big Brother Qu mad searching for you, forcing him to vacation abroad. Old Gu and his disciple even went to Singapore. Meanwhile, Shisanfei and I are left to bear the brunt. (Seems Wang Yatou can’t live without me—I smiled to myself.)

After you left, I dug into Tang Xin’s background. Old Gu read the details but dared not tell her: Tang Xin was born in Xia’ang Town, Huzhou, Zhejiang—a place with mass graves spanning over a thousand years. Her birth fell on an inauspicious year, month, and day. Old Gu visited the place himself, returning only to urge me to warn Tang Xin not to return for three years. What happened there, I don’t know.

(Tang Xin’s soul being trapped in the stone was due to her own circumstances.)

News arrived that Sakurako of the Nine Chrysanthemum Sect has been listed as a top-level international criminal, but according to sources, she’s been in hiding since returning home. (I smirked—after I broke her deadly thunder formation, she’s lucky to be alive. She must be recuperating.)

We finally understood her purpose. Two years ago, during an “Yin Transformation” incident at your university, I found that a year prior, Sakurako had visited Beijing and disappeared after shaking off Interpol. Rumor has it she visited your school.

Digging deeper, I uncovered a shocking secret: the “colonel” in the “Yin Transformation” was Sakurako’s grandfather. We believe she intended to pacify his soul, but for unknown reasons abandoned her plan—perhaps she caused the incident herself.

The Yamaguchi-gumi’s mission in China had two objectives: to take the strange pistol and to steal Academician Zhang’s latest research on ion energy. I suspect the Nine Chrysanthemum Sect also came for you.

(I took a deep breath—so Academician Zhang’s death was connected to them. Ren Tianxing later told me that Zhang had major breakthroughs in ion effects six months before his death, but the findings remained unpublished. He’d been summoned to Xi’an for help. I sneered inwardly—so this is how the Japanese acquire advanced technology.)

Changfeng, reply when you get this—don’t let Wang Yatou harass me daily, please.

Best wishes!

Academician Zhang died under strange circumstances. What exactly was he researching? For those Nine Chrysanthemum experts, stealing is easy; why kill Zhang? Upon reflection, it was to silence him—the files were stolen, but as long as the man lived, there was a risk. Killing him ensured the secret was buried. What I couldn’t understand was: why kill him so brutally? Was it to challenge our police?

The second email was from Yueyue:

Wanyan Changzhu, decree received: (I almost spat out my drink at the subject—what kind of address is that?)

Long time no see—are you fatter or thinner? Thanks again for using your “pig-like” body to protect me last time. Still, you used me as a shield, and I won’t forget that debt. (Morita’s black stone was lethal; if Ren Tianxing hadn’t fired, I might’ve been the first to meet the King of Hell. Pressing her under me was to protect her—how shameless she is to twist it.)

Back to the point, as the saying goes, “A night’s conversation with you is worth ten years of study.” The events of that night are still vivid in my mind. After much debate and analysis back here, we found no answers. I hope you’ll visit Europe as my guest someday. (I smiled—no one in her organization would believe what happened that night, and even if they did, they could only theorize. Even if I visit Europe, I won’t let her know, lest I become a lab rat.)

Our Bermuda research has advanced, thanks to that night. Recently, on a nearby island, we found a 17th-century chest. Inside was something unimaginable—a 19th-century camera.

Like with your discovery of the Terracotta Warriors, we’re sure the chest was never opened before. If you’re interested, reply and I’ll arrange for you to join our research. It’s significant for humanity.

We studied it for half a year. Professor Thomas linked the camera to the Bermuda events and became very interested in you. He believes there’s a mysterious force in the universe, most prevalent in ancient China—legends like Chang’e’s moon flight and Songshi’s ascension are prime examples.

He posits that this force can penetrate space, transferring items between worlds. If so, how many parallel worlds could exist?

The third email was from Ren Tianxing:

Changfeng,

Upon reading this, please come to Urumqi, Xinjiang. The archaeological team has found an ancient tomb, and several members have died mysteriously.

There might be something there of interest to you.

Just two sentences—but what could be in that tomb to interest me? He also sent an attachment.

I opened it: three photos. The first showed the tomb’s entrance in the midst of the Gobi Desert—nothing unusual. The second was a stone door built into a boulder, barely distinguishable unless closely examined. The third was a close-up of that door, marked with a yellow talisman. Someone had sealed it with cinnabar in a style identical to my Wanyan family’s, though the markings were weathered. No wonder he thought I’d be interested.

After seeing Master Waldo, I paid respects to the Buddhas, bathed for three days, then met the Living Buddha. He handed me a package and dismissed me without a word.

Bearing my father’s legacy, I left Tibet for Xinjiang, to fulfill my family’s destiny.

Since meeting Yueyue, my perspective has broadened. Though I don’t know much about Professor Thomas, Yueyue’s respect for him speaks volumes.

Thomas’s theory of parallel worlds isn’t far-fetched. I believe in the existence of multiple dimensions—Buddhist scripture speaks of the human realm, the ghost realm, and the demon path. At the very least, there are these three.

Based on Thomas’s ideas, it’s plausible that multiple worlds coexist.

I ventured a bold hypothesis: if time divides space, then each dynasty’s rise and fall forms a separate space, and their intersections create history, like train cars linked together. If the train cars run parallel and, for some reason, items at the same position in both cars swap, could this explain such phenomena?

If so, what was inside the Terracotta Warriors’ box when it was made? If items can be exchanged, perhaps a modern weapon from our world ended up there, and something from the Terracotta era appeared in our time.

Two years later, I investigated weapon manufacturing history through Ren Tianxing’s contacts and discovered a strange incident in 1954 at a Jiangsu factory. The first batch of domestically designed pistols (Type 54) was sent by plane to the Beijing Military Region for testing—twelve pistols in total. During the flight, all instruments failed for two minutes: engines stalled, radar shut off, and the plane plummeted before recovering. Upon arrival, one pistol was missing, replaced by a weathered stone in the case. The incident was attributed to mechanical failure.

This reminded me of the nineteen bronze swords and the Sword of Goujian found with the Terracotta Warriors—did they appear in the same way, or is there a deeper mystery? I cannot say.

Such were the events two years later. Now, I journey to Xinjiang, following my father’s instructions, to alter the fate of the Wanyan clan. Gazing at the endless clouds below and the tiny cities like ants, I marveled: a mere speck in the sea, yet the Dharma is boundless!

The story ends here. Some may wonder about the origin of Yueyue’s pistol, the exact circumstances of Academician Zhang’s death, or how those bronze swords and the Sword of Goujian were forged.

Fear not—these loose ends are intentional, for the second volume, “Living Sacrifice,” will unravel these mysteries and take us to the stunning deserts of Xinjiang.

As this novel was serialized, the writing was sometimes rushed. Writing is my passion. I declined VIP invitations from other sites so this first work could be freely read by more people—please leave comments to help me avoid mistakes in future works. This, too, is a form of wealth.

I thank the editorial team for recommending this work on the homepage and hope it might one day make the cover as a featured novel.