Chapter Twelve: The Soul in the Jar

The blue-faced man, upon seeing the tank that was still being forced open and the vague shadow within, exclaimed, “This is bad!” Then he chiseled at the bottom of the boat with even greater vigor.

He wielded his blade with both hands, his body bent in concentration, each strike—whether hacking or thrusting—methodical and composed, exuding the poise of a true master even in the face of mortal danger.

Such skill and composure further calmed Lei Aniu’s nerves despite their peril. In that moment, Lei Aniu even felt as if this man had been sent by the Empress herself to deliver them; with such strength and prowess, how could there be any worry about escaping?

With this hope in his heart, Lei Aniu grew ever more admiring of the man’s abilities. He made an inward vow that, should he survive, he would seek to become this hero’s disciple and learn such extraordinary skills himself.

At last, under the man’s relentless blows, the bottom of the boat split open with a miraculous “bang.”

Water splashed and wood fragments flew as the immense pressure forced its way into the hull. Coupled with the prior fire and scorching, the breach in the timber widened rapidly, like a collapsing dike.

Watching the expanding hole, Lei Aniu’s anxious heart finally settled into his chest with a thud. He knew that once the pressure equalized, his swimming skills would see him to safety. And then, all the musty rot would sink with the boat, vanishing forever into the cold depths.

Filled with the hope of survival, Lei Aniu called out, “Hero, you go first—”

But the man did not move. He stood motionless in the waist-deep water, hands clasped behind his back, facing the splitting tank, staring intently at something.

Suspicious, yet loyal, Lei Aniu did not flee alone. Instead, he turned to look in the same direction as the man, at the gray-black sea tank swaying gently in the submerged gloom.

The rice inside had congealed into sticky clumps, yet still oozed out in globs through the widening cracks. And from those cracks, along with the sticky black glutinous rice, something was desperately reaching outward—a pale arm.

A long, slender, deathly white hand with blood-red fingertips—a ghostly hand!

Staring at the growing crack and the striving hand, Lei Aniu’s mind went blank again. He could not imagine why a tank meant for rice would conceal a person. Or perhaps—that thing was the true source of all these horrors?

But pressed for time, Lei Aniu had no space for further shock. As he watched the arm force the crack wider, a sudden realization struck him.

He understood—the “thing” was about to burst free from the tank.

The blue-faced man also looked surprised as he faced the monstrous hand. He muttered to himself, “So this is where it was hiding... No wonder...”

Hearing this, Lei Aniu thought the man might know the owner of that hand.

But whoever the owner was, Lei Aniu was certain—nothing good could come from something hidden in such a tank.

His nerves taut, Lei Aniu seized the hero’s hand and urged, “Brother, let’s go! Our lives come first!”

The man gazed at the hand squeezing through the tank’s fissure and shook his head slightly.

He then instructed Lei Aniu, “You go first. If I don’t deal with this thing, none of us will make it out.”

“But—”

“Go! Once you escape, build a large fire. If I survive, I’ll find you by its light.”

“But, hero—”

“Go!” The blue-faced man cut him off without another word. With a long howl, he swung his cleaver and strode through the water, leaping like a dragon straight at the tank!

The cleaver whistled through the air with a ghastly, piercing note and came down in a single stroke, severing the arm that had reached from the tank.

A spurt of foul blood gushed forth, and the thing within emitted a shriek like needles scraping glass—a sound as mournful as the wailing of hell itself.

With the arm severed, the crack at the tank’s mouth collapsed entirely. In an instant, a bloody, mangled form burst forth, mingled with a cascade of rice like flowing sand, and grappled with the blue-faced man.

Figures whirled in combat as a strange, earthy stench rapidly filled the air, choking Lei Aniu as he watched. The raw, bloody violence drove home the mortal danger and terror of the moment.

Knowing it was madness to linger, Lei Aniu obeyed the hero’s command, dove underwater, and swam away without daring to look back.

Though he feared for the hero’s life and was curious about the monster in the tank, he knew now was not the time for distraction—self-preservation was paramount.

So it was that Lei Aniu survived his ordeal. Once free of the barge, he swam powerfully against the current, reaching the riverbank with his remarkable water skills.

Emerging from the water, he saw that a dozen men were already sprawled along the banks of the canal. Judging by their clothing, most were helmsmen and laborers from his own barge convoy.

As if by prior agreement, the survivors had already kindled a roaring bonfire on the shore, huddling together for warmth.

The laborers, having narrowly escaped death, rushed to help Lei Aniu from the water and eagerly recounted their own “adventures.”

It turned out that they had suffered much the same as Lei Aniu, but were rescued earlier by the blue-faced man and his “followers.” Since Lei Aniu’s boat was last in the convoy, his rescue had been delayed, costing more innocent lives.

As the survivors discussed their ordeal, a local among them told Lei Aniu that their savior was none other than the famed “Chef Hero” Zhao Qingshan of Zhaojialou in southern Shandong, known as the “Blue-faced Lord” and head of Shandong cuisine.

In the words of the local laborers and “disciples,” Zhao Qingshan was described as nearly legendary—not only righteous and generous, but also possessing uncanny insight. If not for his intervention after the mishap with the black-canopied boat, none would have uncovered the sinister secrets hidden on these barges.

Had it not been for this, everyone would have died inexplicably, victims of the moldy rice.

Hearing this, Lei Aniu, now somewhat recovered from his terror, suddenly remembered his boatmates and the fate of the hero Zhao Qingshan.

He immediately looked back toward the canal.

By now, all five of the barges belonging to his convoy had sunk to the bottom. Only a few poles and bubbles marked where they had once floated—no other trace remained.

Staring at the sunken wrecks, Lei Aniu sincerely worried for Zhao Qingshan. Though he knew the man was skilled and strong, he could not help but fear the hero might not overcome the monster in the rice tank, or escape in time.

As the minutes ticked by, the canal calmed. Occasionally, a corpse or some clothing would surface, mold-blackened and unrecognizable.

But for a long time, there was no sign of Zhao Qingshan alive.

Just as everyone was losing hope, thinking Zhao Qingshan must have perished, the hero emerged, dragging his cleaver behind him as he slowly climbed from the canal.

In the moonlight, the cleaver in his hand gleamed as coldly as any weapon of war. He looked like a Kirin in armor, inspiring awe and fear in all who saw him.

From the bottom of their hearts, everyone respected him—a true hero wielding a blade to save others, a cleaver fit to slay demons and dragons.

Lei Aniu, seeing his savior rise from the water, rushed to him with the disciples to help.

Only as he drew near did Lei Aniu realize Zhao Qingshan was trembling and utterly drained. Most alarming of all, his right shoulder bore a deep, bone-revealing bite—clear tooth marks left by the monster in the rice tank, with several crystalline fangs still embedded in his flesh.

The sight was unbearable, yet Zhao Qingshan’s expression remained calm, as if the pain did not touch him.

Later, they helped Zhao Qingshan to the fire, where, after much effort to revive him, his color gradually returned.

As soon as he recovered a little, the rescued laborers knelt before him in unison—some in gratitude, some in grief, all with profound admiration for Zhao the Chef.

They praised his courage and composure in the face of danger.

Afterward, Lei Aniu privately asked Zhao Qingshan what kind of ghost had been in the boat, why common glutinous rice could kill, and what sort of spirit had dwelled in the tank.

Zhao Qingshan’s answer was simple and swift: the barges were transporting military rations.

“Military rations?” Lei Aniu repeated in disbelief. “But what kind of soldier would eat moldy rice? And what about the spirit in the tank...?”

Facing Lei Aniu’s barrage of questions, Zhao Qingshan raised a hand to silence him.

Then, word by word, he replied, “All I can tell you is—the rations were for the Ghost Army. Five boats of moldy rice, enough for a hundred thousand ghost soldiers. As for the rest—you’re not ready to know.”

Lei Aniu was stunned.

A hundred thousand ghost soldiers’ rations—he had never even heard of such a thing, let alone imagined it. But he understood that rice meant for the dead was surely more unclean and ominous than ferrying corpses themselves.

Vaguely, Lei Aniu looked at Zhao Qingshan’s inscrutable face and sensed that some great upheaval was coming to the land.

...

At this point, Old Master Lei Ren took another sip of wine before continuing, “And sure enough, things turned out just as my father predicted! The following year, the Central Plains War broke out in the north—five armies rose against Chiang, and over half of China became a battlefield. The dead numbered far more than a hundred thousand. But that’s a story for another time...”

I was completely absorbed, seeing that Lei Ren was about to stop and continue next time, so I pressed him, “Don’t keep us in suspense, Elder! Did your ancestor ever become Master Zhao’s disciple? What happened next? And what is the Battle of Spirit Beasts in the Kitchen?”

“You want to hear more?” Lei Ren stroked his snowy beard and looked at me. “I could go on, but... surely you know what I mean? Do me a favor first.”

At that moment, I was puzzled by his words.

What exactly did he want? And what could I possibly do for him?