The Ghost War Begins

Jin Xiu’s aura was gone.

Even under the binding of the Shared Life Curse, I could no longer sense her presence.
Something stronger—some greater spell—was cloaking her from me.

But no matter how vast the heavens and the earth are, Jin Xiu, you are still only human.
Finding you is a matter of time.

It had been half a month since I fused with Bai Xi.
In that time, I learned to control this immense new power.
And only after mastering it did I realize how terrifyingly vast it was.

If her strength was truly this overwhelming, then forcing a fusion from the beginning would have been simple.
Yet she chose not to.
Instead, she allowed me—no, permitted me—to devour her.

Perhaps that had been her intention from the very start.

I later tried returning to the illusion to find her,
but she was gone.
Still, I could not shake the feeling that Bai Xi hadn’t vanished completely.
She was merely hiding—somewhere deep within me.

I never understood her.
But I knew she loved Qin An.
Because of love came hatred;
because of hatred, she sought to destroy everything Qin An cherished.

A thousand years ago, he had been the Celestial Realm’s greatest war god—
protector of the Three Realms and Six Paths.
Now, he was Qin An of the mortal world—
the Grand General of Xihan, the protector of its people.

And now…
I will destroy everything he protects with my own hands.

Xihan must fall.

That day, I gathered Zhao Xiao’s remains and buried him before the cottage.
The house had been repaired, a swing built by his own hands.
He once said, “Qiao Qiao, I want you to marry me with honor. I’ll give you the best of everything I have.”

Before the cottage stretched his precious herb garden.
He would hoe the weeds, water the soil, and spend hours gazing at a single vine.
He’d laugh and tell me, “When this vine bears fruit, it’ll be a rare medicine. I’ll sell it and buy you new dresses, Qiao Qiao.”

Zhao Xiao…
the vine has borne fruit now,
but you’re no longer here.

I built a memorial tomb before the house,
poured a cup of wine upon it.

Zhao Xiao, this is the nuptial wine I owe you.

I stayed in that house for two days,
weeded the garden clean,
and then left.

Three months had passed since I last left Yingzhong.
Three short months—and the world had overturned.

In Xihan, catastrophe struck.
Emperor Zhuo Yuan was dead.

He had ruled for eighteen years—
a brilliant sovereign who had turned a frail, impoverished kingdom
into the mightiest nation on the Yichuan continent.
At only thirty-six years old, he had no illness,
and yet one night he simply… died.

The rumors were endless.

Some said his only daughter, Princess Haiqing, had been kidnapped,
and he perished from grief.

Others claimed the once-ascetic emperor had received twelve stunning beauties as tribute.
Overcome with lust, he “overindulged” and died upon their bellies.

Still others whispered that the powerful Qin family,
hungry for power,
had poisoned him to death and forged an edict
declaring Qin An the new regent—
turning Xihan into the Qin family’s empire.

Now, the one who ruled was none other than the Regent King, Qin An.

Zhuo Yuan’s death became an unsolved mystery,
his story spreading through every tavern and teahouse in the land.
Each day brought a new version.
Some even said Zhuo Yuan hadn’t died at all—
that he had grown weary of royal life and faked his death to live in peace.

I laughed softly.
So this was Xihan—
a nation steeped in gossip and spectacle.

Across the border, however, Dongyi had entered its harshest winter in history.

Gu Yi’s father, the old emperor, was dead.

But his death hardly mattered.
For years, it had been the Empress who truly ruled the land.
The old emperor had four sons,
but only one was worthy—Gu Yi.
To the Empress, he was a thorn in her flesh.
She schemed for years to eliminate him.

When the dying emperor finally regained his clarity,
he drafted a secret decree naming Gu Yi his heir,
and ordered several loyal ministers to guard the succession.

But Gu Yi’s return to Dongyi had been perilous.
The Empress had laid countless traps.
He survived by the slimmest of chances,
only to be poisoned upon reaching the palace gates—
his body dumped in the wilderness so that he would miss his coronation.

And yet…
when the coronation hour arrived,
and the Empress stood before the court announcing,

“The Prince must have chosen freedom over duty.
Since he refuses the throne, then—”

a flash of green descended from the sky.

Gu Yi landed upon the ceremonial platform,
took the imperial crown from its pillow,
slid into the yellow robes,
and smiled at her.

“Since what?”

The Empress said nothing.
She simply spat blood—
and died on the spot.

Her death was strange.
Gu Yi’s return, even stranger.

Some said he had fallen from the heavens themselves,
and though his face was the same,
something within him had changed.
The softness was gone.
In its place stood steel.

When asked, he merely said,
“I have been gone from Dongyi for more than half a year.
Change is only natural.”

And with General Lan at his side commanding the army,
no one dared question him further.

Still, the Empress’s death troubled the court.
The imperial physicians examined her body—no poison, no wound.
And so, trembling, they wrote in their report:

“Overwhelmed by emotion—heart burst from excitement.”

And thus, the matter was settled.

But stranger things were yet to come.

On the 23rd day of the fifth month, Year of the Wood Rabbit,
Dongyi declared war on Xihan.

Emperor Gu Yi accused Regent Qin An of treason and insolence
and launched a full invasion.

Qin An’s general, Li Chongwei, led ten thousand men to defend the border.
Not one thousand returned.

Ten thousand lives—
only three hundred survivors.
Li Chongwei came back maimed,
one arm, one leg gone, mind shattered.
He spoke only two trembling words:

“Ghost men…”

Those two words chilled the blood of every soul in Yichuan.

Ghost men.
The nightmare that once nearly destroyed the continent—
had they truly returned?

According to the survivors,
Dongyi had sent only a small force—barely a hundred troops.
Yet these soldiers were giants—
three meters tall, grotesque in form,
horned foreheads, fanged mouths—
just like the monsters of legend.

Who could stand against such a horde?

But what no one could answer was this—
why would such abominations obey a human emperor?

Li Chongwei’s final account was chaos itself.

He said that day, ten thousand Xihan troops gathered beneath Dongyi’s southern wall,
hearts ablaze with courage, ready to die in battle.

Then came a single thunderous sound—
as though the sky itself had been struck.

The horses began to tremble,
their eyes wild with terror.

And then, the gates opened.

A hundred ghost soldiers surged forth.
The Xihan cavalry tried to charge,
but their steeds refused to move,
frozen with fear, no whip or spur could rouse them.

Ten thousand men—
massacred.

Some were torn apart by fangs and claws.
Some, trembling, drew daggers to fight to the death—
only to be seized by the limbs and ripped clean in half.

A hundred ghosts had wiped out ten thousand men.

And thus, the war between men and monsters began.