The Book of Life and Death

“Choose the cup without poison, and you may become my disciple.”

Inside a ruined, abandoned temple, Zheng Que knelt on a prayer cushion before the shrine. Lined up in front of him were seven bowls of murky wine. Beside them stood an elderly man in a gray Daoist robe, his hair tied in a square topknot, hands clasped behind his back, his tone indifferent.

Not far away, a pitch-black coffin rested quietly in the shadows, exuding a sickly-sweet stench, like a beast lying in wait.

Zheng Que’s gaze remained fixed on the seven bowls of turbid wine, his emotions surging.

This was a cultivation world where one could pursue the Dao and seek eternal life. He had transmigrated here at birth and had already lived for a full sixteen years.

In this realm, the Underworld did not exist. The souls of the dead could not enter reincarnation and were forced to linger in the mortal world. As time passed, malevolent entities roamed unchecked, ghosts and monsters multiplied, and for ordinary people, simply staying alive became extraordinarily difficult.

Zheng Que had been fortunate. Not only had he managed to survive to the age of sixteen, but he had also encountered a cultivator willing to accept a disciple.

However, this cultivator’s requirements were anything but ordinary.

Among the seven bowls of murky wine before him, identical to the naked eye, only one contained normal wine. The other six were infused with corpse poison, lethal upon contact.

As Zheng Que pondered, the gray-robed elder beside him continued, “If you choose incorrectly, you may still enter my sect.”

“Only, it will be as a corpse puppet.”

As he spoke, the elder flicked his sleeve. The heavy coffin flew open at once, and two black shadows shot out, landing obediently in his hands: a full set of skinning knives and a burial shroud covered in talismans, reeking of blood.

The old man glanced at Zheng Que and deftly selected a willow-leaf-shaped blade, already seeming to measure where to make the first cut in preparation for crafting a corpse puppet.

Zheng Que came back to his senses. This was the rule the gray-robed elder followed when accepting disciples.

Seven choices. Only the one who survived would gain the chance to enter the Dao.

Before him, many had come seeking apprenticeship, drawn by the elder’s reputation. All had perished after drinking the poisoned wine.

Today was the final time the gray-robed elder would accept disciples in this region.

At the thought, Zheng Que took a deep breath and extended his hand, feigning hesitation. His gaze and fingertips hovered back and forth among the seven bowls. After several breaths, he seemed to grit his teeth, make a decision, and swiftly select the fourth bowl from the left.

Raising the bowl, Zheng Que did not hesitate further. He tipped his head back and drank it in a single gulp.

The fierce liquor burned down his throat like a sharp blade, cleaving straight through. In the blink of an eye, a rolling heat surged up from his lower abdomen, and his entire spirit was invigorated.

Watching the bowl Zheng Que had chosen, the gray-robed elder showed a trace of surprise, but soon nodded. With a casual gesture, he recalled the skinning tools and burial shroud.

Then, without any preamble, he declared, “The Big Dipper decrees death; the Seven Stars determine fate. Your fortune is exceptionally good.”

“Since you have chosen the path of life, from this moment on, you are my disciple.”

“Night is approaching. Return and rest for now.”

“Come back here early tomorrow morning.”

Hearing this, joy surged in Zheng Que’s heart. He immediately bowed. “Yes, Master!”

Daoist Qu said nothing further, merely waving his hand to signal that Zheng Que could leave on his own.

Zheng Que backed out of the temple respectfully. Outside lay a small courtyard. Abandoned for many years, it was overgrown with weeds, moss carpeting the ground like a rug. The daylight was still bright, and faint rustling from snakes and insects could be heard.

By the courtyard wall stood a thick tree that would have taken two people to encircle. It had long since withered, its twisted branches still casting mottled shadows across the ground.

The treetop was empty, yet within the shadow below hung a slender figure swaying like a pendulum. Clearly a hanged female ghost, hair disheveled, feet bare.

The female ghost drifted with the wind, gliding back and forth across the courtyard threshold like a swing.

Zheng Que frowned at the ghost’s shadow. Without the slightest hesitation, he moved straight to the low wall farthest from the dead tree and vaulted over it, showing no intention of approaching the shadow.

After leaving the ruined temple, he hurried along for some distance. When the chill behind him gradually faded, he silently let out a breath of relief.

But soon, a thick mass of fog rolled in from ahead, accompanied by the faint sounds of gongs and drums.

Zheng Que looked up and saw, deep within the fog, a procession dressed in bright red, beating gongs and drums as they carried a red sedan chair, advancing toward him in high spirits.

A cold, sinister wind swept through, lifting the sedan curtain halfway. Inside sat a graceful figure, upright and composed, adorned in phoenix crown and bridal robes, delicate and captivating. The maids flanking the sedan had pale complexions, cheeks painted with vivid rouge. Their smiles seemed drawn on, frozen in perpetual joy, while their pitch-black eyes stared straight at Zheng Que, eerie beyond words.

A ghost wedding procession!

Without another thought, Zheng Que turned and slipped into the nearest alley, rapidly widening the distance between himself and the procession.

Head lowered, he hurried on, relying on his familiarity with the town to weave through countless twists and turns. Only after a long while did the festive music behind him finally fade away, as if unwilling to part.

After briefly confirming his direction, Zheng Que headed toward his residence.

By now, the daylight was receding and dusk was settling in. Everything around him was shrouded in dimness, appearing hazy and indistinct.

As he neared his home, he caught sight out of the corner of his eye of several children gathered in an open space nearby. Their bodies were soaked through, water dripping continuously from their hair and clothes, yet they seemed entirely unaware, still playing and roughhousing. The ground beneath them had been churned into mud, mixed with scattered scraps of red paper.

One of the children laughed and said, “Old Zhao’s second son just married yesterday, but on his wedding night, he didn’t even get to touch his bride’s hand.”

Hearing this, another child immediately chimed in, “Who told Zhao Lao’er to place one shoe upright and the other upside down? How was his bride supposed to find the bed like that?” [1]

The others echoed in agreement.

“That’s right!”

“How can he blame his bride for that!”

“Hee hee… serves him right… he deserves it!”

Zheng Que kept his eyes straight ahead, not sparing the children a single glance. He walked past them, reached his door, shoved it open, and stepped inside. Without looking back, he bolted the door shut. Only then, surrounded by the empty silence of the house, did he finally relax.

This town was becoming more and more abnormal.

The wandering spirits on the streets already outnumbered the living.

And that was with the sun not even set yet.

If he hadn’t succeeded in becoming a disciple today, he doubted he would have survived much longer in this town.

With that thought, Zheng Que went straight into the inner room, opened the bed, and prepared to rest.

Before climbing in, he deliberately bent down and arranged his shoes one facing forward, the other backward, then lay down.

After a full day of exertion, Zheng Que was utterly drained. Almost the moment his head touched the pillow, he fell asleep.

He had no idea how much time had passed when, in a daze, he found himself sitting in a broken-legged armchair. Before him stood a long, pitted table. What had once seemed to be a vast, magnificent main hall was now reduced to crumbling walls and broken beams. Above, a large hole gaped in the roof, and an icy wind howled through, chilling him to the bone.

Zheng Que looked down at the table, where an ancient-looking booklet lay. On its yellowed cover, three stark characters were written in blood. The Book of Life and Death!

[TN: “Three characters” refers to the original Chinese 生死簿. Three brushstrokes on a yellowed cover hit harder than five words ever could.]

[1] - In folk belief, placing one shoe upright and the other upside down at the bedside confuses wandering spirits and prevents them from finding their way to the sleeper.