Chapter 3: The Day of the Sect’s Reforging

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This nameless village was eerily quiet.

Too quiet.

No barking dogs, no clamor, not even the sound of human voices. Even the chicken perched atop the bread van pecked at the insects on the pomegranate tree in silence.

Mo Jiang walked past it; the chicken seemed not to notice him at all.

Everything here felt as if it were set in place by design, displaying itself just as intended.

“This novel is bound to flop…” Mo Jiang mused absently, wondering how such an illogical setting could exist.

Ahead, Coco was walking. Mo Jiang hurried to catch up.

Passing several silent households, treading along muddy paths, Mo Jiang finally heard a sound.

Clang, clang, thud, thud—metal colliding.

Mo Jiang looked at the clay-molded little girl. Before he could speak, she said, “This is the house of the barbaric blacksmith. My mother wanted to forge a sword here but then disappeared. Can you help me defeat the barbaric blacksmith? I think my mother must have been locked up by him.”

Suddenly, Mo Jiang’s mind grew foggy. When he regained clarity, a sharp pain struck his body—a wooden fist thudding against him.

The fist was square and knobby, pounding him relentlessly.

Mo Jiang didn’t care what it was; he lifted his foot and kicked the thing away.

Bang, bang, bang—a series of thuds. Mo Jiang looked down and saw a heap of splintered wood at his feet, the pieces vaguely shaped like a human figure.

Then, beside him, the clay-molded girl’s voice piped up: “Amazing! You’ve defeated the barbaric blacksmith. Now hurry and help Coco find her mother!”

Mo Jiang felt a chill crawl up his spine; he had no idea what he’d just encountered.

Upon hearing the little girl’s words, his mind whirled again.

When he came to, he found himself seated in a courtyard, now bustling with activity. Many people wandered back and forth.

Yet, all these people were made of clay, wood, or stone, like dolls.

Several wooden mongrels bounded about.

“What’s going on?” Mo Jiang saw a scene resembling a wedding banquet, feeling utterly unable to control himself. It was as if a thread ran through him, dictating his every move.

He spotted Coco, the clay-molded girl, dressed in a festive red dress, skipping happily toward him. “Daddy, Mommy is ready. You two should get married now!”

“What?” Mo Jiang’s eyes widened, and then he saw a skeletal figure approaching with a sweet smile.

The skeleton wore a bridal gown, its grotesque head covered in blood and flesh. Upon seeing him, its face flushed as if bashful.

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Mo Jiang’s heart suddenly calmed. He looked at Coco, the clay-molded girl, realizing he had misjudged.

He’d assumed the witch ruling this world lurked in shadow, mysterious and elusive, and surely a living person—not a doll like those here.

He never expected the witch would confront him directly.

“Hurry, we should get married now.” The skeletal bride’s voice was bright. She extended a bony hand to grasp Mo Jiang.

He dodged swiftly.

The bride’s face darkened. She froze, “You’ve changed your mind? I knew it! You never liked me! You resent me for having a child, you don’t love me! Why would you marry me, then? I’ll kill you!”

The skeletal bride shrieked, ferocious.

The surrounding dolls joined her, howling, “Kill him! Smash him to pieces!”

Mo Jiang’s expression remained blank. He turned to the clay-molded girl. “Witch, you are the witch, aren’t you?”

The moment he spoke, the world seemed to fall silent.

The skeletal bride lunged at him, crazed. The others followed, closing in.

The clay-molded girl stood aside, lips pressed in a sweet smile as she watched him.

But soon, her smile stiffened.

She saw the dolls, dismantled by Mo Jiang’s casual punches and kicks. When they struck him, only a bit of stone dust fell.

Mo Jiang was surprised by his own strength. His stone body was unexpectedly powerful.

He glanced at his lifespan—the number representing his life decreased, but only by two days. Evidently, the ghost’s curse had little effect.

But his strength was immense!

“This isn’t a curse—it’s a blessing,” Mo Jiang realized suddenly, a fantastic notion flashing through his mind. But now was not the time for such thoughts. After dismantling all the dolls, he lunged at the clay-molded girl. She tried to flee, but her speed and strength were no match for his; he pinned her to the ground.

“Reproduction…”

The task surfaced in his mind.

Yet before he could entertain any wicked thoughts, the clay-molded girl beneath him transformed into a Manlong weed.

It grew peculiarly—not like any plant from Mo Jiang’s memories. It resembled a humanoid figure, its body covered in eye-like patterns.

The eyes were not human-shaped, but inverted triangles streaked with crimson, as if bleeding.

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“That’s the witch…” Only then did Mo Jiang realize he’d only read one chapter of the novel, and the author’s untimely death left the story unfinished; what happened later couldn’t be inferred from that single chapter.

“No wonder such a task appeared…” Mo Jiang understood now. Manlong weed typically grew in rocky crevices, drawing nutrients from minerals to produce hard fruit.

These fruit, rich in minerals, were often used in medicinal preparations.

A medicinal herb, in essence.

Bang.

Mo Jiang cracked his own arm and placed the Manlong weed inside. It quickly took root, its humanoid form writhing, trembling with inexplicable excitement. After a long while, it settled.

Immediately, Mo Jiang was overcome by weakness, his strength drained completely.

But a Manlong weed fruit soon formed, dropping onto his face.

Ding!

Mo Jiang felt the world spin, his vision blurring before sharpening again.

Sunlight vanished.

His surroundings were shrouded in darkness, lit only by faint moonlight.

By moonlight, Mo Jiang saw stairs beneath his feet.

A sharp crackling sound drew his attention.

He looked over and saw a fruit.

A Manlong weed fruit.

“So it wasn’t a dream… Then, I’m back?” Mo Jiang murmured, his gaze settling on the palm of his right hand, where the outline of a stone door began to appear.

The stone door seemed cracked, with clear fissures running through it.

At that moment, the door was tightly shut.

But the marks of having recently opened were unmistakable.