The fog in Qingming Mountain is alive.
At three o'clock in the morning, the mist came out from the cracks in the mountain and wrapped around the eaves of the Cloud Viewing Temple, like countless cold hands groping on the vermilion pillars. Li Xuanqing's fingers holding the mahogany sword turned white, and the seven-star charm engraved on the sword shone faintly in the fog, reflecting a cold light in his eyes.
"Taoist Master, do you really want to go in?" The woodcutter Wang Er behind him was shaking like chaff, and the hatchet in his hand clanged against the stone, which was particularly harsh in the dead forest.
Li Xuanqing didn't look back, and his voice was as cold as ice: "Your baby has been pestered for three days, and if you wait until Mao hour, all three souls will be lost, and it will be difficult for the gods to save him."
Wang Er swallowed and looked at the dark old forest ahead. Three days ago, his ten-year-old son Goudan went up the mountain to collect firewood. When he came back, he went crazy. He fell asleep during the day and got up at night to cry in the corner. His cry was so high-pitched that he didn't sound like a child, but like a resentful woman. The village goddess danced for two nights, but not only was it useless, Goudan began to vomit black blood, with long bloodshot eyes hanging from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were frighteningly empty.
Some people say that he hit the "hanged ghost" deep in Qingming Mountain.
