Nineteen years ago, the fissure beneath the East Sea churned with stagnant, deathly water. Twelve people from the sect held the formation. None returned.
His master’s final words were: “Donghai City stands as long as its people stand.”
Nineteen years later, Bai Changsheng keeps watch over a shabby shop, a dry well, and a broken sword.
The nine nodes of the ancestral Dragon-Suppressing Formation are being corrupted one by one.
The old well on Tanggu’s old street is seeping black water.
Nine sacrificial stakes stand beneath the North Ring overpass, locked in place with the bones of the living.
The seven-star ghost-suppressing formation in Central Park’s wishing well is weakening, and the underworld’s command token is about to awaken.
A broken peachwood sword severs karmic ties; coins made from lightning-struck wood divine the balance of yin and yang.
One flick of a coin, and the thing inside the coffin fell to its knees.
A soul-chasing incense stick can track someone for seventy-two hours; a stabilizing post can hold an entire ley line in place through the night.
Atop the tallest building in the CBD, his former senior brother gazes down over the city with a glass of red wine in hand.
“Junior Brother, it’s time Donghai learned to live differently.”
Bai Changsheng looks up and meets the metal eye across the city.
“The old man said the city stands as long as its people stand.”
“If you want to tear it down, you’ll have to ask the well beneath my feet for permission first.”
