My name is Zhang Lin. I tell fortunes, perform rites for the dead, bathe fox spirits, get beaten by my master’s wife, and haggle with ghosts.
I have a sword that calls itself “Hold On.” She’s a germaphobe and has to take a bath after every job.
Only later did I learn that I wasn’t some little Taoist priest. I was a fragment of the soul of Di Xin, Emperor Zhou of Shang.
Second, I have “Star-Plucking Fire Poison” planted in my body. It’ll explode in three years, and my death is already set in stone.
And that so-called “Righteous Alliance,” full of people who preach benevolence and justice, slaughtered my entire family twenty years ago. Now they sit high above, serving as the Heavenly Dao’s dogs.
Fine, then.
This Daoist will earn this month’s rent first, then think about bringing down the Heavenly Dao.
