I loaded the geek game

Heian period.

The sea breeze from Hakatazu Port carries a damp, salty taste as it sweeps across the harbor.

The wind carried not only the fresh, pungent smell of fish, shrimp, and seaweed, but also the subtle aroma of cinnamon and sandalwood emanating from the dark holds of merchant ships from the Central Plains' Wu and Yue kingdoms, and the bitter scent of ginseng unloaded from Silla merchant ships, along with the dusty smell of dried linen. On the dock, Japanese was short and abrupt, Wu dialect was soft and melodious, and Silla dialect was rough and coarse. Fragments of various languages ​​churned and blended amidst the sounds of waves, shouts, and the clatter of cargo boxes, ultimately dissolving into the ceaseless tide.

Hakata, the throat of the Heian period, where the most surging vitality and desire of the entire dynasty were breathed in and out.

In a corner of the port, in a messy alley far from the bulk cargo yard, a sixteen or seventeen-year-old youth was squatting next to a fish pickling barrel, spitting as he spoke to the trembling fishmonger in front of him.

"See that? With that little bit of dark energy between your eyebrows, it'll only last three days, at most three days!"

The young man held up three fingers and waved them in front of the fishmonger. His slightly oversized blue water-dried robe was faded from washing, and there were stains of unknown origin on the cuffs. His hair was casually tied up, with a few unruly strands hanging down his forehead, but his eyes shone with a cunning glint.

"At best, you'll lose money, and all your rotten fish and shrimp will be gone. At worst, you'll suffer a bloody disaster, offending a passing 'Master Bai,' who'll drag you into the sea to feed the fish in the middle of the night!"

The fishmonger was deathly pale, his lips trembling: "Master Feng... didn't you say last time that you had removed my misfortune? I clearly already..."

"Last time is last time. Cleansing is like scraping barnacles from the bottom of a boat; once you've cleared one batch, another one comes. Fortune changes, and so does the evil aura."

The young man, who called himself "Feng the Magician," grinned, revealing overly white teeth, and casually pulled a crumpled talisman from his pocket.

“Here, a genuine talisman for warding off evil spirits and ensuring peace of mind, straight from the Yin-Yang Bureau. Stick it on the main beam of your shabby shed, and it will keep evil spirits away for ten days… no, at least half a month, and your business will flourish. As for the price—” he drawled, his eyes narrowing into slits, “it’s a hundred times cheaper than going to those high-ranking Yin-Yang masters with eyes born of wealth, isn’t it?”

Before he could finish speaking, he shoved the talisman into the other person's hand without saying a word, and then scooped up two thick, fatty pickled mackerel from the stall.

"Remember to stick the talisman straight! It won't work if it's crooked!"

The young man turned around, like a loach that knows the waterways, and suddenly darted out of the alley and disappeared into the surging crowd at the harbor.

Only after leaving the fishy smell behind and blending into the edge of the group of laborers carrying sacks at the dock did the young man, Ashiya Dōman, slow down and weigh the salted fish in his hand.

The sea breeze ruffled the few loose strands of hair that always clung to his forehead. He lowered his head and, in the salty, damp air, took a bite of the fish in his hand. The salty, fishy taste mixed with the rich, fatty flavor of the fish oil solidly filled the emptiness in his stomach.

"Meeting a magician"...

Daoman chewed on the fish, the name he had made up casually rolling through his mind. He always referred to himself that way in public; it sounded plausible.

But what?

He's just a half-baked amateur who doesn't even know his own limitations.

Doman's roots are in Harima country.

The Ashiya family was once a well-known family of Onmyoji in the area, but by the time of Doman, the family had fallen into decline. Doman's father had died when he was young, leaving behind only a yellowed notebook with messy handwriting and a golden bell that was said to be able to ward off evil spirits, but which always seemed to lack power when it rang in Doman's hands.

Daoman's childhood was spent stumbling along, trying to figure out the sometimes effective and sometimes ineffective magic by referring to those illegible and vague records, and relying on his mother for survival.

Three years ago, his mother also passed away.

Doman did not stay to guard the old house in Harima and its fading reputation.

He wrapped the bell and his notebook in a rag and plunged into the wider, rougher world.

For three years, he wandered, mingling in the streets and alleys and on the fringes of the underworld. He witnessed local shamans performing wild prayer dances, secretly learned a few strangely pronounced incantations from monks who had come from Silla, and even traded with merchants from the Central Plains for a protective wooden amulet painted with thunder patterns, the authenticity of which he did not know.

These miscellaneous insights, like patches of different colors, were roughly patched onto his meager family-inherited magic skills. They didn't form a coherent system, but they did add a touch of unpredictability to his methods... well, let's just call them "variations."

But he was still just a half-baked amateur.

Just like the "Sea-Suppressing and House-Protecting Talisman" that Dao Man just "sold" to the fishmonger. It was drawn by Dao Man himself, with crooked strokes and pitifully thin spiritual power sealed inside. He himself had no idea how much foul energy it could dispel.

But...

Daoman licked the salt-covered corners of his mouth, his gaze sweeping over the various faces on the dock, busy making a living.

It was originally the price of two pickled mackerel.

In this world, whether something is true or false, effective or not, often both buyers and sellers understand each other implicitly, and that's enough.

……

The midday sun was a bit dazzling, so Daoman found a shady spot against a wall and prepared to finish off the remaining half of the pickled fish.

“It seems like it’s time to leave Hakatazu… Perhaps I should go and see the Kinai region…” he thought to himself.

Just then, a shadow fell in front of him, blocking out the meager shade.

Daoman squinted and looked up.

The newcomer was not tall, nor particularly robust. He wore a slightly worn linen robe, and a standard-sized katana hung at his waist, its scabbard plain and unadorned. His face was tanned a dark red, his lips were tightly pressed together, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, whether from the heat or something else, it was unclear.

Daoman, a street urchin, immediately recognized the other person's identity.

He is a samurai, but certainly not a high-ranking one.

He was probably a retainer of some impoverished small family, or a low-ranking military officer receiving a meager salary in some insignificant county government office.

"Hey!" the samurai said, his voice a little hoarse, his tone not exactly polite, but not arrogant either. "You, are you that sorcerer Feng?"

Doman slowly swallowed the last bite of fish, wiping his mouth with a relatively clean part of his sleeve. His gaze lingered for a moment on the samurai's bloodshot eyes and his hand gripping the sword hilt so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“My lord samurai,” Doman stood up, dusted himself off, and grinned, “Many people seek out magicians, and their requests are varied. But the way you look… it’s not like you’re here to ask for peace, it’s more like you’ve been bitten by something and can’t shake it off?”

The samurai's Adam's apple bobbed noticeably.

"I...my home..."

He avoided Daoman's overly sharp gaze, lowering his voice even further, as if each word was being squeezed out with difficulty from between his teeth.

Doman knew he was right; the samurai before him was undoubtedly possessed by some kind of evil spirit. But he "considerately" changed the subject for the moment, taking the opportunity to inquire, "Have you consulted a priest or other onmyoji?"

In larger towns and cities, shrines and temples are usually the first choice for such matters, or one can pay money to hire an official from the Bureau of Onmyōryō (the Bureau of Yin and Yang).

A shadow of embarrassment and annoyance flickered across the samurai's face, and his tone hardened: "We've sought talismans at nearby shrines, and even had wandering monks chant sutras... to no avail. As for the Onmyōryō—"

He curled his lip downwards: "My status and salary are not enough to persuade those high-ranking officials."

His gaze returned to Daoman's faded, even somewhat disheveled, blue-green clothes, the meaning of which was crystal clear:

You're a "self-taught" guy who hangs out at the docks, so your price might be fair and reasonable.

……

Leaving the bustling docks and on his way to the samurai's house, Doman finally learned the whole story—

The samurai who commissioned the exorcism was named Tadatsugu. He worked at a small office in Chikuzen Province that managed the import and export of goods at the port, earning a meager salary.

His wife, Ahe, was a simple country girl. The couple had been married for five years, and in the beginning of their marriage, they had a harmonious and loving relationship.

However, the port is a corrupting influence on people's hearts. In recent years, during banquets where he accompanied his superiors to entertain merchants from the Central Plains and Silla, Tadashi witnessed the allure of the courtesans in Hakata. About a year ago, he became infatuated with a courtesan named "Saya".

Saya is a top-tier courtesan in the pleasure quarters. Not only is she exceptionally beautiful, but she is also well-versed in waka poetry, musical instruments, and the tea ceremony. She is a high-class courtesan who caters specifically to nobles and wealthy merchants.

With Zhongfu's meager salary, it was naturally difficult to sustain the boundless pleasures of this den of debauchery. Money flowed away like water, and the rice jar at home gradually emptied.

The truth eventually came out, and Ah-He discovered the affair. In the ensuing heated argument, Zhong-Fu, in a fit of rage and shame, wrote a letter of divorce and sent the pale-faced Ah-He back to her parents' home.

From then on, Chungsuke forgot all his last bit of responsibility and guilt towards his wife and indulged in the false affection and tenderness that Saya built with money.

However, as time passed, about three or four months later, some strange rumors reached his ears.

He heard that since being divorced and returning home, Ahe had become increasingly strange. Especially at night, she would go out alone and run frantically through the dark country lanes and woodlands, as if she had lost her soul. As she ran, she would repeatedly call his name in a distorted voice:
"Lord Zhongfu...Lord Zhongfu..."

The call, at first seeming like a mournful search, would suddenly tear through the night, transforming into an incomparably shrill howl:
"Loyal Minister—you bastard!"

The villagers were terrified, and her family was worried, so they went out to look for her several times. When they found her, she was often found curled up deep in the bamboo forest, her eyes unfocused, still murmuring "Loyal Minister Zhongfu," while she was gnawing on the hard bamboo stalks with her teeth.

As summer arrived, Ahe suddenly began to refuse to eat. Occasionally, when people saw her, she was so thin that she was emaciated, with only a layer of pale skin taut over her bony frame, her eye sockets sunken, but her gaze was frighteningly bright.

She withered away day by day, like a lamp that had run out of oil.

Finally, a month ago, Ah He breathed his last.

She died with her eyes open, her teeth clenched, and filled with boundless resentment.

Do not look down.

……

Doman followed Tadakatsu to the longhouse where Tadakatsu lived.

"Five days ago, A-He appeared at my house...it was her corpse...she had already been buried..."

Pushing open the creaking door, an indescribable stench of decay assaulted the senses. It wasn't the usual stench of a corpse; it was more like a chilling aura, a mixture of dampness, earth, and some stubborn, lingering resentment.

The scene inside the house made Daoman, who had seen many strange things in the city, feel a sudden sinking feeling in his heart.

A female corpse lies face down, stiffly sprawled on the tatami mat in the center of the room.

Just as Zhongfu said, although she had been dead for over a month, there was no sign of decay. Her long hair was as black as ever, even retaining a trace of its former luster, and was disheveled and draped over her thin, bony back. Her body was horribly emaciated, as if a layer of dehydrated leather tightly wrapped around her skeletal frame.

His face was turned toward the door, and his wide-open eyes, even though they were sunken in their dry sockets, still shone with a moist, inhuman light as he stared intently at Zhongfu.

clang--

The family heirloom bell in Daoman's arms suddenly became scalding hot without warning, burning his chest skin.

This reaction is unprecedented.

It must be an extremely malevolent resentment that has already taken shape here.

This thing...

Even though he was only a dabbler, Daoman was still knowledgeable.

This woman died of grief and despair at being abandoned. Her burning obsession prevented the natural decay of her body, transforming her into one of the vengeful spirits in folk tales, the Flying Woman's Chamber.

Right now, she is only manifesting as a corpse, but it probably won't be long before the resentment completely merges with this incorruptible body, and that will be the time for her to take her life.

"...Fire...fire can't burn it." Zhongfu could no longer maintain the semblance of "decency" he had displayed at the port. His voice trembled uncontrollably behind Daoman, he practically shrank behind him, unable to look directly at the corpse before him. "Bury it...it will...come back tonight...and lie here..."

"Ah...ah..."

Dao Man's throat bobbed, and he forcefully suppressed the urge to run away, forcing a stiff composure onto his face: "Lord Zhongfu, this...maybe it's no longer an ordinary vengeful spirit, but has become a flying maid. This is...very, very difficult to handle."

"You... have a way?" Zhongfu asked as if he had grasped at the last straw.

"There is a solution."

Daoman temporarily left the longhouse; the stale air in the alley outside seemed cleaner than inside.

He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and the chill that had gripped his spine from being stared at by a corpse slowly receded. His tone returned to its usual composed and confident tone:
“But your matter is fraught with deep resentment and extremely dangerous. If I were to intervene, I would be walking on the edge of the Yellow Springs with my life on the line. You must first show your sincerity regarding the ‘funds for the journey’ and the ‘materials for the talisman’ so that I can procure some proper items to deal with it.”

Daoman had no intention of judging Zhongfu's heartlessness and ungratefulness, or that he had only himself to blame.

After three years of traveling, he had seen far too many similar things.

Just like in Hakata Port, there are also people who get their hands filthy for a few strings of "import money".

Therefore, he didn't have the leisure for that. He only knew that if this wading into troubled waters turned out to be worthwhile, he could squeeze a hefty sum out of this samurai to fund his next journey to the capital region.

Furthermore, Doman did not, as he claimed, intend to "risk his life to help Chusuke."

He had no intention of directly confronting Fei Nufang; he only wanted to offer this samurai a way to save his life, then stay far away and observe the situation.

"How much...do you want?" Zhongfu's voice was dry.

"Alright, I won't take any more—"

Doman stroked his chin, his gaze sweeping over the other man's entire body before finally settling on the simple short sword at the samurai's waist, apart from the katana.

"Put that little handle at your waist as collateral. Once I've done your job, I'll exchange it for half a year's worth of your salary in the form of silk. How about that? I know the quality of the silk you're buying."

Unlike when he made up stories at the dock just to get two pickled mackerel, this time Daoman offered a genuinely high price.

Chikuzen silk was lightweight, valuable, easy to carry and convert into cash, making it the "hard currency" he needed most for his long journey.

As for the samurai before him, after squandering his wealth in the pleasure quarters, where would he find the silk equivalent to half a year's livelihood? Would he be burdened with debt, or even have to pawn his possessions...? That was not something Ashiya Dōman needed to worry about. (End of Chapter)