Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Supreme Diagram of Primordial Clarity

The Painted-Skin Ghost leisurely poked its head through the crack, fixing its gloomy gaze on Zhang Hao before it.
“Grandpa Ghost, please, you’re magnanimous—don’t hold a grudge against a little guy like me. I’m all sinew and stink, really not to your taste. You’d be better off trying something else.”
Zhang Hao stared at the ghostly visage mere inches away, its red hair bristling, its features gruesome. His soul nearly fled his body, and his legs trembled uncontrollably.
The Painted-Skin Ghost looked at Zhang Hao, unwilling to waste words. It opened its maw wide and lunged to bite.
This is it—this is the end.
Zhang Hao’s face turned ashen, his entire body frozen in place. In that crucial moment, Cui Yue yanked Zhang Hao backward, while Da Zhuang shoved the broken half of a broom into the ghost’s mouth, blocking the attack.
Eyes squeezed shut in terror, Zhang Hao felt the stench flooding his nostrils and a cold wind whistling around his ears. After a tense moment, the atmosphere seemed to calm; there was no sound. He opened his eyes to find himself miraculously alive, snatching a thread of hope from certain doom.
“Move!”
Da Zhuang, clutching a square table, charged at the ghost, smashing it down upon its head with ferocity, shouting as he struck,
“Get out! Get your ugly mug back where you came from!”
Zhang Hao watched in awe—Da Zhuang’s courage was overwhelming, proving he was worthy of his considerable bulk.
With a thunderous crash, the table in Da Zhuang’s hands was shredded like paper by the ghost’s hands, splintering into fragments.
A slap followed.
Da Zhuang, two hundred pounds of solid flesh, was sent flying by the blow, landing with a heavy thud and a muffled groan.
“Da Zhuang! Damn it!”
Seeing his friend grievously wounded, Cui Yue’s blood surged. The peachwood sword in his hand flared madly, stabbing at the ghost’s head.
The sword’s talisman glowed anew, scripture swirling as golden light blazed.
The Painted-Skin Ghost paused, a hint of surprise flickering in its eyes.

Though Cui Yue’s assault was fierce, the peachwood sword proved useless against the ghost’s head. Its dark, leathery skin was as tough as iron, leaving only faint marks.
Cui Yue’s heart sank—what was this monstrous head made of? Even a magical weapon couldn’t faze it. Had he known, he’d have brought his uncle’s black wooden fish; perhaps that would’ve helped.
Just as he pondered, the Painted-Skin Ghost, humiliated and enraged, swept its hand toward Cui Yue’s chest with astonishing speed.
Not good!
Cui Yue suddenly recalled the grisly scene of a victim’s heart being ripped out, terror flooding him. Was the ghost about to do the same to him?
As the ghost’s claw approached, fear nearly overwhelmed him—there was no time to retreat.
A gentle hum sounded.
A golden Taiji diagram appeared before Cui Yue’s chest, its yin-yang wheels rotating, emitting a soft golden glow.
Rip!
The ghost’s hand struck the Taiji diagram, causing it to shudder violently, its light flickering uncertainly, unable to advance.
The Painted-Skin Ghost did not withdraw its hand; its eerie green eyes shifted to Qing Quan nearby, fangs twitching as it sneered,
“Fresh-faced brat, able to conjure the Taiji Mysterious Purity Diagram—very good, very good. If I devour you, my powers will surely increase!”
At that moment, Qing Quan’s hands shimmered with dim gold, his breath ragged. In the panic, he had conjured the Taiji diagram, channeling his true energy to block the ghost and save Cui Yue.
Though the ghost had merely delivered a simple strike, it contained immense ghostly power. Desperate to save his friend, Qing Quan met the blow head-on, immediately realizing the gap between their abilities—he could barely withstand it.
“Cui Yue, quick! Move!”
Qing Quan suddenly shouted.
Hearing the call, Cui Yue’s spirits jolted, recognizing his peril. He turned to flee, but managed only half a step.
A massive boom rang out.
Red light surged from the ghost’s palms. With both hands, it tore the Taiji diagram apart.
Already weakened, the diagram shattered spectacularly before him, its force gouging a deep pit in the floor.
“Ah!...”
Cui Yue watched as the golden light before him exploded into fragments, a roaring sound in his ears as he was flung sideways. In that moment, a strange thought popped into his mind—had the damned ghost just detonated a grenade?

Armed with munitions, a priest stood no chance against such a fiend!
Qing Quan spat a mouthful of blood, staining his shirt red, staggering backward before regaining his footing.
He glared at the ghost, his energy churning within.
This ghost was far stronger than he’d imagined—he was utterly outmatched.
Suddenly, a flash of white lit up the screen, the camera behind darkened, and the entire big screen went pitch black. The Painted-Skin Ghost vanished without a trace.
Cui Yue and Qing Quan, collapsed on the ground, looked at each other in bewilderment, neither knowing what had happened.
“Hey! You decrepit old monster—shouldn’t you be napping in your coffin instead of playing with hi-tech gadgets and pretending to be a phantom on a big screen? You red-haired beast, ugly as a stone in a latrine—stinking and hard. I’ve cut off your power, let’s see you crawl out now!”
Cui Yue looked up to see Zhang Hao standing atop the iron frame in the projection room, hands on his hips, hurling insults at the screen.
It turned out that, sensing something was wrong, Zhang Hao had noticed the ghost’s eyes on the screen, slipped into the projection room, found a row of circuit breakers, and randomly pulled them, cutting power to the screen.
With the electricity gone, the screen naturally went dark, and the Painted-Skin Ghost could no longer appear.
At that moment, Zhang Hao was beside himself with triumph, striking a victory pose atop the iron frame and shouting,
“Valiant Pavel Korchagin, fight on! Let us defend the Bolsheviks with our lives!...”
“Watch your step, or you’ll land face-first,” Cui Yue snarked.
Zhang Hao barely enjoyed his victory before the row of circuit breakers behind him began crackling, blue arcs of electricity flashing everywhere. The camera beam shot out once more, lighting up the screen.
The Painted-Skin Ghost, red hair bristling, appeared again, its face twisted and cold as it surveyed the crowd.
Zhang Hao’s expression changed, and he hurried to fiddle with the breakers, flipping them on and off in desperation, but they were dead—useless! The screen remained lit.
Damn, it’s one thing to mess with videotapes, but even the power’s under its control—now that’s impressive!
It’s not the ferocity of the ghost that’s terrifying, but its mastery of technology. These days, well-rounded abilities are what matter most!
Zhang Hao scrambled frantically, his efforts fierce but futile. In his panic, he lost his footing and tumbled from the iron frame—landing, just as predicted, face-first.