Chapter 25: Sacred Artifact for Raising Corpses, Celestial Maiden Ba
Jiang Yan finally understood what it meant to have lived long enough to see it all.
Living too long indeed made it easier to witness strange and bizarre things.
Zombies and talismans could actually coexist, even be made into earrings and accessories to wear.
Wasn’t that a bit too disrespectful to talismans?
After all, talismans were based on yellow paper, inscribed with cinnabar ink—especially the Celestial Master’s talismans, which were pure yang manifestations, representing the radiant righteous path.
Whereas zombies were objects of utmost yin and evil.
The only connection he had ever seen was in novels, which mentioned Celestial Masters buried in purple robes possibly turning into Zombie Kings—but that was fictional.
Because Celestial Masters didn’t wear purple robes either; their robes were primarily yellow, symbolizing nobility and sanctity, representing “virtue aligned with heaven and earth, the Dao transforming all things.”
Purple robes belonged to Grand Masters or former retainers of Celestial Masters, generally used in Daoist rituals and ceremonies.
True Celestial Masters had to receive the talisman from Heaven and achieve great feats.
For instance, the first generation Patriarch Celestial Master, during his time in Shu, received orders from the Grand Supreme Elderly Lord, entered the Nether Prison alone, and single-handedly swept away the demons, subdued the ghosts of the Six Heavens, and established governance over the twenty-four capitals.
In the end, he killed so many ghosts and gods that his murderous aura polluted the sky, achieving a feat that even the Grand Supreme Elderly Lord dared not approach.
Later, in various legends, every generation of Celestial Master, after death, basically went to serve in the Celestial Court or the underworld, joining the ranks of immortals, and would not become zombies.
But if they were turned into zombies, they might indeed still be able to use talismans.
Could it be that due to historical mutations, zombies had evolved?
“Not every zombie can use talismans—I'm just a special case.”
Zhao Yinman explained, “Because ever since I woke up from the coffin, I’ve been able to use talismans. As for why… I don’t know either. It’s just that they make me feel very at ease.”
Jiang Yan breathed a sigh of relief. If zombies weren’t afraid of talismans, they likely wouldn’t fear pure yang either, turning into perfect beings without weaknesses.
If it was just a special case, then that was fine.
Jiang Yan asked curiously, “You said you woke up from a coffin? Didn’t you receive your Historical Gift from within the Sick Domain?”
“I forgot.”
Zhao Yinman replied calmly, “Ever since I woke up, I had no memory of the past. I only knew some common sense and that my name was Zhao Yinman.”
The Bureau of Historical Revision told her they excavated her from an ancient tomb chamber, said she was an artificially transformed zombie—likely the backup plan of an ancient cultivator trying to prolong their life. Unfortunately, she probably failed in the end.
Although she was recounting her own story, Zhao Yinman showed not the slightest emotional fluctuation, exuding a detached, outsider-like feeling.
Zhao Yinman continued calmly, “Later, the Bureau of Historical Revision confirmed that I wasn’t aggressive and wasn’t a reincarnated big shot. So they accepted me and helped me integrate into this era.”
“Zhao Yinman? Could it be from a Qin Dynasty tomb?” Jiang Yan immediately thought of the First Emperor’s daughter.
Now that would be a true big shot—the daughter of the Ancestral Dragon!
“I wish that were the case, but unfortunately it was just a tomb chamber from the Ming Dynasty. There were only some remnants of rituals and a weathered altar. Aside from that, nothing remained.”
Zhao Yinman’s flat tone shattered Jiang Yan’s speculation.
Jiang Yan thought it over—after all, the Qin Dynasty was over two thousand years ago. Any zombie nurtured over such a long period would have to start at the Ancient Talisman level or even higher.
That wouldn’t match her current power.
As for the name… It was perfectly reasonable for descendants to name themselves after ancestors.
It could very well be a branch of the Qin royal bloodline, commemorating the glory of their forebears.
It was just that the name wasn’t particularly auspicious.
Moreover, Zhao Yinman not only wasn’t afraid of Celestial Master talismans, she didn’t need to drink blood either.
She was a bit like the original kind of zombie…
The Celestial Maiden Ba.
After the Yellow Emperor’s daughter died, she transformed into a drought demon, helping him win the war—but because she brought drought, the people feared her instead.
Over time, this divine maiden was gradually vilified and turned into a monster.
Still, she was quite different from the stiff but undead zombies of the Ming and Qing periods.
“Wait a second, when you said I smelled good, did you mean it literally?”
Jiang Yan suddenly realized, his scalp tingling. Why were so many people in this world lusting after his body?
As soon as she finished speaking, Zhao Yinman quickly took a step back, but soon realized such behavior was inappropriate and apologized:
“Sorry, I... have mysophobia.”
Although her expression didn’t change, Jiang Yan could feel her deep-seated disgust.
A zombie looking down on the blood of a living spirit?
If the zombie ancestors knew about this, they’d probably climb out of their coffins in fury!
Jiang Yan wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that his colleague didn’t treat him as a blood bag.
“So, it’s not my blood, meaning…”
Jiang Yan patted his pocket.
The next second, two ashen little hands shot out from it, then with a tug, whoosh—a half-bodied figure of the Spirit of the Burial Coffin emerged, eyes curiously scanning the surroundings:
“Master, did you need me for something?”
“Little Coffin is always on standby!”
‘So cute, so fragrant!’
Zhao Yinman’s eyes lit up the moment she saw the burial coffin, a ripple stirred in her cool, moonlike red pupils.
“Her reaction’s like a regular girl seeing a cute kitten,” Jiang Yan raised an eyebrow, almost thinking she had reached the state of supreme detachment.
A coffin, for zombies, was like a bed to a human—a daily necessity.
Not to mention this was a coffin spirit, one of the rarest kinds of spirits, with only a handful of known legends.
If not for being nurtured by the Dark God Embryo, such a being probably wouldn’t exist in the entire historical river.
Especially since the burial coffin possessed the ability to entomb all things—combined with a zombie…
It was practically a sacred artifact for raising corpses!
“Um... I have an unreasonable request…” Zhao Yinman spoke timidly.
“Unreasonable request? Then don’t say it. This is a very important companion to me.”
Jiang Yan preemptively cut her off.
No need to guess—she probably wanted to trade something for the coffin spirit.
But that was impossible.
The coffin spirit was the first offspring he nurtured with his own flesh and blood, essentially family—no, even closer than that.
Anyone might betray him, but never the coffin spirit.
To Jiang Yan, it was not an object that could be exchanged.
“I only lie in Master's coffin!”
The coffin spirit suddenly realized that this bad woman coveted its body and immediately made its stance clear.
Though it did sound... a bit odd.
“Sorry, I was being presumptuous.”
Zhao Yinman apologized calmly. Though she wanted to show emotion, she simply couldn’t.
“It’s fine. We’re coworkers. It’s getting late—I’ll head back. You should rest early too.”
Jiang Yan nodded, just about to turn and leave when Zhao Yinman called out to him and handed over a thick black notebook, the cover inscribed with talismans.
“I’m truly sorry. This is a notebook I wrote while learning about the modern world and supernatural knowledge from the teachers at the Bureau of Historical Revision. Its contents might help you—please accept it as an apology for bothering you.”
As she spoke, Zhao Yinman slightly bowed in apology, though her figure was so astonishingly curvaceous that it created waves, revealing a bit of fair skin.
Jiang Yan glanced briefly and quickly looked away, lowering his head to stare at the black notebook in his hand, his expression complicated.
“…Thanks.”
By the time he returned to his room, it was already 3 a.m.
Opening the notebook, what met his eyes were elegant, neat traditional Chinese characters.
“August 7, 2022. I crossed hundreds of years and arrived in a place called the Tianxia Alliance. There is no emperor here, no reign title, and they don’t mark years by the Yellow Emperor’s birth.”
“They use Franji symbols as numbers, something called… cultural fusion.”
“Their court is the Tianxia Alliance, and its Imperial Observatory (crossed out) Bureau of Historical Revision. They accepted me and taught me knowledge, saying I could integrate into modern times. But… why am I here? Who exactly am I?”
Through her words, Jiang Yan could feel her confusion—losing her memory, arriving in a strange new world.
Flipping further, most pages recorded Zhao Yinman’s daily life in the Bureau of Historical Revision and her journey learning modern script and Mandarin.
The characters shifted from neat traditional to wobbly scrawl, then gradually returned to order within a day.
The most frequently mentioned thing was the television—and the cartoons shown on it, which left a huge impact on her.
Her diary wrote: “This new world is so interesting.”
On the bottom right of the first page, she drew a chibi-style little zombie with a talisman on its forehead, though the expression remained cold.
Beyond the daily entries, Zhao Yinman had categorized the supernatural knowledge taught to her by the Bureau of Historical Revision, making it easy to read.
Many forces were mentioned, and sure enough, the Bureau of Historical Revision was the greatest power under the Tianxia Alliance—without exception.
But due to the vast territory, they lacked sufficient personnel to govern everything.
So the authorities allowed various supernatural forces to exist, provided they helped eliminate historical mutations and maintained order.
Among those mentioned were the Wandering Spirit Society of Minnan and the Shamanic Sorcerers beyond Shanhaiguan—most of their powers linked to local legends.
The reason for these stereotypical patterns was that the diseased domains and mutated beings born during the sweeping of the historical river were tied to regional myths—these were the so-called anchor points.
Zhao Yinman’s notes stated that the diseased domain anchoring to the real world through flesh was just the most basic method—it could also be done through legends, stories, or collective human fears. The methods were diverse.
This was also the fundamental reason why the authorities forbade supernatural information from spreading to ordinary people.
If left unchecked, it would accelerate the emergence of diseased domains and cause chaos.
This notebook documented a wealth of foundational knowledge Jiang Yan lacked, and before he knew it, he was completely absorbed.
Ding dong.
The vibration of his phone pulled Jiang Yan back to reality. He glanced at it and saw it was already 9:30 in the morning.
Someone had added him on WeChat—the profile picture made it clear it was Ba Lie.
Because it showed Old Ba’s close-up, and the time stamp was from last night.
After he accepted, a message popped up instantly.
“Come to the first floor immediately, or it’ll be too late!”