The Shaman’s Apprentice: The Yellow Path (Chapter 7, the end )

 

 Previous  Chapter 6

In the days that followed, we made the necessary changes to Aunt Shen’s house, just as my uncle had instructed. Once everything was settled, we headed home.

With our apartment building in sight, I could no longer hold back my curiosity. “Weren’t you worried the yellow spirit might break the deal? Just because they’ve never broken a promise before doesn’t mean they never will.”

My uncle chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “You didn’t notice? I marked each cub.”

I blinked. "Marked them?"

"A tiny line on the forehead, nothing they’d feel, but enough to bind the agreement."

I stopped in my tracks, jaw dropping. “It was you! The yellow fur!”

Nearly shouting, I traced a vertical line on my own forehead. "I thought those were birthmarks, signs of their potential to become yellow spirits!"

"Nah," my uncle said, clearly enjoying my reaction. "That was me."

He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Marking a creature, especially in a truce, serves as a safeguard. If direct marking isn’t possible, a blood bond works just as well. By marking the cubs, I ensured the mother’s commitment to the agreement.”

Though his voice remained light, I knew he meant for me to remember his words. I nodded.

Then, his tone became serious. "Spirits rarely break promises. The cost is severe, they risk losing a portion, or even all, of their cultivation power. But it does happen. That’s why we take precautions."

He resumed walking, gesturing for me to follow. "What I said back there, it wasn’t just for you, it was for them, too. They might have been listening."

The memory of those two golden gleaming eyes in the darkness flashed through my mind. I quickened my pace, hurrying to catch up.

“You still have much to learn,” he added, and somehow, it felt like a promise of endless extracurricular work.

A week later, we received another call from Aunt Shen. She had discovered who had placed the talisman in their restaurant.

It turned out that when Aunt Shen and Zheng Yu visited Uncle Zheng’s grave, they found Wang Hu there, weeping. He cried and repeatedly apologized, and when they pressed him for answers, he finally confessed.

Wang Hu had always sought shortcuts to wealth, hoping for fortune without effort. Four years ago, he had invited a family of yellow spirits into his home. Skeptical at first, he started with small daily tributes, just in case. Then, valuables began appearing in his bedroom: gold, jewelry, even cash. Overjoyed, he convinced himself it was real and made even greater offerings, asking for more wealth.

What he didn’t realize was that the items were stolen. The owners had filed police reports, and when Wang Hu went to the city to sell them, he was caught red-handed. No one believed his frantic claims of innocence. He was sentenced to three years in prison.

After his release, his first priority was to send those spirits away. However, with belief in spirits fading and new invitations becoming rare, the spirits refused to leave. They chose to stay and continue benefiting from the steady stream of tributes that fueled their cultivation. Desperate, Wang Hu targeted the restaurant.

He believed they would be the perfect hosts because of the restaurant’s abundant food offerings, regular incense burning, and Aunt Shen and Uncle Zheng’s complete unawareness. They were safe from punishment, never demanded favors, and therefore never faced any consequences.

He never imagined Uncle Zheng would kill one of them.

"He didn't mean any harm. It was just... one thing after another. I don't even know who to blame." Aunt Shen sighed before ending the call.

I sat there for a moment, turning everything over in my mind. Finally, I asked my uncle the question that had troubled me for days. “If Uncle Zheng had kept wearing the talisman, would things have been different?”

“I don’t know. No one does,” he replied. "There are no 'ifs' in life, so don't waste time wondering 'what if’. Fate’s a complicated thing, like a tangled web. You can never tell what might change if you tug on one thread. Could be nothing, could be everything. You just never know.”

Gradually, life returned to normal. Aunt Shen postponed selling the restaurant until the spirits left and found a job in the meantime. Zheng Yu resumed his studies. With each passing day, the cloud that had hung over their family began to lift.

I, too, returned to school, but the world felt different now. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t see it the same way anymore.

My uncle, however, slipped back into his usual laid-back lifestyle, though now with a new excuse.

“I have to think of how to make you a wonderful shaman!”

I rolled my eyes at his words while reciting the steps of a new formation, pretending to be annoyed. But deep down, I couldn't help but smile.

My uncle had promised to teach me how to activate the formations after I mastered all the major ones and completed the ancestor worship ceremony in my hometown, a trip I eagerly anticipated.

“Can you grab me a soda from the fridge?” He yelled.

The End

                                                 Chapter 6

And that's the end of my first ever story! Thanks so much for reading. Hope to see you for the next one.

The Shaman’s Apprentice: The Yellow Path (Chapter 6)

 

       

      Previous Chapter 5

"Shouldn't we leave some kind of safeguard?" I asked after they disappeared into the night.

My uncle pulled off his mask, his gaze locking onto mine. “No need. Spirits don’t break promises,” he said, his tone serious. “But remember this: we’re here to solve problems, not create new ones. Don’t give them a reason to hate you. Even if they can’t touch you now, they’ll wait. They’ll strike when you’re weak. And if they can’t reach you, they’ll go after your kids, your grandkids. They’re patient. And they don’t forget.”

I nodded slowly. Those words stayed with me, as a mantra, a guiding principle I carried long after that night.

The next morning, a jubilant shout startled me awake.

“My leg! I can walk!”

Heart pounding, I scrambled out of bed and rushed outside.

Aunt Shen stood barefoot in the yard, pacing in her pajamas. "I can move every single toe!" She turned in a slow circle.

Zheng Yu stood frozen in the doorway, also in his pajamas. A choked sound escaped him, half laugh, half sob, like he couldn’t decide whether to cry or smile.

My uncle stepped outside. “You’ll catch a chill,” he said evenly. “Go put on some clothes.”

He was the only one who remained calm.

After breakfast, Dr. Wu called again. Shocked that Aunt Shen could walk, he bombarded her with questions and insisted on a follow-up checkup. He wouldn’t let her off the phone until she agreed to come in later.

"Dr. Wu is such a good doctor; we're lucky to have him here." Aunt Shen put down the phone with gratitude.

My uncle settled into a chair, took a sip of water, and grinned. “He won’t believe what I’m about to say.” He turned to Aunt Shen. "Your leg should be fine from now on."

Aunt Shen exhaled, as if releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"Zheng killed a weasel patrolling the yard," my uncle continued, glancing at Aunt Shen, who nodded stiffly, her fingers clenched in her lap. "But that wasn't just any weasel. It was a Yellow Spirit, the father of the cubs you discarded. He had only cultivated for a few decades, still vulnerable, easily killed. Zheng’s accident… that was the mother's revenge. She trapped him in a hallucination."

Aunt Shen’s knuckles whitened. Zheng Yu shifted uncomfortably.

"After Zheng's passing, it should have been over. But when you tossed out those cubs, you unknowingly stirred up trouble again. One of them got hurt, and that reopened the elder spirit's grief and anger. So it came looking for payback, again."

Aunt Shen’s lips parted as if to respond, but no words came.

"Fortunately," my uncle continued, his voice softening, "we reached an understanding last night. This may not feel like justice, but it’s better than letting things spiral into endless retaliation.”

"But…" Zheng Yu was about to speak, but Aunt Shen cut him off, "Your uncle Ma is right. We'll end it here." The wooden floor creaked faintly as she shifted her weight.

"Tomorrow, clear out the storage shed in the corner of the yard and plant some shrubs in front of it. That space now belongs to the Yellow Spirit family. For the next year, neither you nor Zheng Yu should pass the shrubs. The cubs need a safe place to grow. After that, they’ll leave on their own."

Aunt Shen swallowed hard, then nodded. "I understand, we’ll do whatever you say."

Leaning back, my uncle’s tone grew gentler. "As for your dream of Zheng, it was likely a half-illusion, a trick of the Yellow Spirit to stir your emotions. Don’t dwell on it. I’m confident he is at peace. If you and Zheng Yu miss him, honor him by burning paper offerings occasionally."

For a long moment, no one spoke. The tightness in Aunt Shen's expression gradually softened, gratitude warmed her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said firmly. “We'll do everything you've said.”

"Oh, one more thing," my uncle added, his voice serious. "Never invite yellow spirits again. The old saying is true. If treated well, they repay kindness. But their way of 'giving back' is unpredictable. Even when they mean no harm, their gifts can bring misfortune. They don’t think like us. What they see as a favor might cause more trouble than you can imagine."

"But… but we never invited them," Aunt Shen said, her voice rose in surprise. "Before this, we didn’t even believe they were real."

"The spirit mentioned an invitation from the restaurant. If it wasn’t you, then... may I take a look?"

Inside the small restaurant, six tables stood neatly arranged, each ringed by four chairs. My uncle scanned the room, saying nothing, only observing. His silence stretched, making me nervous. I recognized that look. It meant testing questions were coming.

So I scanned the room too, my thoughts racing. Formations? Talismans? Everything seemed normal, just a typical small restaurant.

"The chairs," my uncle said at last. "Were they always left on the ground at night?"

Aunt Shen was confused. "Zheng used to turn them upside down on the tables every night after we closed. It was just a habit… But a few months ago, he twisted his waist, so I told him to stop to avoid straining himself. I offered to do it, but he wouldn’t let me… because of my arthritis." She lifted her left arm slightly, as if to prove her point. "We thought it wouldn’t matter, just for a short time. Cleaning was a little harder, but it was better than either of us getting hurt."

Paused a second, she asked suspiciously, "Why do you ask? What’s wrong?"

My uncle sighed. "Turning the chairs upside down isn’t just for convenience. It’s an old belief. People did it to ward off the unknown, to keep things from wandering in. Spirits see many upright chairs as an invitation. I believe I mentioned it to Zheng once, long ago."

“Hmm… right… I… I remember now,” Aunt Shen stammered. “He told me when we first opened the restaurant, but I didn’t take it seriously. I thought it was just superstition. All these years… nothing happened. He never forgot, not once, until…” She swallowed hard before continuing. “But I… I just thought it was for easier cleaning.”

The color drained from her face. Her words tumbled out in a panicked rush. “And I… I told him to stop.” She swallowed again. “If only I had…” Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “So that’s the reason?”

My uncle didn't answer. A beat of silence. His gaze lowered. “I should have reminded him… made sure he understood.” Then, he looked at Aunt Shen, his voice gentler. “It was his fate. Don’t blame yourself.”

He paused for a moment, shaking his head with a puzzled looking. “But this doesn’t make sense… This kind of invitation is too weak. Spirits don’t usually respond to something so minor. There must be something else.”

I leaned against the checkout counter, listening to their conversation. My fingers idly toyed with a cluster of trinkets hanging from a hook nearby, a miniature compass, a stuffed dolphin, a sun-bleached baseball cap… Then, something caught my eye.

A tiny silk brocade bag, no bigger than a baby’s fist. The fabric was black silk embroidered with golden clouds that shimmered under the light. A sudden urge seized me. Almost without thinking, I picked it up and loosened the drawstrings.

Inside was a paper talisman, or at least, it looked like one. The red symbols, drawn on yellow paper with cinnabar, swirled in patterns unlike anything I had learned in years. And the yellow paper wasn’t the kind I was used to, it felt thick, soft, far superior in quality. Like comparing a Rolls-Royce to a Chevrolet.

"Uncle, look at this." I held out the bag and the paper.

My uncle took them, turning the talisman carefully in his hands, examining it closely. “Where did you find this?”

I pointed to the hook on the wall.

"Lost items," Aunt Shen said flatly. "Things customers leave behind. We keep them there in case they come back to claim them."

"Do you remember who left it?" my uncle asked, still inspecting it.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No… but I remember the bag. It was so pretty. I think it was left here two or three months ago, during the tourist season. The restaurant was packed with tourists back then. What is it?"

“A Taoist talisman. A powerful invitation… and now it all makes sense.” My uncle tapped the paper lightly. “This one has been used at least once, the cinnabar should be bright red when fresh. Once the ink fully fades, the talisman loses all effect.”

We all leaned in, studying the paper. The red markings were indeed duller than the vibrant color cinnabar should be.

Staring at it, Aunt Shen spoke slowly, word by word. "So… someone left that here, and that’s what brought the Yellow Spirit’s family?"

My uncle nodded. "Very likely. Leaving it here would only attract more. I'll take care of it. "

Without another word, he slid the talisman into his worn leather satchel.

Then, his hand paused on the satchel, as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might hate Zheng, or you? Any serious disputes?"

Aunt Shen startled. "No. You knew Zheng, he could laugh anything off. And I...I get along with people, I think." She glanced around, and we all nodded in agreement. "This is a small town; everyone knows each other. I can't think of anyone who would hold a grudge against us. Our customers, travelers… no… no one comes to mind. Why?"

My uncle retrieved the talisman again, turning it slowly between his fingers. "This is exceptionally well-made… powerful and rare. A talisman’s strength depends not only on the materials but also on the maker’s skill. And this one... it was crafted by a master using superb materials. Something like this wouldn’t come cheap. If someone had truly lost it, they would’ve come back for it, unless it was left here on purpose."

His thumb traced the edge of the talisman. “When a spirit is invited but receives no tributes, it gets angry and punishes the summoner.” He paused for a moment, then added, “That’s why talismans like this can be used for revenge. Someone plants it in their enemy’s home, inviting spirits on their behalf. The victim has no idea… until it’s too late.”

Aunt Shen’s expression turned bewildered. "But we have no enemies…"

"And that’s what troubles me." My uncle looked around the restaurant. "You have plenty of good food here." He pointed to the counter, where an incense burner stood before the God of Wealth statue. "And you burn incense often… I assume.” He looked at Aunt Shen, who confirmed with a nodding.

“Those are offerings.” My uncle continue. “That means the spirits wouldn’t be angered by neglect. That leaves another possibility, someone was not trying to harm you."

His fingers tightened slightly around the talisman. "They were trying to get rid of a spirit."

The words hung in the air.

"Most spirits can be persuaded to leave with offerings. But some…" He explained, his voice dropped slightly. "Some refuse to go unless they find a better place. Someone wanted to send a spirit away, but it wouldn’t leave. So they led it here."

A heavy silence settled over us.

I stared at the talisman in my uncle’s hand. It was so small, yet it had set an irreversible tragedy into motion. A single object, a single choice… and a family left with wounds that would take years to heal.

                     Chapter 5                                             Chapter 7

The Shaman’s Apprentice: The Yellow Path (Chapter 5)

 

        Previous Chapter 4

As we stepped into the night, the cold bit sharply at my skin. The streets were deserted, no cars, no late-night wanderers, just us and the hollow silence. From the distant town center, neon lights flickered through gaps in the trees and houses. Overhead, a faint moon hung low, its pale glow barely piercing the surrounding darkness.

We made our way to the dumping site where Aunt Shen had abandoned the cubs. In the oppressive quiet, each crunch of gravel beneath our feet echoed too loudly.

"We start here," my uncle murmured. He lit a stick of Trace Incense. The smoke drifted toward a bush nestled between the poplars, then stopped, curling around it before slowly dispersing.

“They’re still here. We’re in luck.”

I scanned the shadows, holding my breath. "I don't see anything."

"They are hidden." My uncle pulled out a coil of red rope and secured one end to the lightning-struck wood. He handed it to me. “Hold this tightly. It’s a safeguard. If anything tries to interfere, this will stop it.”

I gripped the wood, my palms slick with sweat, hands trembling, not just from fear, but anticipation. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to steady. Slowly, my grip grew firm.

"Hold on tight and wait for my signal," my uncle whispered. "Watch closely, and no matter what you see or hear, stay absolutely quiet."

With deliberate precision, he moved around the bush. One hand unspooled the red rope while the other scattered cinnabar and incense ash with each measured step. Every few paces, he paused to tie a knot, securing a Repelling Talisman to the rope.

I recognized the pattern immediately, he was laying the Spirit-Revealing Array. The mixture on the ground would form the array’s foundation, with the bush at its center. And the red rope, adorned with eight talismans, would create a powerful Protective Array. I watched, barely breathing.

A faint hissing sound rose from the shadows. I stiffened, straining to listen, but it vanished just as quickly. Only the sound of my uncle’s footsteps remained. Maybe I’d imagined it.

Finally, my uncle completed the loop and returned to me. He gave me a small nod.

We stepped closer. I handed him my end of the rope, and he swiftly tied it off, sealing the circle but leaving just enough slack for each of us to hold. My uncle gestured for me to step inside.

Then, he laid five white crystal Enhancement Talismans between the rope circle and the ashen array to form a Connection Array. It would not only link them into a cohesive formation but also amplify their effects.

He began to chant, an incantation I had never heard before, like singing a slow song. Facing the Connection Array, his movements flowed in perfect rhythm, like a slow, deliberate dance. The white crystal talismans began to glow in the dark, sparkling like jewels, until a thin thread of white light connected all five, stretching out to the red rope and the ashen array.

The red rope trembled faintly, hovering just above the ground as if tugged by an unseen force. The eight Repelling Talismans tied to it lay on the ground, emitting a faint red light that connected to form a glowing octagon. The lightning-struck wood in my hand, once pleasantly warm, now pulsed with heat, growing almost too hot to hold.

Meanwhile, the mixture on the ground began to stir. A faint glow flickered, growing brighter until the entire Spirit-Revealing Array shimmered with a dim blue light. The Protective Array and the Spirit-Revealing Array merged into a single formation. We stood in its safe zone, outside the Spirit-Revealing Array but within the Protective Array.

I stared, astonished. My last shred of doubt crumbled. Years of dismissing these practices as mere superstition unraveled before my eyes. He’d never taught me these: the dance, the enchanting tune, and the final step—the activation. My formations had never been activated; my spells were like lyrics without melody.

NO WONDER MY ATTEMPTS HAD NEVER WORKED!

Was he holding back? Why? Frustration tangled with awe and anger surged through me. Roaring inside, yet I kept my mouth shut and didn’t make a sound.

As he spoke the final words, a rustling broke the silence. Something stirred beneath the nearby bush.

Four small, gray-furred creatures crept out, huddled together. Weasel cubs, but... different. Each bore a tuft of vibrant yellow hair on its forehead, a feature I'd never seen before.

My uncle let out a sharp, piercing whistle, a sound both like birdsong and a baby’s cry. It rippled through the night, carrying a strange, echoing resonance.

I remembered the first time I’d heard him practicing that whistle. It had seemed playful then, almost amusing. I had tried to mimic it, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make that sound. I had begged him to teach me, but he had always refused, saying it wasn’t time.

The hissing returned, louder, prolonged. It wasn’t my imagination.

This was a call. Suddenly, I understood. This wasn’t a game for fun. All his holding back, I finally understood it in this moment.

Something was moving. And it was close.

A high-pitched whine drifted through the trees, faint at first but rising, unsettling. It sounded like air blown through hollow reeds, half flute, half whisper. A distant drip of water joined the eerie melody.

My uncle whistled again, this time lower, slower. The cubs reacted instantly, letting out frantic, sharp wails, their small bodies pressing together in distress.

Then, two glowing golden dots, like the ones from my dream years ago, pierced the darkness. A huge weasel stepped out of the shadows, twice the size of a typical one.

The cub’s mother had arrived.

She lunged at us, only to be thrown back as if hitting an invisible wall. The Protective Formation barrier held firm. She tried again, hissing and clawing at the air, her cries sharp with frustration. Then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sitting just outside the circle, she locked eyes with my uncle and let out a series of sharp, demanding cries.

My uncle responded, but not in any language I knew. His voice carried a slow, rhythmic melody, almost like singing.

The mother weasel's eyes narrowed. Her bristling fur smoothed, and her tense body relaxed slightly. She let out a series of short, breathy chirps, no longer hostile.

My uncle nodded, then responded again. They went back and forth, as if negotiating. I watched, clueless. But nothing could surprise me anymore.

Finally, as if coming to a decision, she nodded, slow and deliberate, almost… human.

Without breaking eye contact, my uncle reached down, brushed aside part of the array, and gestured for me to untie the knot in the red rope. My heart pounded as I fumbled with the knot.

The moment the gap opened, the cubs bolted from the circle, racing straight to their mother. One lagged behind, limping slightly, its leg was crooked. She gathered them close, nuzzling each one before lifting her head to look at my uncle one last time.

Then, without another sound, they melted into the shadows.

The night was silent once more.

                Chapter 4                                 Chapter 6      

The Shaman’s Apprentice: The Yellow Path (Chapter 4 )

 

Previous    Chapter 3             

At the town clinic, their only option, Dr. Wu ran a series of tests. Aunt Shen’s vitals were stable, and aside from being unable to move her legs, her basic neural functions appeared normal. She could even still sense touch and temperature in her legs. She felt no pain anywhere and showed no other symptoms. X-rays revealed no injuries, and even the CT scan from the mobile unit that visited twice a year showed nothing unusual: no stroke, no tumor, no blood clots. The only notable finding was a slight deformation in her left elbow joint, likely from old arthritis.

"Everything appears normal," Dr. Wu said, frowning. "But sudden paralysis without a clear cause... it doesn't make sense." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Given everything you've been through lately, Shen, stress can affect the body in unexpected ways."

Aunt Shen’s fingers tightened around the wheelchair’s armrests. "Dr. Wu, are you saying this is all in my head?"

“No,” Dr. Wu replied quickly. “But the mind and body are deeply connected. Sometimes, emotional trauma can manifest physically. It’s called conversion disorder, but we can’t jump to conclusions without more tests. You should be transferred to the hospital in Jiao-He City for an MRI and further evaluation. I can arrange it tomorrow when our ambulance returns from Shannan Village.”

She exhaled sharply. "If there's no immediate danger," she said firmly, "I need to be at Zheng's Final Seven tomorrow."

The doctor’s disapproval was obvious, but she refused to budge. With the only ambulance still out on a call and her vitals stable, they finally reached a compromise. Aunt Shen would attend the ceremony under strict instructions to monitor her condition and return immediately if anything worsened. Afterward, she would go to the city hospital.

By the time we finished the paperwork and got her discharged, the first light of dawn had already crept over the mountains.

As my uncle pushed the wheelchair home, he remained silent, his brows knit in thought. Several times, he seemed about to speak but stopped himself. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Shen,” he said, keeping his voice light, almost casual. “Think carefully. Have you noticed anything… unusual lately?”

“Unusual?” Aunt Shen hesitated, troubled. “Like… a nightmare? The one I had last night, right before I woke up paralyzed? It was strange, too vivid.”

My uncle nodded, urging her to continue. Taking a steadying breath, she began.

In the dream, she was in the kitchen, sorting dishes, when Uncle Zheng appeared. He stepped inside and sat in the corner. He looked familiar, yet… wrong. His posture was unnaturally stiff, half his face swallowed in shadow. A strange unease settled over her, but habit took over. She turned to speak to him.

She saw his eyes.

They were hollow, darker than she remembered, filled with a mixture of anger and sorrow. They locked onto her, pressing against her like unseen hands tightening around her ribs.

And then she noticed the water.

Not sweat. Not tears. Something murkier. It streaked down his face in steady rivulets, pooling at his chin before dripping onto the floor. There was no source, yet it kept flowing.

His mouth twisted as if struggling to form words. Finally, in a voice that was hoarse and rasping, barely human, he forced out, “You! Look!”

A chill shot down her spine.

“Look at what you’ve done to me,” he rasped. “You’ve left me neither man nor ghost.” His voice cracked, then deepened, vibrating with something beyond grief. “You’ll pay for this.”

As he spoke, the water at his feet began to pool instead of flowing away across the flat floor. Dark, muddy, and swirling. The surface didn’t rise; the water simply collected beneath him, as if there were a deep pocket in the ground, yet the chair sat atop it as if on solid ground.

Then his face began to change, elongating, sharpening, patches of fur pushing through his skin. His eyes gleamed, now slit-pupiled.

He rose, taking a step forward. The pool of water followed, sloshing beneath his feet and leaving the floor behind dry.

She tried to scream. Nothing came out.

He took another step, reaching out his hands as if to grab her. His fingers curled into claw-like shapes, and his voice dissolved into a guttural snarl.

She tried to run. Her legs wouldn’t move, rooted to the ground. Panic clawed at her chest. She struggled, desperate to move.

Then she woke, gasping, damp with sweat. Her heart pounded, almost painfully. She pressed a hand to her chest, forcing herself to calm down.

Just a nightmare. She let out a long breath, trying to shake off the lingering fear.

But the heaviness in her legs lingered. It felt so real...too real... She tried to sit up, but her legs, heavy and lifeless, felt rooted to the bed.

She was paralyzed.

Silence fell as Aunt Shen finished recounting the nightmare. No one spoke.

Zheng Yu opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated.

My heart sank. I didn’t know why. A creeping unease curled in my chest, but I shoved it down, grasping for logic. It was just a dream. Nothing more.

My uncle tapped his fingers against his teacup, deep in thought. “Anything else? Any… encounters with animals?”

“How did you...?” Aunt Shen looked startled, then hesitated. “Now that you mention it… Yesterday morning, I found something. Cubs. Under the stove.”

She had been cleaning the restaurant, preparing it for sale after the funeral. While checking beneath the stove, she had found a nest of small, rat-like creatures. Without a second thought, she had swept them into the trash and tossed them outside.

“Did you look closely at them?” my uncle asked carefully.

Aunt Shen hesitated. "They were cubs...three, no, four. Fast asleep, all curled up. Grey, like rats, but much larger, about this big." She gestured, her hands showing about twenty centimeters, a rather large size even for an adult rat. "I was disgusted and a little frightened. I just threw them away at the dumping site."

“Do you know what they were? Weasels? Foxes? Something else?”

She hesitated. “I can recognize adult weasels and foxes, but not when they’re that young.”

My uncle’s expression darkened. “Shen,” he said, “I suspect something else is at play here. If you trust me, let me look into it. I’ll explain later.”

Aunt Shen studied him for a long moment. “Zheng always said you were capable. He trusted you… so do I.”

My uncle nodded and pulled a stick of green incense and a small copper burner from his bag. He lit the incense and set the burner on the table near Aunt Shen.

The smoke didn't rise as it should have. Instead, it stretched horizontally, a thin, greenish-gray thread drifting toward Aunt Shen. It lingered, then curled around her like a shroud, as though marking her.

I stared, transfixed. On impulse, I blew at the smoke. It wavered, dispersed briefly, then re-formed, once again pointing directly at Aunt Shen.

My uncle shot me a sharp look and extinguished the incense without a word.

“What… what is that?” Zheng Yu’s voice cracked. “How…?” His eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, that could explain away what we had just seen.

My uncle turned to me. “Do you know what that was?”

I swallowed hard. “Trace Incense.” The knowledge my uncle had drilled into me surfaced unbidden. “It reveals the presence of spirits, whether one has latched onto someone or where it lingers.”

My mind raced with questions I had never seriously considered: Had she angered something? Which spirit? Was this actually happening?

“I know it’s hard to believe,” my uncle said, lifting a hand to forestall any protests. Seeing the uneasy glances between Aunt Shen and Zheng Yu, he added, “I know you have questions, but now isn’t the time. I’ll explain everything later. For now, I need you to stay quiet.”

Zheng Yu looked as though he wanted to argue, but Aunt Shen placed a firm hand on his arm.

My uncle nodded. "Trust me. I'll handle it."

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Neighbors, friends, distant relatives, even familiar faces from the restaurant came to pay their respects, but I barely registered them. My mind was a whirlwind.

The smoke… it couldn’t have done that on its own. Aunt Shen’s paralysis… coincidence? Maybe… and Uncle Zheng’s death… just an accident. Wasn’t it?

I didn’t know what to think anymore.

At some point, my uncle patted my shoulder, his smile faint but knowing. “I know how it feels,” he murmured. “I was where you are once. Just wait, you’ll see.”

The ceremony concluded, and the guests departed. Late that afternoon, Dr. Wu called. The ambulance had returned, but since Aunt Shen’s condition remained stable, with her vitals steady and no new symptoms, he decided to delay her transfer until next morning, allowing the crew to rest after their long drive.

Dinner was quiet, almost somber. The faint clink of chopsticks against bowls was the only sound breaking the uneasy silence. Zheng Yu barely touched his food, his gaze distant. Aunt Shen kept glancing at the clock as if counting down to an invisible deadline.

After dinner, my uncle handed Aunt Shen and Zheng Yu each a stick of calming incense and a protection talisman. “This will help you rest and keep you safe,” he said. “No matter what you hear, don’t come out.”

Then, he turned to me. “Prepare the items.”

I gathered everything he’d listed: an assortment of incense, a bag of cinnabar powder mixed with incense ash, a piece of lightning-struck wood, a coil of red rope, a handful of talismans, two shaman masks, and a few other odds and ends.

When I picked up the lightning-struck wood, a strange warmth pulsed against my palm. Skeptical, I gripped it tighter. The warmth remained. Startled, I looked up at my uncle, who gave a small nod. “Feel that? Remember it. Fakes don’t feel the same.”

After explaining what we would do later, my uncle sat down to meditate. “Rest,” he instructed. “You’ll need it.”

I tried. Closed my eyes. Slowed my breathing. But my thoughts raced, my heart pounded. The house was too still. Each tick of the clock stretched unbearably long. After what felt like an eternity, I cracked my eyes open. Only five minutes had passed.

Time crawled.

At 11:30, my uncle finally stirred. “Ready?”

I nodded, though my throat was tight. I swallowed hard to steady myself.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice calm and grounding. “Just follow the plan. You’ve learned the formations and the spells. Pay attention. I’ll test you afterward.”

Something in his tone steadied me. He handed me the mask, my sixteenth birthday gift, the one I swore I’d never wear. “Use this for now,” he said. “One day, you’ll make your own.”

I hesitated, then put it on. And in that moment, I knew something had changed forever.

The mask filled me with a strange certainty, as if nothing could harm me. The nerves were still there, but for the first time all night, I felt ready.

                Chapter 3                                                  Chapter 5

The Shaman’s Apprentice: The Yellow Path (Chapter 3)

 

      

      Chapter Two

Chapter Three

But some tales don’t stay buried. Ten years later, I found myself back in the town where they began.

I pressed my forehead against the cool bus window, searching for a landmark, a familiar tree, anything. But the landscape was almost unrecognizable. New buildings stood where the woods once were, and wide, smooth roads had replaced the dirt paths. It felt as if nothing of my childhood remained.

As the bus stopped, I spotted Zheng Yu.

Now a college student, he stood waiting at the station. His face had lost its boyish roundness, sharpened by time, but his eyes still held the same warmth. When our gazes met, a silent understanding passed between us.

For a moment, it felt as if the ten years had never passed, as if we were still children sharing secrets under the shade of the old persimmon tree. But now, we shared something heavier, the weight of our fathers’ absence.

The silence stretched, and I realized I didn’t know how to comfort him. I didn’t want to say, “I know how you feel” or “I understand,” because no one truly could. Instead, I simply patted his shoulder. He patted mine in return.

He turned to my uncle with a respectful nod. "Uncle Ma," he greeted, then took the luggage from him. "Let's go home. My mom's been waiting."

On the ride back, we filled in the gap of a decade. The Zheng family’s old house had expanded into a courtyard home. The surrounding woods had retreated to the mountain’s edge, replaced by a small street lined with tall poplars. Their courtyard gate now faced the roadway, next to a shuttered restaurant.

Zheng's Family Cuisine, now closed.

“Dad’s cooking,” Zheng Yu said softly, his eyes lingering on the restaurant sign, “was what brought people here.”

Inside the courtyard, the old persimmon tree stood bare, its last fruits clinging stubbornly to the branches. Yellow leaves blanketed the ground, swirling in the wind and creeping into neglected corners.

Hearing our voices, Aunt Shen hurried out of the main house, her figure silhouetted against the faded crimson “Fu” character on the door, a symbol of good fortune and blessings, now a quiet reminder of what had been lost.

“Come in, come in,” she said, slightly breathless but still warm. She ushered us inside, then caught Zheng Yu’s arm. “You’ll take the luggage, won’t you? And you two… you must be starving. There are dried plums and peanuts on the table. Have a little something before dinner. Then rest. You both look exhausted after such a long journey.”

Looking at the snacks on the table, I felt a strange disconnection. The sweet, sticky dried plums and the crunchy roasted nuts had been my childhood favorites. I reached for a peanut, and as my fingers brushed its textured shell, I slipped into a trance-like state.

The present seemed to fold away, and suddenly, I was six years old again. Uncle Zheng was laughing, cracking the shell, tossing nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth, urging Zheng Yu and me to try.

My uncle’s voice brought me back to the somber present.

"It’s hard to believe he’s gone," my uncle sighed, his eyes wandering to the bare branches of the persimmon tree outside the window. "He should’ve had more time."

Aunt Shen traced the rim of her teacup, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who would have thought something so small…” She hesitated. “We argued that night… something trivial, just chores.” Her gaze dropped. “If I had known…”

Like any couple, they’d had their share of minor disputes over twenty years of marriage, but they never let them linger. Usually, Uncle Zheng defused things with his signature dishes and Aunt Shen’s favorite: egg soup noodles and pot-baked pork. But that night was different. The argument sat heavy between them, and instead of cooking, Uncle Zheng stormed out to take out the trash.

Across the street, a small, tree-lined platform served as the dumping site. Days of rain had turned the ground treacherous, potholes brimming with murky water.

A neighbor, returning from a late-night dog walk, paused at his doorstep. His dog had gone rigid, whining as it dug its paws into the ground, refusing to move forward.

Uneasily, the man scanned the darkness, and then he saw Uncle Zheng. He had just tossed the garbage and turned to leave when he slipped. It was a minor fall, seemingly nothing.

The neighbor blinked, expecting Uncle Zheng to simply stand up and brush himself off. But he didn’t. Instead, he thrashed, arms flailing as if trying to swim. The neighbor froze, unsure how long he stood there, his mind blank.

Then, the dog’s whine turned into a yelp, and the neighbor snapped out of it. He realized something was terribly wrong.

He dropped the leash and ran toward Uncle Zheng, just as his dog yelped and bolted in the opposite direction.

By the time he reached him, it was already too late.

Days later, the dog was found, but it refused to go anywhere near the street. Defeated, the man had to ask a friend to take care of it.

Aunt Shen exhaled sharply, frustration tightening her voice. “Everyone said that dumping site needed fixing, but nothing was ever done. People slipped there before… got dirty, twisted ankles… but nothing serious.”

Her gaze searched ours. “The water barely reached his knees. Why didn’t he just stand up? He was strong, healthy like a bull.” She hesitated. “How could this happen?”

The medical report found only minor scratches. No heart attack, no stroke, nothing to explain why a man in perfect health had drowned in such shallow water.

Why couldn’t he pull himself up?

Or worse, what had made him swim?

I quickly pushed those thoughts away. Spending too many hours drawing talismans recently must have left my mind wandering into strange places.

“I can’t stop thinking about our argument, about that day…” Aunt Shen whispered, holding her cup with both hands as if seeking warmth. “Those two weeks… we fought more than in all our twenty years together. He was different. Irritable. Snapping over the smallest things. I didn’t understand why. If only I had…”

Zheng Yu shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his mother. “Mom… it wasn’t your fault,” he said softly, moving closer and wrapping an arm around her.

She shook her head. “He mentioned you warned him once.” Her eyes settled on my uncle. “It was so long ago… is it true?”

My uncle sighed, choosing his words carefully. “Years ago, before you married, I read his fortune. The turtle shell showed a strong omen of danger. I couldn’t pinpoint the specifics, only that it would follow him until he turned forty-nine. His best chance of avoiding it was to stay steady, to never let anger get the better of him.”

“To help, I made him a howlite talisman, carving a calming symbol into it. It was meant to help him keep his temper in check.”

Aunt Shen rose abruptly and disappeared into another room. Moments later, she returned, her hand closed around something. Slowly, she opened her palm.

The howlite stone, smooth and luminous from years of wear, gleamed faintly. The etched symbols had softened, worn down by time and touch. A frayed, dark red silk cord, now broken, hung loosely from the stone.

She looked at my uncle, her expression urgent. He nodded.

“He never took it off… not for twenty years,” she said, swallowing hard. “Then, two months ago, it broke. I told him I’d fix it, but…” Her fingers clenched around the talisman. “So this is why he was so on edge… snapping all the time… Changing a cord is nothing. Why didn’t I just do it? I should have… It’s my fault.” Her voice cracked, her gaze locked on the broken cord. “It’s my fault.”

“The timing… these things are beyond our control,” my uncle said gently. “It wasn’t your fault, Shen. It was his fate.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Zheng Yu’s fists clenched. Aunt Shen lowered her head.

I stared at the floor, my chest tight. I had grown up surrounded by my uncle’s rituals, his talismans, his unwavering belief in unseen forces. I went along with it, not out of faith, but because he insisted. To me, it was tradition, nothing more.

Yet, this conversation unsettled me. Was there really something to all of this? A force beyond logic shaping our lives?

No. Coincidence. Nothing more. I told myself firmly. Even a charlatan could be right once or twice. Not that I’d ever call my uncle a charlatan; he was too earnest, too grounded. But shamanism had always felt like an elaborate fiction to me.

I held my breath, afraid that even the slightest exhale might shatter this fragile moment, might force me to confront questions I wasn’t ready to face.

I didn’t know how long the silence stretched before my uncle finally turned to Aunt Shen and said, gently but firmly, “Don’t dwell on it too much. You need to conserve your strength. Tomorrow is the Final Seven. It’s important, for him and for us.”

That night, I went to bed early but couldn’t sleep. I drifted in and out of strange, fragmented dreams until, at 2:30 AM, voices from the yard yanked me fully awake. I quickly dressed and rushed to investigate.

Aunt Shen was paralyzed. She had woken from a nightmare to find she couldn’t move her legs.

                             Chapter Two                                                          Chapter Four

The Shaman’s Apprentice: The Yellow Path (Chapter 2)

 

      Chapter one 

Chapter Two

For a moment, I couldn’t process it. Uncle Zheng, who had just mailed us a huge box of food for the Moon Festival, some dried mushrooms still sitting in our kitchen cabinet, had drowned?

In a pothole, of all places? My heart sank, feeling unreal.

My uncle stood there silently, his right hand tapping rhythmically against his thigh, a habit he had when deep in thought. “We’ll go together for the Final Seven.” He said at last.

“The Final Seven, they still practice that?”

“Yes, those traditions hold strong in the remote areas.”

The last Final Seven I attended was for my parents. When I was six, they passed away suddenly. Too suddenly, I would later realize, leaving me in my uncle’s care.

He had been in the Northeast Territory when the news reached him. Cutting his trip short, he returned just in time for the funeral. I still remember the herbal scent permeating to his clothes when he picked me up.

The funeral was a blur of burning incense and white. White cloth draped the hall, and as their son, I had to wear white throughout. Every seventh day, a ceremony was held, culminating on the forty-ninth day with the Final Seven.

People told me that after this, my parents would reincarnate. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I knew one thing. After this, they would never come back for me, not even their souls. And I would be left behind.

After the Final Seven, the funeral was over, and my uncle prepared to resume his trip. He arranged for a neighbor to watch me for a few days.

“It’s a long way,” he said, crouching to my level, trying to persuade me. “And I don’t know if you can handle it.”

He promised to come back for me, but I refused to be left behind again. I cried for days, clinging to him wherever he went.

Finally, with a sigh, he packed my clothes alongside his and agreed to take me with him.

Leaving behind the flat, familiar plains, the Northeast rose before us. Jagged mountains stretched toward the sky, and dense forests filled the air with the sharp scent of pine. For the first time since my parents' passing, the breathtaking landscape offered a sliver of solace.

Our journey ended in Huangxian Town. Calling it a town was generous; it was more like a small village that had grown wild at the foot of the mountains.

Uncle Zheng and Aunt Shen’s home stood at its very edge, their backyard pressed against the dense woods.

It was late autumn, and the ground was a mosaic of red, gold, and brown. Fallen leaves released a deep, earthy fragrance with every step. The town had no hotels, so visitors relied on the hospitality of locals like Uncle Zheng. He often welcomed adventurous hikers and herb collectors drawn to the region’s prized wild herbs.

My uncle came to replenish his supplies, hides and bones from various animals, along with rare herbs, and he always stayed with Uncle Zheng. Their home carried the rich aroma of his cooking, mingling with his booming laughter. Aunt Shen’s cheerful energy made the space feel warm and alive. This time, we were the only guests.

Their son, Zheng Yu, two years older than me, greeted me like a long-lost brother. He quickly became my guide, teaching me to climb the gnarled old trees behind their house, mimic birdsongs so perfectly that even the sharpest-eyed birds were fooled, and navigate the safest paths along the forest’s edge. He filled my days with tales of mischievous mountain spirits, playful ghosts, and the strange habits of the creatures lurking in the woods, stories that soothed a restless part of me I hadn’t realized needed comfort.

My memories were interrupted by my uncle’s voice.

“The Final Seven will be a month from now.” He said,”I can finish the job I’m working on, and you prepare these items. They can all be found in the study room. Take your time, and don’t mess things up.” My uncle handed me a list: lightning-struck wood, cinnabar powder, several types of incense he had made himself, two shaman masks, a coil of red rope, and other supplies.

Reading the list, I was startled. "Why are you taking these?" The thought of my uncle wearing a shaman mask and performing a ritual at Uncle Zheng’s funeral made me cringe.

And two of them? The second one was for... I didn't even dare think about the answer.

"Aren’t we just going to pay our respects?" I asked cautiously.

“Don’t worry, we are,” he said, glancing at me as if he could read my thoughts. “Just in case. Hopefully, we won’t need them.”

Amid the preparations for our trip, my sixteenth birthday passed quietly, feeling no different from any other day. After school, I met up with Xu Jian and Chang Qi at the cramped internet café around the corner, where we lost ourselves in the glow of our screens, battling monsters until the sky outside turned dark.

When I got home, my uncle was waiting with a simple dinner: a bowl of longevity noodles. Every year, he made the noodles by hand, a single, unbroken strand symbolizing a long and healthy life. Looking at the wide, thick noodle, I couldn’t help but remember the first time he attempted it for my seventh birthday.

He had aimed high, bragging that he would make the perfect longevity noodles, super long and super thin, the kind only royal chefs could master. He followed a recipe book carefully, trying again and again. By the time he gave up, he had wasted an entire bag of flour, turned the kitchen into a war zone, and was covered in dough from head to toe. In the end, he settled for what he proudly called his “special wide longevity noodles.”

“Life is not just about length,” he handed me a bowl. “It’s about breadth too.”

After dinner, he brought out a small birthday cake with candles and a neatly wrapped package. Inside was a shaman mask.

“I got my first one on my sixteenth birthday too,” my uncle said, a flicker of nostalgia crossing his face.

I buried my dread beneath the effort of a weak smile. “It’s...hmm...unique,” I managed to say, struggling to find the right word.

No way I was going to wear that! I silently vowed to have a serious talk with him someday about my future. When I grew up, I’d have a real job, a normal job in the modern world.

Two weeks later, my uncle arranged a leave of absence for me from school. The journey was long. Since there was no high-speed rail station in town, we had to transfer to a bus in a nearby city. For hours, the bus wound its way through the Northeastern mountains until, finally, I spotted the big red sign by the roadside: “Huangxian Town.”

“Huangxian means Yellow Spirits,” I suddenly remembered Zheng Yu telling me.

That was a sunny afternoon, we were sprawled out under a gnarled old tree, catching our breath. Zheng Yu leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “You ever heard of Yellow Spirits?”

I shook my head, curious about the serious look on his face.

“They’re powerful,” he said, his eyes sparkling.”They can trick people. Some folks say that’s why our town is called Huangxian, named after the Yellow Spirits that used to live here.”

“Wow! Do they still live here?” I asked, eager to see them.

"Nope, not anymore," he said, shaking his head, disappointed. “I’ve never seen one myself,” he confessed, but his tone was unwavering. “But they’re real. I just know it.”

“What do they look like?”

He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a near murmur. “Weasels,” he said.

”They’re… weasels?!”I blurted, unable to hide my disbelief.

"Shhh!" Zheng Yu clamped a hand over my mouth. "Don't say that! You'll offend them."

He glanced around nervously before lowering his voice again. Then, he told me a story he claimed everyone in the area knew.

Once, a boy spotted a weasel in his front yard. Excited, he called out, “Mom, there’s a weasel in our yard!” His mother tried to stop him, but it was too late. She urged him to apologize, but he laughed it off.

The next morning, on his way to school, the boy encountered one of his teachers. Smiling, the teacher told him that classes were canceled for the day. Delighted by the unexpected news, he spent the day running around the village, carefree and happy.

But when he returned to school the following day, he was called to the front of the class and scolded for skipping. His punishment? Copying a long passage by hand 100 times. Confused and frustrated, he insisted his teacher had told him to go home. To his shock, he learned that the teacher had been at the hospital all day, where his wife was giving birth.

When the boy's mother heard the story, she understood immediately: it was a Yellow Spirit playing with him. Realizing her son had offended the spirit, she prepared a meal as an offering and left it in the front yard. From that day forward, the boy experienced no further strange tricks.

The tale left me wide-eyed, and that evening, I found my uncle immersed in a book. I bombarded him with questions.

“Yellow Spirits?” he said, closing the book with a soft smile. Seeing my eager expression, he leaned forward. “They have spiritual powers and can slip between our world and the spirit realm. Be kind to them, and they'll bring good luck and keep you safe. But if you're rude or forget your manners, they might get mischievous and cause trouble.”

“But how come they get caught in zoos?” I asked.

He chuckled, ruffling my hair. “Those are just regular weasels, with no power. To become a Yellow Spirit, they must cultivate, a rare talent not all weasels have.”

“Have you ever seen one?” Learning how rare they were only made me more eager.

He smiled and patted my head but didn’t answer.

“Dinner’s ready!” Aunt Shen’s cheerful call broke the moment, and the scent of Uncle Zheng’s pot-baked pork quickly stole my attention. It was so delicious that, for a while at least, I forgot all about the Yellow Spirits.

Later that evening, as we sat around chatting, I couldn’t resist bringing them up again. “Uncle Zheng, Aunt Shen, have you ever met a Yellow Spirit?”

They both laughed, shaking their heads. “No,” they said, clearly amused.

Their response disappointed me, but as I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t shake the lingering wonder. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of eyes glinting gold in the darkness, playful and watchful.

By morning, sunlight chased away the mysteries of the night. New adventures with Zheng Yu awaited, his endless stories filling the day with fresh excitement. The tale of the Yellow Spirits faded into the background, blending into the countless others that color a child's imagination.

  Chapter One                                           Chapter Three