"Nine-Stroke Talisman"

Chapter Two: Zhu Quan

Shen Moyan stood in his shop, lights blazing, clutching a fading talisman. A voice chattered inside his head.

“Quit staring. Turn off the lights. Electricity isn’t free.”

He didn’t move.

“You stubborn kid—lights off, bed. We’ve got work tomorrow.”

Shen Moyan’s throat was dry. “Who… are you?”

“Zhu Quan. The 17th son of Zhu Yuanzhang, Prince of Ning. I know Taoism, draw talismans, and wrote The Jade Manual of the Supreme Dao and Pure Clarity. Ring a bell?”

Shen Moyan shook his head. He only knew Zhu Yuanzhang had many sons; their names were just footnotes in history.

“Fair enough,” the voice sighed. “I’ve been dead 600 years. No one remembered me alive, let alone now.”

Shen Moyan finally moved, flipping off the lights—not out of obedience, but because his legs went weak. He groped to his workbench chair, staring into the dark where the talisman had vanished.

“Where’s the talisman?”

“Inside you,” Zhu Quan said casually. “It was a soul-summoning talisman I made to break seals. Touching it unlocked the door, and here I am.”

“So you’re… a ghost?”

“I’m a spirit, not a ghost. Ghosts are trapped by obsession. I’m a conscious cultivator’s soul. Your ‘generations-bearing’ body was made to hold beings like me.”

Shen Moyan fell silent, recalling the book’s words:

When the ninth stroke falls, the bearer inherits the debts of all ages.

“The debts of all ages,” he muttered. “What does that mean?”

Zhu Quan didn’t answer.

The shop’s darkness thickened. Shen Moyan felt gazes closing in—not physical things, but the weight of being watched.

“Turn on the lights,” Zhu Quan said, his tone suddenly sharp.

Shen Moyan fumbled for the switch. The shop was empty.

“What was that?” His voice shook.

“Curious onlookers,” Zhu Quan drawled. “Your Heavenly Eye is open now—you can see them, and they can see you. Fresh meat, so they came to stare.”

“What are they?”

“Wandering spirits, ghosts, earth-bound souls… even a few local deities hiding in the corners. I’m with you, so they keep their distance. But turn off the lights again, and I can’t promise.”

Shen Moyan stared out at the night. A streetlamp’s glow cut through the dark, where he thought he saw shadows moving.

“Can I… close my Heavenly Eye?”

“No,” Zhu Quan said. “Once open, it never closes. You’ll get used to it.”

“Used to it?!”

“Calm down. Look—nothing’s here. They just watch. Soon you’ll tell who’s curious, who needs help, and who wants to hurt you.”

Shen Moyan wanted to weep. At 24, he’d failed his postgrad exam twice, owed rent, and just wanted to restore books for a living. Now a 600-year-old dead prince lived in his head, and spirits were gawking at him.

“The book,” he said sharply. “Who owned it? Why is my name in it?”

“Your name?” Zhu Quan sounded shocked. “What name?”

“The indent on the last page: Shen Moyan. And the full title—The Scripture of Purple Star Divine Troops: Shen Moyan Bears the Debts of Generations to Protect the Nation and Vanquish Demons.”

Zhu Quan fell quiet. “You’re sure?”

“I saw it.”

“...Fascinating,” he said softly. “I wrote that book before I died. It mentions ‘bearing the debts of generations’—but not your name. Someone added it later.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I’d bet it was the woman who brought it to you.”

The woman in red. Shen Moyan remembered her empty eyes, the way light drained from the room when she stood at his door, and her final words:

“You’ll remember when you finish the nine strokes.”

“She said to wait until I finish the nine strokes.”

“The Nine-Stroke Talisman Head,” Zhu Quan said. “I invented it. Originally, talismans had three strokes for the Three Pure Ones. I added six for the Six Harmonies. Nine strokes complete, and the talisman’s power multiplies tenfold. But the cost—nine tribulations, one per stroke.”

“What kind of tribulations?”

“I don’t know. I only drew three. Died before the fourth.”

Shen Moyan stared at his hands. A dark stain lingered on his fingertips, like a burn, but painless.

“I drew the first stroke,” he said. “So the first tribulation is here?”

“Yes,” Zhu Quan laughed, echoing in his head. “Your first tribulation is a chatty 600-year-old dead prince.”

Shen Moyan didn’t laugh.

Dawn neared. The dark faded, streetlamp light dimmed, and a bus rumbled in the distance. The normal world was waking up.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Do I still go to work?”

“Of course. How else will you eat? And you have to repay your first debt.”

“What debt?”

“Sun Shi. The girl who drowned in the well. She’s my debt.”

Shen Moyan recalled the county annals:

Sun Shi, 16, drowned in a well on the 17th day of the 3rd month, 1535. No posthumous honor.

“Who was she?”

“My daughter,” Zhu Quan said.