Aria's tongue was like a strip of cowhide tendon, coiled around Luna's neck as if trying to strangle her alive.
"Borrow the power of Zhu Rong, the God of Fire. Let the celestial fire exterminate the evil!"
Luna's movements never slowed as she bellowed the incantation. The yellow Taoist talisman at her fingertips instantly transformed into a fiery serpent, burning Aria's tongue in half.
"You go first. I'll deal with her," Luna said to me.
"Thank you, then," I replied before hastily crawling toward the well. I didn't know how to fight ghosts, so staying would be useless. Better to escape sooner rather than later.
"You think you can leave after lying to me? No way!" Aria roared. Her thick hair morphed into terrifying black snakes that slithered after me along the well wall.
Trembling with fear, I scrambled faster. Meanwhile, Luna drew the peachwood sword from her back and slashed through the black snakes clinging to the well.
The severed snakes twitched on the ground before transforming not back into hair, but into disgusting, writhing maggots.
I didn't dare look any longer and clawed my way upward with all my strength. Just as I neared the top, Stein and Orwell reached down for me. The moment I grabbed their hands, I leaped out.
Damn, finally out. That well was terrifying and suffocating—not to mention I'd almost been killed by a vengeful ghost. The whole ordeal was too shameful to talk about.
Outside the well, aside from Orwell and Stein, there lay a flayed human skin and a bound weasel. The weasel squeaked helplessly, immobilized, its eyes covered by a yellow Taoist talisman.
Orwell explained that a girl had arrived earlier and subdued Lucky in just three moves. She'd slapped a talisman over its eyes, saying they were evil—if anyone looked into them, they'd be ensnared.
Luna's talismans were clearly more potent than Stella's. This weasel was no match for her. Still, I wasn't sure if she could handle the evil spirit at the bottom of the well. Judging by how her sword had wounded Aria earlier, though, Luna stood a good chance of winning.
From below, the sounds of battle continued—clashes and gusts of eerie wind rising from the depths. Luna still hadn't emerged.
I walked over to the weasel and gave it a kick. Can it even talk?
It only squeaked in response. Apparently not. Did it need the human skin to speak? It wasn't particularly powerful—nowhere near the level of a true Huang Daxian. Up north, there were legends of Huang Daxian transforming into a handsome man to abduct young women, using them up before devouring them. People were so afraid of offending him that they worshipped him instead, even when he stole their chickens.
I told Stein to put the human skin back on the weasel—but not to untie the ropes or remove the talisman. I had questions for it, and there was one thing it might know.
Stein looked puzzled but did as he was told. Sure enough, the Siberian weasel regained its ability to speak.
"Get off me! Get off me!" the weasel kept yelling.
"Quiet, or I'll slaughter you for a drink right now," I threatened, kicking it again. It became slightly more obedient, though its body still squirmed uselessly. The rope binding it was thick and tough—even a tiger wouldn't be able to break free.
"Tell me," I demanded, pointing at Orwell, "is he the village chief's idiot son?"
The weasel suddenly stopped struggling, freezing in silence. Orwell, however, grew agitated. He grabbed my collar and snapped, "What do you mean by that?"
I shoved him off and countered, "You told us to just call you Orwell. So what's your real name?"
"My name... my name..." He clutched his head, suddenly wincing in pain. "My head hurts—what is my name? My second uncle's name is Luís, so mine should be...?" He shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the answer loose, but he couldn't remember.
"Also, you claimed you're in your thirties," I added, "but you look at least forty, maybe even fifty. Aging doesn't work like that."
Orwell was now completely bewildered. He stared blankly, muttering to himself, "Who the hell am I?" He gripped his skull and let out a frustrated scream, as if the pain might jog his memory.
But it didn't help. He still couldn't recall anything—let alone answer my questions.
"Your name is Jonas," the weasel suddenly said.
Orwell's face lit up. "Yes! I remember now! My name is Jonas—haha, I remember!"
"Wrong," I cut in, pointing at the weasel. "You didn't remember. It told you."
Orwell's jubilant expression darkened again, leaving him even more confused than before.
"Keep talking. You clearly know what's going on," I said, nudging the weasel with my foot—this time gently, since it had stopped resisting and clamped its mouth shut.
After a long pause, the weasel sighed and confessed the truth.
As it turned out, Orwell had been dead for years. After his second uncle Luís died, he'd tried to rescue Aria, but the village chief's eldest son found out. As punishment, they held his head underwater in the river—except they went too far and drowned him.
That very night, Aria returned as a vengeful spirit and slaughtered the village chief's entire family. Only the fool survived.
The fool already had three souls. Though he wasn't killed, the fright scared two of his souls right out of his body.
At that time, the weasel had sacrificed half its magical power and twenty years of its lifespan to alter fate. It placed two of Orwell's souls - the dead Orwell's souls - into the fool's body.
Only two souls, because Orwell had lost his Sound Soul, which couldn't be retrieved. That was the soul of memory, which explained why Orwell suffered memory loss - why he couldn't remember certain things no matter how hard he tried. He'd forgotten his original appearance, his name, and even the fact that he was already dead.
The Orwell before us now retained his original soul, but his physical body belonged to the village chief's idiot son. The real Orwell had died long ago.
We listened in stunned silence. Even Orwell stood gaping, unable to form words, completely at a loss for what to say.
It was too incredible. Coming from the mouth of a cunning weasel, could it be believed?
After several minutes of consideration, I found myself believing it. The weasel had no reason to fabricate such an elaborate lie. Moreover, when I pieced together all the strange occurrences, the weasel's story held up. It was likely true.
Orwell was dead. His soul remained his own, but his body belonged to the village chief's foolish son. This explained everything - including his apparent age.
The revelation devastated Orwell. He couldn't process it immediately, couldn't react. Seizing the moment, I urgently told him, "I know why you can't summon your second uncle's spirit! It's because you're not actually his nephew! Try calling him differently - don't say 'second uncle,' call him Luís! Quickly!"
With the Equinox Flower tattoo, psychic summoning might still work, though not as effectively as when done by blood relatives. Regardless, we had to try. Luna might not win her battle below. Judging by what we'd seen earlier, Luís was crucially important to Aria. If we could summon his spirit, we'd have an unbeatable advantage.
It was unclear whether Orwell had accepted the weasel's shocking claims, but he followed my instructions. He began calling for Luís at the weasel's grave.
Just then, a mahogany sword came flying up, crossing the well's opening with several sharp "da-da-da" sounds. Luna leapt up from below in a flash, grabbed the sword midair, and vaulted out of the well.
"Hurry! That ghost is incredibly powerful. Even injured, I still can't defeat her!" Luna warned as she emerged, her body covered in blood.