Walker Of The Worlds

Chapter 2929: Phantoms

The night deepened.

Their breath no longer steamed in the air, for the cold was not of wind or weather—it was the kind that clung to one’s bones, soaked into marrow, and made even the soul feel frostbitten.

The party stood atop a jagged outcrop of stone, half-shattered by time. Gnarled branches twisted below, skeletal and leafless, reaching skyward as if to claw at the mist. The valley exhaled softly—no breeze, only that low, endless whisper.

Below them, they came.

Not all were whole.

The first were lesser remnants—fragments of lives long since scattered. They drifted across the broken valley floor like mist given shape. Limbs were blurred, faces unfinished, eyes absent or misplaced. They wept, but no sound emerged, only the cold silence of regret made manifest. These were the Hollowed, and they meant no harm... unless touched. Unless disturbed.

Lin Mu had read about them. In the world of cultivation there were many such occult beings. Most were just called as ghosts but there were many categories among them.

The Hollowed were among them though, and were the weakest, having lost most of thier being and lacking power.

Yet, not all were so passive.

From the dark, others emerged.

The True Lost.

Fully formed ghosts, clad in echoes of forgotten armor, shrouded in hatred and despair. Their eyes burned like dying coals, their weapons stained not with blood, but memory. Each step they took left no mark, and yet their presence struck the air like thunder.

The first lunged with a roarless scream. A blade of rusted spirit-iron arced toward Daoist Chu, whose talisman glowed brightly to block the blow. Sparks flared—not from metal, but from clashing energies.

Another ghost descended upon Meng Bai, clawing through the formation shields as if peeling away paper. The young cultivator grunted, slamming down a formation plate to create a wall of light. It held, but only barely.

Little Shrubby leapt in, his fur bristling and claws blazing with flaming red light. He struck one of the specters and tore it apart, only for its pieces to coalesce and reform with a shriek of violation.

”They don’t die!” Meng Bai cried. ”They don’t even fade!”

”Then we’ll burn them into stillness!” Daoist Chu shouted, drawing forth a scroll of spirit fire. He unfurled it, the flames bursting forth like a phoenix’s breath. Yet the ghost simply walked through it, shedding flame like rainwater.

The battle turned desperate.

This was among the rare times where his skills were not working at all. They had fought against Seventh Tribulation Stage of the Immortal Realm beings and yet could not harm these ghosts.

The ghosts pressed closer, their weapons and claws tearing into wards and flesh alike. Their movements were not martial—they were inevitable. Like fate, marching forward, slow but relentless.

Then Lin Mu moved.

He stepped forward onto the cracked stone, untouched by blade or shadow. His face was calm. Cold sweat beaded upon his brow, but his voice was steady.

He brought his hands together before his heart. His eyes closed.

And he chanted.

A sound like wind chimes in a dead city.

A whisper that outshone the screaming silence.

”Let thy heart be as the moonlit pond—unmoving, clear, and deep. Release all suffering, and awaken to the boundless stillness beyond form.”

The Calming Heart Sutra.

Words older than memory. A truth passed down by unknown monks who had stared into the abyss and wept not.

The fog shivered.

The ghosts froze.

The very air began to tremble, not with violence, but serenity. A golden hue radiated from Lin Mu’s body, soft at first, then rising like the dawn. Petals of unseen lotus blossoms unfurled around him, and his shadow elongated, no longer mortal but monastic, draped in ancient saffron robes of light.

The phantoms shrieked—not in rage, but in fear.

They staggered back as if struck by thunder, arms raised to shield themselves from a radiance they had not seen in lifetimes.

One ghost lunged—desperate, furious, its mouth open in a soundless curse.

Lin Mu opened his eyes.

Golden. Timeless. Filled with the stillness of a mountain that has endured a thousand storms.

He raised one hand.

”Depart.”

The word struck the ghost like a hammer of karma.

In a single pulse, the Buddhist aura expanded outward.

Golden waves surged through the air, washing over the ledge, the trees, the spirits. It rolled like a tide of mercy, and where it touched, the phantoms evaporated. Not torn, not burned—released.

Each fragment lifted, dissolved into dusts of light, and returned to whatever beyond awaited them.

The fog around them twisted, recoiled... and for a moment, lifted.

The valley grew silent.

Utterly.

Daoist Chu stood wide-eyed, a drop of blood still trickling down his sleeve.

Meng Bai fell to his knees, panting.

Little Shrubby’s fur stood on end, but his eyes shone with awe.

Lin Mu breathed slowly, lowering his hand. The lotus petals vanished. The light faded. But its echo lingered, humming softly in the stones beneath their feet.

He turned to the others, expression calm once more. ”They cannot linger in the presence of truth. Not when their hearts were consumed by regret and sorrow.”

Daoist Chu stepped forward slowly, his voice hushed. ”That was... that was no mere technique.”

”It was something I learned at the Green Loutus Temple,” Lin Mu said simply. ”A reflection of the path of peace. The heart, made still, is like a mirror. It does not resist—it illuminates.”

Meng Bai looked around, his voice almost a whisper. ”You cleansed the land...”

”No,” Lin Mu said, gazing back into the fog. ”Only a part of it. There is much more... deeper down. Worse things than wandering ghosts.”

The fog began to curl inward again, swirling in unseen patterns. In the distance, something vast stirred.

A presence.

Watching.

Waiting.

The True Lost had only been the gatekeepers.

Now, the valley knew they had come.

And what lay in the heart of Shadow Whisper Valley stirred from its slumber.

Lin Mu had no idea thier presence had seemingly brought the lifeless valley ’alive’!