Once, while drinking with a friend, he told me a story about his great-grandfather—his grandfather's father.
His great-grandfather lived during the Republican era of China. He was a wandering Taoist, not affiliated with any major sect. Those were chaotic times—wars, famine, and unrest were everywhere. One year, during a severe famine, the temple he lived in could no longer sustain itself. With no other choice, he went down the mountain and began roaming from place to place, scraping by on fortune-telling and dealing with matters involving spirits and the supernatural.
One evening, just before sunset, he arrived near a small village. From a distance, he noticed a thick mass of dark, ominous energy hovering over the village.
He thought to himself, Well, at least tonight's food and lodging are settled.
Back then, travelers without money didn't stay at inns—they relied on villagers for a night's shelter.
He entered the village and went straight to the village head's house, explaining that he was a Taoist traveling through the area and hoping to stay the night. The village head was surprisingly hospitable. He arranged a meal and invited several village elders to join them for food and drinks.
During the meal, my friend's great-grandfather casually asked whether anything strange had been happening in the village lately.
The village head immediately waved his hand and said no—but his eyes flickered with unease.
The Taoist didn't press the matter. He assumed there were things they didn't feel comfortable discussing.
Not long after eating, however, he suddenly felt dizzy. His vision blurred.
Something's wrong, he thought.
Before he could react, everything went black.
When he woke up again, it was already deep into the night.
He realized his body was tightly bound. The village head, along with several men, was carrying him up into the mountains.
After walking for a while, they arrived at the entrance of a cave. The opening was pitch-black, and waves of foul, bloody stench poured out from within—an unbearable mix of rot and something far worse.
Moments later, a tall, emaciated old man staggered out of the cave.
At the sight of him, the village head quickly ordered the others to put the Taoist down. He muttered a brief apology—"I'm sorry, Master"—and then led the group back down the mountain without looking back.
The old man slowly approached.
With a single motion, he lifted the Taoist off the ground as if he weighed nothing.
Later, my friend's great-grandfather said that although the man looked frail and skeletal, his grip was terrifyingly strong.
The old man dragged him into the depths of the cave.
What he saw inside nearly scared him to death.
Bones littered the ground—human bones, animal bones, scattered everywhere. In one corner that clearly served as a cooking area, a pot sat over an open fire, boiling chunks of human flesh. On a nearby chopping board lay severed limbs and internal organs.
The old man hauled him toward a pit at the back of the cave. It was filled with dark liquid and reeked of decay.
He knew immediately—this was a blood pool.
Whatever twisted art this man was practicing, it was no ordinary cultivation.
If I don't fight back now, he realized, I die here.
When the old man turned away to grab his tools, he seized the moment. Spotting a sharp stone nearby, he frantically cut through the ropes binding him.
Later, he said the only reason he survived was that the villagers hadn't tied him very tightly. Otherwise, he would have been finished.
What followed was a desperate, brutal struggle. The details were never fully described—but in the end, he managed to kill the Monster, the heretical cultivator.
He survived—but barely. He was gravely wounded.
At that moment, he made a crucial decision: he returned to the village.
Staggering and barely conscious, he appeared at the village entrance.
The villagers reacted as if they had seen a ghost.
He said only one sentence to them:
"It's been taken care of up on the mountain."
Then he collapsed.
When he woke up again, he was lying in the village head's home, his body wrapped in layers of medicinal herbs.
Only then did the village head finally tell the truth.
No one knew when the heretic had first moved into the mountain cave. But ever since he arrived, livestock and villagers from nearby settlements had begun disappearing. The man threatened the village, demanding regular human sacrifices. If they refused, he promised to wipe the entire village out.
The villagers knew he practiced dark arts and believed they had no way to resist him.
So when a wandering Taoist came asking for shelter, they made the most desperate choice they could think of—and offered him up instead.
The Taoist stayed in the village for half a month, slowly recovering from his injuries.
During that time, the village head led several strong men back to the cave multiple times. Inside, they discovered large amounts of gold and silver, which they carried back to the village.
Eventually, they set the cave ablaze—burning the remains and everything inside—before sealing the entrance completely.
Another half month passed.
When he was finally strong enough to travel again, the Taoist refused all the money the village offered him. He packed his belongings and continued his life of wandering.
My friend said this was only one of many stories his great-grandfather left behind.
He promised that if there was a chance, he would tell me more.
And when he does, I'll get them—and share them with you all.