“Off to the bridge, you will go…” An old, tired and raspy voice came from behind Marcus.

Marcus turned his head and shoulders. His muscles were cold, solid and sore, as if he had been swimming in cold water for the past few hours. After much struggle, he was finally able to catch the source of this voice through the corner of his eyes - it was a man, or should he say, a spirit, in a long, dirty white robe. The man was pale, tall, with slightly messy long black hairs drizzling from his colorless scalp and a long red tongue dangling from his grinning mouth. On top of his head was a ragged tall hat, with a phrase “Richness finds the respectful” written on it.

Wuchang, according to the legends, was a kind of spirits of an “official” status - they were technically an usherer or mariner of the underworld, in charge of capturing newly dead or wandering spirits of the world. But the thing that bothered Marcus was that, Wuchangs always acted in pairs. This tall one was the White Wuchang, and the other one would be the short Black Wuchang, in a black robe, with a stern and fierce face, and a tall black hat with “Peace be with all”.

The pale, grinning face came closer and closer, though this Wuchang was not targeting Marcus, he was still suffering the freezing aura. He wanted to move, but the dreading cold seemed to have taken hold of his muscles, his meridians and even his bones. He could only turn his neck slightly and rotate his eyes to a few angles. But there was nothing else he could do.

“Off to the bridge… you will go.” The Wuchang chanted again, his voice was shaking, and he coughed after just one sentence. With a better angle, Marcus was able to see it more clearly - there were some burns, stains and holes on this Wuchang’s robe. He did not remember anything about the Wuchangs’ robes being damaged, nor did he have any energy to think about it right now.

“Wait! STOP! STOP!” The door to Marcus’ apartment burst open, his father rushed out, holding the wooden Buddha statue in his right hand and all the paper talismans in his right at the Wuchang, sweating all over his face and back. “Back off, you Wuchang. Back off! You cannot take my son! You CANNOT! He’s still alive! And he just helped you by fighting whatever that thing is! You CAN’T TAKE HIM!”

The Wuchang took a glance at Elvin, then took one deep, hard look at Marcus. His pupils were glimmering, and seemed to have some kind of power that sucked Marcus’ focus and mind into his gaze. Their eyes met for but a moment, and Wuchang cut off his power before Marcus got any more lost. He pulled on the metal chains once again, dragging the shadow of the old man closer to him.

The cold energy locking Marcus in his place gradually faded, and he started to regain control over his body. Elvin watched from the side as Marcus broke free from the frozen state, his limbs trembling almost beyond his control, but still maintaining a standing pose and holding the blessed items that could thwart malicious supernatural entities.

“Off to the bridge… you will go.” The White Wuchang pulled the old man to within an arm’s length to him, then opened up his right sleeve, unleashing an energy vortex within. The old man’s figure turned long and thin as if he was turned into liquid or air, and was sucked into the sleeve within just a few moments.

“My… thanks.” The Wuchang turned to Marcus, uttering two words with a gurgling voice. He then turned away, slowly floated towards the direction from which he came.

Before he passed Marcus and Elvin by, he extended one single slender finger and tapped Marcus’ forehead.

A stream of cool but pleasant energy flowed into Marcus’ head. Scattered, incomplete and shaky images flashed through his mind. Memory, of this very Wuchang, it seemed.

An altar, covered in crimson wax, seemingly from the usage of candles. A dead body, surrounded by strange ashes, twisted, bloodied with nary a piece of intact skin. It was covered in scars and frozen in a state of horror and torment. The Black Wuchang, standing on the side, releasing chains from his sleeve along with the White Wuchang at the floating spirit of a completely bald man. Just when the chains were about to wrap around the spirit, dark tendrils and tentacles burst out from the altar and clenched the shadow by his neck, his wrists and ankles; the metal chains wrestled with the tendrils and tentacles. They rusted, then broke. The vision became blurry, and gray for a moment.

Everything went dark for a brief moment, then some new image appeared. The Black Wuchang was severely injured, so much so that his body was gradually turning into ash. The stone altar was broken into three pieces. There were pieces of paper on the ground - the Black Wuchang’s baton was broken. The old bald man’s spirit was still in the air, its body, like a doll, fading into nothingness one grain of dust and one single thread at a time. The dark tendrils and tentacles were nowhere to be seen. The Wuchangs failed. The White Wuchang’s vision was blurry, shaky and dim. His movement was slow and difficult. He had to leave. He had to go back to where he could be safe and rest. Dread, guilt and powerlessness filled his soul.

There was barely indication of where this was. But Marcus knew, from some lingering thoughts left by the White Wuchang, it could not be more than half a month.

Before the White Wuchang would fully pass Marcus by, he turned around, ripped a small piece of fabric off his right sleeve and handed it to Marcus.

Marcus hesitated for a brief moment before accepting this “gift”. Sturdy, light and somehow possessing a mind clearing coolness, it was distinctively different from anything Marcus had seen or touched. The Wuchang’s figure faded into the shadows and the moonlight.

“Let’s check on the neighbor.” Elvin’s voice pulled Marcus out of his thoughts.