For ten years I practiced Gu poison in Southeast Asia; all living beings revered me as a deity.

After re-entering the cycle of reincarnation, Luo Feng, led by the young novice monk, arrived at the monastery of Muqing Temple.

There is a large open space in this temple, which is a public area belonging to several nearby villages.

The monks in the temple are usually in seclusion, focusing on their spiritual practice. However, during festivals such as the Clothing Festival, the temple holds celebrations, the most popular of which is the chanting of the Jataka tales by the monks, which attracts donations from the public.

The so-called "Jataka Tales" are the Buddhist Jataka tales, which tell the stories of the Buddha's reincarnations.

Chinese Buddhism also has Jataka tales such as "The Story of the Man Who Cut Off His Flesh to Feed an Eagle" and "The Story of the Deer King." The Great Jataka is the story of Shakyamuni's last reincarnation as Prince Vaisandun (the Good-Giving Prince).

Known as "Mahacha" in Thai, meaning the most important Jataka tale, it reflects the immense influence of Buddhism in Thailand. In ancient times, reciting the Jataka tale became a local folk custom.

The Jataka verses, when used in storytelling, are presented in a form of Thai poetic literature. A specific melody is required when reciting them.

Thai monks chant the Jataka tale, similar to Chinese storytellers or ballad singers. Their emotions change according to the content; when sad, their tone is slow, mournful, and heart-wrenching; when funny, their words are witty and make people burst into laughter.

What's even more popular with listeners are the added segments, which are rap segments added to the original work, making it more relatable and widely loved by the public.

When news spreads that a renowned monk has agreed to perform at a Buddhist temple, not only do believers from neighboring villages flock to the temple, but monks from other temples also come in droves.

This square is known locally as "Jataka Square," and there is a linden tree in the open space of the square.

A group of people, at least fifty or sixty, had gathered under the tree. It wasn't a holiday, and normally the temple wouldn't let outsiders in; those who came were all local residents.

They were watching a man wearing a straw hat, with a sallow-faced and emaciated man beside him.

This must be a farmer. He has a sallow complexion, looks sickly, and has a festering sore on his back. He is being helped to sit on a rock under a Bodhi tree.

"That man wearing the straw hat is Mr. Aransh; he's curing the villagers of their ghost disease."

The young novice explained in a low voice.

Luo Feng nodded.

Aranshi should be in his early thirties. He is tall, with regular features, and is a man exuding wildness.

He slowly walked around to the back of the villager who was afflicted by the demonic disease and carefully examined the swollen, festering sore.

After the examination, he seemed to be deep in thought, analyzing treatment options. After a moment, the man seemed to have an idea.

"You guys come here for a moment and help me get ready."

Alanshi called over several villagers and gave them instructions.

He asked the villagers to bring him an empty bowl, a needle, a candle, and some wine.

"Also, you'll need a piece of raw pork. If you don't have that, fish will do."

These villagers were all relatives of the farmer who had contracted the demon disease. Upon hearing Alan's words, they nodded hurriedly and then quickly left to prepare their belongings.

Alan slowly pulled two things out of his pocket: a slender pen and a bamboo tube.

The bamboo tube was filled with a red medicine. It was a medicine from Myanmar, a mixture of cinnabar and sesame oil, all mixed into a paste.

Alan dipped his brush in the red pigment and began writing on the villagers who had developed festering sores.

He wrote Buddhist scriptures in Pali, quickly composing the "Peacock Guardian Verse," his long pen moving with incredible speed, like a red lotus blooming behind a farmer.

After Alan finished writing, he closed his eyes, made a hand seal, and chanted a spell softly.

As the chanting began, the swollen, festering sore twitched slightly, and the farmer groaned.

The scene was very strange. Everyone watching could see it clearly: the sores were red and swollen, with countless tiny pores under the skin, as if there was something alive hiding underneath, wriggling and undulating on the back.

"Ajarn, we've brought the things."

Several villagers respectfully rushed back and brought Alanshi the empty bowl, needle, candle, and wine he had requested.

Aransh took a candle, lit it, and then took the needle and heated it over the fire for a while.

"Someone, raise his right hand."

He then gave the order, and a villager approached the farmer and raised his hand.

Alan grasped the needle with his fingertips, held one of the farmer's right fingers, and gently inserted the needle between his fingernails.

"Ouch, that hurts!"

The farmer let out a soft cry of pain, but Alanshi paid no attention. The needle had already been pulled out. The blood between his fingernails was black, gradually swelling at the fingertip.

He took the empty bowl and placed the piece of raw meat in it. He then dripped the blood from the other person's right fingertip onto the meat.

As everyone could see, a few drops of black blood had been dripped onto the raw meat in the bowl.

"This empty bowl will stay here."

Alan put the bowl on the ground.

"Arrange his hands so that his fingertips are aligned with the bowl."

After instructing the villagers to do as he said, this fellow member of the Lanna shaman sect took out some wine, took a big gulp, and then put a mouthful of wine in his mouth.

"puff!"

He sprayed the wine on the farmer's back.

When the liquor was spilled on the festering sore, it immediately began to writhe violently, its shape changing.

The villagers who witnessed this scene were all amazed.

On the other side, Aranshi chanted incantations while writing with incredible speed. The pen tip flew across the paper, the characters slowly tracing the farmer's shoulder blades, winding around his shoulders like a red line, extending all the way to his bleeding index finger.

After writing the last word, Alan seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Wow--"

Just then, someone exclaimed in surprise.

"Look!"

The young novice monk's eyes widened as well.

"Wh-which one is what?"

Black blood was dripping from the farmer's fingers.

However, right after Alan finished writing, a dark object was wriggling in the black blood dripping from the tip of his index fingernail.

Luo Feng narrowed his eyes, also feeling very surprised.

He guessed that this was a method of exorcising spirits, as well as some folk practices involving possessing spirits.

Unfortunately, neither Alichaya nor Putaon had told him about this method.

The black object that emerged from between the farmer's fingers had many small, black, hairy tentacles, resembling an insect or a hairy centipede.

"Insects?!"

Some of the villagers muttered to themselves.

The insect suddenly crawled out from the fingertip and flew toward the dripping raw meat.

The strange insect landed in the bowl. Alan had been waiting for this for a long time. He took out a piece of white talisman cloth, covered the bowl, and turned the bowl upside down.

Then, he took out the bowl, leaving only the raw meat and the strange worms that had burrowed into it in the white talisman cloth, and tied the four corners of the cloth. He then stuffed it into a dark jar.

Alan put the lid on the jar and then let out a long sigh of relief.

"Alright, his illness is cured. Now he needs to rest and recuperate properly... Also, don't be foolish enough to provoke those things next time!"

His voice carried a hint of seriousness.

"I can only save you once at most. Even if it happens again, there's nothing I can do."

Everyone looked at the farmer's back and were shocked to find that the festering sore had healed.

The farmer still looked listless, but his pale face had regained some color.

His relatives were extremely grateful. Alan Shi nodded, whispered a few words, and then said, "Alright, it's getting late, everyone should leave... The monks in the temple still need to meditate, so don't disturb the temple any further."

He said a few words, and the villagers who had watched the spectacle had had enough and dispersed.

When half the crowd had left, Alan Shi took off his straw hat and turned his gaze to Luo Feng in the crowd, staring straight at him as if he had locked onto him.

"Young man, you must be Ati?"

He had a rugged face and an energy far beyond that of ordinary people; even in middle age, he exuded a handsome air.

Especially those eyes, they were truly captivating.

"Hello, Aransh."

Luo Feng stood ramrod straight and said in a deep voice, "Professor Putaoon sent me... but it seems you already knew I was here, didn't you?"

Strangely enough, when he arrived outside Muqing Temple, he had a feeling of being watched by others.

"Your Kumanthong was made by Arichaya, wasn't it?"

Alan Shi smiled slightly: "Arijaya, did my senior brother forget to teach you how to conceal the aura of a Kumanthong...? You hadn't even arrived yet, and I already sensed the Kumanthong. If I couldn't guess that a guest had arrived, I wouldn't deserve to be called Master Putaon's disciple!"