The wind howled incessantly through the jagged peaks surrounding the Barren Pass, a desolate gash in the mountain range that marked the northern frontier of the Song empire. Below the pass itself, huddled against the unforgiving slopes, stood the bleak stone walls of the Eagle Claw Garrison. It was less a fortress and more a lonely watchtower, manned by a weary company of soldiers tasked with observing the vast, empty steppes beyond – territory nominally controlled by the empire but sparsely populated and occasionally troubled by nomadic raiders or worse. Life here was harsh, monotonous, punctuated only by the biting wind, the changing seasons, and, more recently, a creeping, inexplicable dread.

  Xuanzhen arrived seeking shelter from an early, unseasonable snowstorm that swept down from the peaks, rendering the pass treacherous. He found the garrison commander, Ji Hong, a man whose face seemed carved from the same stern rock as the surrounding mountains, poring over maps in his cramped quarters. Ji Hong was pragmatic, disciplined, a veteran of border skirmishes, but even his stoic demeanor couldn't entirely conceal the strain tightening his jaw and shadowing his eyes. He granted the travelling Taoist priest lodging with curt efficiency, clearly preoccupied.

  It didn't take long for Xuanzhen to sense the garrison's unease. The soldiers moved with a nervous energy, their camaraderie strained, their eyes constantly scanning the barren landscape even when off duty. Whispers followed him – hushed conversations that ceased abruptly when he approached, fearful glances exchanged over bowls of thin millet gruel in the mess hall. The very air within the stone walls felt heavy, charged with a mixture of fear, exhaustion, and a simmering, directionless aggression.

  He sought out Sergeant Liu, an older soldier whose weathered face held a degree of weary resignation rather than raw fear. They spoke near the outer wall, the wind whipping snow around them.

  "It started about two months ago, Master Taoist," Liu said, his voice low, pulling his worn cloak tighter. "Subtle things at first. Sentries hearing footsteps on the wall walks when no one was there. Equipment malfunctioning – crossbow strings snapping for no reason, signal flags tearing in calm weather."

  He paused, looking towards the pass itself, a dark notch against the snow-swept grey sky. "Then came the dreams. Almost every man has had them. Dreams of battle. Not our battles, but older ones. Clanging steel, screams, men falling... We wake up sweating, hearts pounding, feeling like we've just fought for our lives."

  "And the sightings?" Xuanzhen prompted gently.

  Liu hesitated. "Some of the younger lads... they claim to see things. Especially near the old beacon tower on the ridge." He pointed towards a crumbling stone structure overlooking the pass, silhouetted against the driving snow. "Figures moving up there at night. Like patrols. But they wear armour unlike ours, ancient styles. They vanish if you approach. Young Private Chen... he's barely holding on. Sees them almost every night now."

  Xuanzhen also learned of the growing irritability among the troops, minor disagreements flaring into brawls, a pervasive feeling of exhaustion coupled with sudden, inexplicable surges of battle-lust, making the soldiers jumpy and prone to error. Commander Ji Hong, Liu admitted, attributed it to isolation, harsh conditions, and perhaps tainted rations, refusing to entertain talk of ghosts.

  Xuanzhen felt the familiar tendrils of a spiritual disturbance, but this one had a distinct flavour – metallic, cold, steeped in violence and a profound sense of betrayal. His senses told him the focus wasn't the garrison itself, but the pass, and specifically, the ridge near the ruined beacon tower. He inquired about the history of the pass.

  "This place has seen centuries of fighting, Master," Sergeant Liu sighed. "Long before the Song. They say a great general died defending it... Meng Ao, I think his name was. From the Tang dynasty, maybe earlier? Held the pass against overwhelming odds, saved the province. But the stories... they say he was betrayed. Reinforcements never came. Supplies cut off by someone at court who envied him. Died right up there on the ridge, his men slaughtered around him. There used to be a small shrine near the beacon tower, but it crumbled years ago. No one goes up there much now. Bad air."

  A loyal general, betrayed and abandoned, dying in a last stand. A potent recipe for a Yuanhun, a resentful spirit bound to the place of its demise, its powerful emotions echoing through time. The phantom patrols, the nightmares, the surges of aggression – they were likely manifestations of General Meng Ao's lingering will, his unresolved battle, bleeding into the minds of the current garrison.

  Despite the worsening storm, Xuanzhen felt compelled to investigate the ridge. Bundled against the cold, guided by a reluctant Sergeant Liu part of the way, he ascended the treacherous path towards the ruined beacon tower. The wind howled like grieving spirits, tearing at his robes. The qi grew colder, heavier, thick with the spectral residue of ancient violence.

  Near the summit, Liu stopped, unwilling to go further. Xuanzhen continued alone. The ruins of the beacon tower stood stark against the swirling snow. Around it, the ground felt... wrong. Xuanzhen could almost hear the clash of phantom steel, smell the spectral scent of blood and fear. He found the remnants of the shrine – a few scattered stones, a weathered stele with characters too eroded to read. The energy here was incredibly strong, a vortex of fury, loyalty, despair, and bitter betrayal.

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  As he stood there, the wind seemed to coalesce. Shapes formed in the driving snow – indistinct figures clad in archaic armour, their forms flickering, insubstantial. They moved with purpose, spectral sentinels patrolling the ridge, their unseen eyes fixed on the pass below. They radiated an intense feeling of duty mingled with rage. Xuanzhen felt a wave of psychic pressure wash over him – the urge to draw a weapon, to stand and fight against an unseen enemy, the crushing weight of being abandoned.

  He held his ground, centering himself, chanting a quiet mantra of clarity and peace. The figures swirled around him, their forms indistinct, yet the feeling of their presence was undeniable. He saw no single leader, no clear manifestation of the general himself, only the collective, lingering trauma of his final, betrayed stand.

  Returning to the garrison, Xuanzhen sought out Commander Ji Hong. He presented his findings not as ghost stories, but as an analysis of energetic imbalance caused by the site's history. "Commander," he stated calmly, "the pass itself holds the memory of intense violence and betrayal. The spirit of General Meng Ao, and perhaps his men, lingers near the beacon tower, bound by unresolved duty and injustice. This lingering energy is affecting your soldiers, disrupting their spirits, causing the phenomena you've witnessed. It's a sickness born of history, amplified by the isolation and stress of this post."

  Ji Hong listened, his skepticism warring with the undeniable evidence of his troop's decline and Xuanzhen's quiet authority. Sergeant Liu's corroboration of the legends added weight. "A ghost general?" Ji Hong scoffed, though his voice lacked conviction. "What would you have me do, Taoist? Fight shadows?"

  "Not fight, Commander. Appease. Acknowledge," Xuanzhen corrected. "The spirit lingers because its sacrifice was unhonoured, its betrayal unaddressed. It seeks not vengeance, perhaps, but recognition. Justice, even centuries late."

  He proposed a plan: first, to temporarily withdraw patrols from the immediate vicinity of the beacon tower to reduce exposure. Second, to gather what historical records might exist about General Meng Ao – perhaps old garrison logs, provincial archives contacted via messenger – to confirm the details of his story, particularly the betrayal. Third, to perform a ritual at the site of the old shrine, formally acknowledging Meng Ao's sacrifice, honouring his loyalty, and symbolically redressing the injustice.

  Commander Ji Hong, desperate for a solution that didn't involve admitting his men were seeing ghosts, reluctantly agreed to try. He dispatched riders with inquiries to the provincial capital and restricted patrols near the ridge. Xuanzhen spent time with the afflicted soldiers, particularly Private Chen, using calming incense and guided meditations to help them shield themselves from the psychic disturbance, teaching them techniques to ground their own energy.

  Weeks passed. The snowstorms eased, replaced by the bleak clarity of winter. A messenger returned from the capital bearing fragmented records – enough to confirm the legend. General Meng Ao, a brilliant strategist lauded for his unwavering loyalty, had indeed been denied reinforcements during a critical siege of the pass due to political maneuvering by a rival general at court. He and his vastly outnumbered troops perished after weeks of brutal fighting. The rival general later claimed victory, Meng Ao's sacrifice largely erased from official histories.

  Armed with this confirmation, Xuanzhen prepared the ritual. On a day chosen for its auspicious alignment, he ascended the ridge again, accompanied by Commander Ji Hong, Sergeant Liu, Private Chen (looking calmer but still apprehensive), and a small contingent of soldiers carrying offerings: simple food, wine, incense, and crucially, a newly carved wooden tablet inscribed with General Meng Ao's name and rank, acknowledging his loyal service and unjust end.

  They cleared the snow from the ruined shrine. Xuanzhen set up a small altar, arranging the offerings. As he lit the incense, the wind seemed to drop, an expectant silence falling over the ridge. He began the ritual, chanting verses honouring duty, sacrifice, and the spirits of the fallen. He recounted Meng Ao's story, his voice clear and strong, acknowledging the general's bravery and the betrayal he suffered.

  Commander Ji Hong, stiff and formal, stepped forward and placed the inscribed tablet upon the makeshift altar. He offered a soldier's salute. "General Meng Ao," Ji Hong declared, his voice rough but firm, "Your loyalty is remembered. Your sacrifice is honoured. May your spirit find peace."

  The soldiers echoed the salute. As they stood in silence, a change occurred. The oppressive coldness on the ridge lessened. The feeling of anger and despair began to dissipate, replaced by a profound sense of melancholy, then release. The spectral figures that Xuanzhen could perceive flickered one last time, seeming less substantial, their forms losing coherence. A low sigh, like the wind through ancient pines, whispered across the ridge, and then... silence. The heavy presence lifted entirely.

  Xuanzhen completed the ritual with final prayers for the departed, guiding their spirits towards rest. The qi on the ridge felt clean, clear, still bearing the memory of the past but no longer trapped by its unresolved pain.

  Returning to the garrison, the change was palpable. The soldiers seemed lighter, the oppressive tension gone. Private Chen reported sleeping soundly for the first time in months, the nightmares banished. Equipment malfunctions ceased. Commander Ji Hong, though he said little, ordered his men to properly rebuild the shrine to General Meng Ao and to include his story in the garrison's records.

  Xuanzhen stayed only a few days longer before continuing his journey. The Ghosts of the Barren Pass were laid to rest, not by force, but by the simple, yet profound, act of remembering truth and honouring sacrifice. It was a stark lesson in how the echoes of history, particularly the wounds of injustice and betrayal, could haunt the living landscape, disrupting the present until the past was finally acknowledged and given its due. The wind still howled through the pass, but it no longer carried the weight of a forgotten general's last stand.