The river town of Wuzhen, a day's journey south from the grandeur of Lin'an, thrived on the steady pulse of the Grand Canal. Barges laden with rice and pottery navigated its narrow waterways, passing under ancient stone bridges and alongside houses built with dark timber frames pressed close together. While legitimate trade flourished by day, the town's shadowed alleys and secluded backrooms harbored another, more feverish commerce – the clandestine world of gambling dens, where fortunes were won and lost on the click of dice and the slap of tiles. In one such dimly lit, smoke-filled den, hidden behind the unassuming facade of a closed teahouse, Carpenter Wu Jianmin was losing his soul.
Wu Jianmin had once been a man respected in Wuzhen. His hands, skilled in joinery and carving, crafted furniture sought after by discerning households. He was known for his diligence, his quiet pride in his work, and his devotion to his wife, Meilin, and their young daughter, Xiaolian. But that man had slowly vanished over the past year, replaced by a hollow-eyed stranger consumed by the ghosts of chance. The change began subtly – staying out later, borrowing small sums, neglecting commissions. Then it escalated. His workshop grew dusty, tools lay unused, his temper became short, marked by fits of sullen silence or sudden, explosive rage. He grew thin, pale, his eyes constantly darting, calculating odds not just at the gambling table, but in every aspect of his dwindling life.
Madam Wu watched her husband's descent with helpless terror. Heirlooms began disappearing from their modest home – a jade pendant inherited from her grandmother, his own finely crafted tools, even Xiaolian's silver hairpin. When confronted, Wu would either lash out with denials or collapse into weeping promises he couldn't keep. More unnerving were the strange occurrences that plagued their home, especially late at night after Wu returned, smelling of cheap wine and despair. They would hear the distinct, phantom rattle of dice from his empty workshop, or the sharp click of Mahjong tiles when none were present. Cold spots lingered in the rooms he frequented, and sometimes, Xiaolian claimed she saw fleeting shadows clinging to her father's back, whispering numbers in his ear.
The breaking point came when Madam Wu discovered Wu had gambled away the money set aside for Xiaolian's winter clothes and medicine for her own persistent cough. Despair gave way to a desperate resolve. She had heard whispers among the market women – tales brought by travellers of a wandering Taoist priest, Xuanzhen, who possessed wisdom beyond ordinary understanding, who dealt with afflictions of the spirit, curses, and hauntings that defied explanation. Clinging to this fragile hope, she sought information, learned Xuanzhen was rumoured to be visiting a nearby monastery, and embarked on a difficult journey, leaving Xiaolian with a trusted neighbour, to plead for the Taoist's intervention.
Xuanzhen received the distraught woman in the monastery's quiet garden. He listened patiently as Madam Wu, tears streaming down her face, recounted her husband's transformation, the family's ruin, the phantom sounds, and the chilling sense that something more than mere addiction held Wu Jianmin in its grip. The pattern was tragically familiar, yet the intensity and the specific phenomena suggested a potent spiritual component. Addiction itself, Xuanzhen knew, created profound imbalances in a person's qi, making them vulnerable to parasitic entities drawn to desperation and negative emotions.
"The hunger of the gambler's heart creates a void," Xuanzhen explained gently. "Sometimes, other hungers are drawn to fill it. An entity may be feeding on his despair, amplifying his compulsion while draining his fortune and his spirit."
Moved by Madam Wu's plight, Xuanzhen agreed to travel to Wuzhen. He entered the town quietly, observing its currents of energy. He felt the usual ebb and flow of commerce, but beneath it, particularly concentrated in certain back alleys, was a colder, more frantic undercurrent – the qi of desperate gambling, thick with greed, fear, fleeting hope, and crushing despair.
He found the Wu residence, a place overshadowed by neglect and sorrow. Madam Wu led him inside. The air felt heavy, stagnant. Xuanzhen immediately sensed the lingering traces of the negative entity – cold spots near the door where Wu entered, a faint psychic residue of anxiety and calculation clinging to the sparse furniture. Xiaolian, a small, solemn girl with unnervingly perceptive eyes, confirmed the phantom sounds and spoke of the 'shadows' she saw near her father.
Xuanzhen asked Madam Wu about the gambling den her husband frequented. She described the hidden teahouse run by a man known only as Boss Chen, a place whispered to have an uncanny hold on its patrons, where losses seemed to mount inexplicably despite occasional, tantalizing wins.
That evening, Xuanzhen, shedding his Taoist robes for the simple attire of a travelling merchant, sought out the den. Following the town's psychic currents of desperation, he found the teahouse, its windows shuttered, a single, inconspicuous lantern hanging by the door. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and intense emotion. Men huddled around tables, their faces illuminated by flickering oil lamps, their eyes fixed on rolling dice or shuffling tiles. The clicking and rattling sounds were real here, but overlaid with a palpable psychic tension. Boss Chen, a man with watchful eyes and an unnervingly calm smile, presided over the main table.
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Xuanzhen didn't gamble. He ordered tea, sat in a corner, and observed, extending his senses. The parasitic qi was incredibly strong here, clinging to the gamblers like leeches, feeding on the raw emotional energy. It wasn't a single, cohesive ghost, but something more diffuse, yet focused – the very spirit of compulsive gambling, perhaps anchored or amplified by the den itself, or maybe by a specific object within it. He felt it surge when a large bet was won or lost, feeding on the peak of elation or despair. He saw how it seemed to subtly influence the fall of dice, the draw of tiles – not always ensuring losses, but creating just enough wins, enough near-misses, to keep hope alive, to fuel the compulsion, ensuring a steady supply of emotional sustenance. He saw Wu Jianmin at a corner table, his face a mask of desperate concentration, his qi dangerously depleted, the parasitic energy clinging tightly to him. Boss Chen watched Wu with that same calm, predatory smile.
Xuanzhen suspected Boss Chen was either aware of the entity and deliberately cultivating it for profit, or perhaps he too was partially under its influence, deriving a vicarious thrill from the ruin unfolding around him. The entity itself seemed less like a conscious being and more like a psychic vortex, a Du Gui (Gambling Ghost) born from accumulated desperation and greed, operating on a primal instinct to consume.
Leaving the den, Xuanzhen knew a simple exorcism wouldn't work. The entity was too diffuse, and its hold on Wu was intertwined with Wu's own addiction. Severing the link required weakening the entity's anchor in the den and, more importantly, empowering Wu to reclaim his own will.
He spoke frankly with Madam Wu and Xiaolian. "Your husband is afflicted by more than just a weakness for games of chance," he explained. "An entity, a spirit born of gambling itself, has latched onto him. It feeds on his desperation, whispers false hope, and drains his life force. We must cleanse the source of its power and help him find the strength to break free."
The first step was to cleanse the gambling den, or at least weaken the entity's hold there. Xuanzhen prepared several small talismans inscribed with characters of clarity, purification, and severance of unhealthy attachments. Under the pretext of settling a fictional debt owed by Wu, Xuanzhen returned to the den during a less busy hour. While engaging Boss Chen in distracting conversation about fabricated business matters, he discreetly placed the talismans at key points – beneath the main gambling table, near the entrance, close to the box holding the house dice. He focused his intent, visualizing the talismans disrupting the flow of parasitic energy, creating small shields of clarity. Boss Chen seemed momentarily uneasy, glancing around as if feeling a draft, but Xuanzhen's calm demeanor allayed his suspicion.
The second, more crucial step involved confronting Wu Jianmin. Xuanzhen waited until Wu returned home late that night, defeated and despairing after another losing session. Madam Wu and Xiaolian were present, their fear mingling with fragile hope.
Xuanzhen met Wu at the door. He didn't offer accusations, but held up a small, polished bronze mirror. "Look, Carpenter Wu," he said softly but firmly. "Look beyond your reflection. See what clings to you."
As Wu stared into the mirror, Xuanzhen subtly channeled his qi, using the mirror not just to reflect, but to reveal. For a fleeting moment, Wu saw not just his own haggard face, but a swirling, shadowy form superimposed upon it, tendrils reaching out, whispering silent temptations, its eyes burning with cold, calculating hunger. Wu cried out, stumbling back, the illusion vanishing but the horrifying recognition dawning in his eyes.
"That," Xuanzhen stated, "is the Ghostly Hand that guides your dice and empties your pockets. It feeds on your hope and drinks your despair. It offers whispers of winning while ensuring your ultimate ruin. Only you can choose to loosen its grip."
He then performed a brief purification ritual over Wu, using blessed water and incense, not to forcibly expel the entity, but to strengthen Wu's own weakened qi, to give him a moment of clarity, a foothold against the overwhelming compulsion. He guided Wu, along with Madam Wu and Xiaolian, in a simple meditation focusing on grounding, on remembering Wu's true self – the skilled craftsman, the husband, the father – buried beneath the addiction.
"The choice is yours, Wu Jianmin," Xuanzhen said finally. "The den's power is weakened. The entity's nature is revealed. But it still whispers. Will you listen to its lies, or to the hopes of your family? Will you grasp the phantom dice, or your own tools?"
The struggle in Wu Jianmin's eyes was agonizing. Years of ingrained habit, the desperate gambler's hope, warred against the horrifying revelation and the quiet plea in his wife's and daughter's eyes. Trembling, he finally sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Help me," he choked out. "Master... help me stop."
It was the beginning. Xuanzhen stayed in Wuzhen for several more days, guiding Wu through detoxification from the gambling fever, reinforcing his will with Taoist techniques, counseling the family on supporting his recovery. He advised them to destroy or sell anything associated with the gambling. He revisited the den one last time, ensuring the talismans' effect held, noting Boss Chen looked disconcerted, the atmosphere less charged, some patrons drifting away.
The road ahead for Wu Jianmin and his family would be long and difficult. Addiction's ghost rarely vanishes completely. But the immediate, parasitic hold of the Du Gui was broken. Its power, rooted in illusion and feeding on despair, faltered when confronted with truth and the assertion of human will.
Xuanzhen left Wuzhen, the memory of the phantom clicking of dice echoing softly. The Gambler's Ghostly Hand was a potent reminder that some of the most dangerous entities were not ancient demons or vengeful spirits, but the spectral embodiments of human weaknesses, thriving in the shadows of desperation, offering ruin disguised as hope, their chains breakable only by confronting the truth within oneself.
