After a moment, the kumanthong reappeared through the wall alone, its polished shoes tapping soundlessly on the floor. It tilted its head up at Ajarn Ken with an almost apologetic expression, speaking in a stream of liquid Thai syllables that Zhi Wei couldn't comprehend.
"What's it saying?" Zhi Wei demanded.
Ajarn Ken chuckled softly.
"He says the 'big brother' next door sensed my presence and refuses to come over to play."
Zhi Wei stiffened. "Then what now?"
Ajarn Ken gave a soft sigh.
"If we can't lure it over peacefully," he said, "then we'll have to use force. And when it comes to dealing with a kumanthong, the best way is to call upon the father of the kumanthong."
He reached up to his neck, unclasped the heavy chain of amulets he always wore, picked one encased in a waterproof acrylic casing, and set it carefully on the coffee table.
Zhi Wei leaned closer, squinting. Inside the casing was a miniature deity, cross-legged and stern-faced, twin swords crossed behind its back.
Ajarn Ken caught Zhi Wei's curious glance and explained,
"That's General Khun Paen, the legendary general who first created the kumanthong rites. He's known as the Father of the Kumanthong."
Zhi Wei didn't understand any of it, but he nodded anyway, trying to keep up.
"I'm going to summon a fragment of his spirit. Whatever you see next—don't panic."
Zhi Wei swallowed hard and nodded again, less confidently this time.
Ajarn Ken moved to the center of the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He placed the Khun Paen amulet reverently before him. His own kumanthong scurried to the far corner of the room, hugging its knees.
Pressing his palms together, Ajarn Ken began to chant in a low voice: "Namotasa..."
The air seemed to thicken. The amulet began to vibrate, sending tiny tremors across the floor.
Without warning, a blinding beam of golden light erupted from the amulet.
Zhi Wei shielded his eyes—and when he dared to look again, he gasped.
A towering figure was emerging from the light—a handsome man clad in ancient Siamese armor, his presence commanding and almost unreal.
General Khun Paen had arrived.
Ajarn Ken bowed deeply three times before the figure of Khun Paen, his expression respectful and solemn. Afterward, he began speaking to Khun Paen in rapid Thai.
Zhi Wei couldn't understand a word, so he just stood there, silently watching.
The general listened, statue-still, until the ajarn finished. A barely perceptible nod. Then those piercing eyes swept past the cowering kumanthong huddled in the corner. The little spirit trembled, forehead pressed to its knees, as if wishing to dissolve into the floorboards.
Ajarn Ken didn't linger. He strode to the shared wall with Unit 1502 and stepped through—no hesitation, no fanfare—just seamless passage, like the kumanthong had done earlier.
A loud crash came from the next room, the sound of objects tumbling to the floor. Then, a high-pitched scream rang out: "Yà!"
Of course, the property manager could not hear that scream.
Curiously, he turned to Ajarn Ken and asked, "I've heard of Phra Khun Paen. Is it true that the general became a Buddha?"
Ajarn Ken shrugged, his expression neutral. "No, Phra Khun Paen and General Khun Paen are not the same. But people often confuse the two. I can't be bothered to explain. If you're interested, just Google it yourself."
Ajarn Ken turned his gaze to the wall, his expression unreadable. "He's back."
Zhi Wei snapped his head around just in time to see the tip of a sword quietly pierce through the wall—smooth, deliberate, and eerily unstoppable. Inch by inch, the blade pushed forward, its surface faintly aglow with an unearthly sheen. Unknown script writhed along the metal, alive under some invisible current.
The sword slid silently through the wall, its progress unhurried and inevitable—until, without warning, a face emerged in its wake. The features were twisted in agony, yet undeniably those of a child, no older than ten. Then came the body, impaled through the chest by the blade, its small frame suspended in midair as though weightless.
Finally, General Khun Paen stepped through, his massive form advancing with his arm held steady, the sword thrust straight ahead. The child hung limply from the blade, swaying faintly with each of his strides, like a broken doll caught on a spear.
With a single, fluid motion, he flicked the sword—sending the boy crashing to the floor at Ajarn Ken's feet.
The child scrambled up, limbs flailing, but Ajarn Ken was already moving. His fingers wove a precise pattern in the air, his chant low and rhythmic. Golden script materialized before him, twisting and coiling like living ink before snapping into formation—a long, shimmering band of sacred syllables.
The boy barely rose to his feet, about to flee—
—but the spell-band lashed out, wrapping him tight in a blinding blur of sacred light, pinning him where he stood.
He could only writhe helplessly, trapped.
General Khun Paen remained silent throughout. Without a word, his massive form abruptly collapsed inward, folding into itself until it became a streak of light—vanishing straight back into the amulet.
Ajarn Ken, seeing this, immediately pressed his palms together in a solemn gesture of respect. He bowed low to the amulet before carefully lifting it and reattaching it to the necklace around his neck.