Xiantian Village, with its seventy-some households, was considered a large settlement in the area.
But in recent years, the immortal sects had been too frequent with their recruitment. Nine out of every ten dan* of fragrant rice were siphoned off as tax. With demons roaming the hills, monster fish infesting the rivers, it had become impossible to save money.
(*TN: about 50 kilograms or 110 pounds.)
The old village chief stepped forward, cradling a jar filled with silver ingots. Forcing a smile, he said, “Immortal Grandpa, we’ve gathered this offering. Please have a look…”
The male cultivator exploded with rage. He lashed out with his foot and sent the old man flying several yards, crashing into the large tree by the village entrance.
It was no ordinary kick. The old man’s ribs snapped with a sickening crack, and blood spilled from his mouth in steady gulps.
The cultivator bellowed: “You wretched peasants! You till land granted by the immortal sect, drink water blessed by the immortal sect. Having enjoyed a good life thanks to us, but give all sorts of excuses, shirking and evading! If you can’t produce what I asked for, don’t blame me for being hostile!”
Not one villager dared to speak. Not even the faintest murmur of discontent.
The old village chief clutched his chest, knelt, and kowtowed on the earth. “Immortal Grandpa, please quell your anger. We’ll gather more, gather more!”
The male cultivator’s fury eased, just slightly. He’d known these worms wouldn’t budge without a show of strength. Relaxing his expression, he sniffed, “Hmph, very well. Go on then. I’m not one of those cruel, heartless immortals. Once you manage to gather the funds, I shall still bless your village.”
The old village chief bowed again, his forehead knocking against the ground. “Yes, yes—Immortal Grandpa is gracious and magnanimous. But a full jar of gold is truly…”
The cultivator cut him off. “Wealth is a vulgar. It brings ruination. This immortal is enduring the burden of your sins purely out of benevolence!
So be it. If you truly can’t gather enough, then sell a few of the young ones in your village. You can always birth more later, can’t you?”
The old village chief turned ashen. His lips trembled, yet no words came.
Just then, the male cultivator felt a subtle tug in his mind. He turned to the gathered crowd. Among the villagers stood a child, no more than five or six years old. His face was smeared with soot, but beneath the dirt his skin was porcelain-white, his flesh soft and plump. The child was staring at him.
The cultivator: “That one over there…”
Before he could finish, the old village chief interjected with a sudden wail, “Immortal Grandpa, about the gold…”
The cultivator spun around and cursed him roundly, declaring that if the full sum wasn’t prepared by nightfall, there would be hell to pay. The old man nodded frantically. He called for others to carry him away. What solution he had in mind, no one could guess.
The villagers gathered at his home with whatever medicinal supplies they had. The village’s old herbalist came to examine him, then shook his head. “Elder Uncle Shouyi, I can’t save you.”
The old village chief heaved himself into a sitting position. “Sigh. I’m old. If I die, i die. Bring in the men. I’ve something to say.”
All the villagers were red-eyed. A calamity was upon then, but they were tight-lipped. The women took their children outside. The men, faces grim, filed into the main hall.
The old village chief coughed, flecks of blood dotting his sleeve. He looked around the room and began, “The situation as it stands cannot go on. Look at what’s become of Mutian Village, of Hangtian Village—people sold like livestock. First their children, then their wives, then their land, until finally they sold themselves. We must not walk this path.”
The young men looked to one another, fuming. “Village chief, whatever you say, we’ll do it!”
From beneath his bed, the village chief drew a bamboo tube. “Our best option is to scatter. There are seventy-six of us. Each takes a different path. We hide, ten days, half a month. When it’s safe, we return.”
“But Chief,” someone said, “leaving the land and abandoning our fields is a capital crime for commoners…”
The chief paused, then sighed. “That’s why only half of us will leave. That way it won’t count as desertion. We’ll draw lots. Elders first. Black slips, you stay, red slips mean you flee. Those who remain may live or die. If we perish, those who return must bury our bones and offer incense.”
Xue Cuo watched as many emerged from the chief’s house, passing around the bamboo tube. Elders approached first to draw their lots. One drew red, then silently placed it back and took a black one instead.
The chief had been moved to a bamboo chair at the doorway. His eyes scanned the crowd before landing on Xue Cuo.
Xue Cuo had been thinking for some time and was looking for him as well. So he stepped forward: “Grandpa, don’t move. I’ll draw a talisman for you.”
The chief coughed. “No need, child.”
But Xue Cuo said nothing. He dipped his head and drew a spirit-gathering talisman, then folded it and stuck it to the chief’s chest.
The man’s expression, tense and rigid with pain, eased. He gave a wry smile. “Half a biscuit for half a life. That was some valuable biscuit.”
Xue Cuo’s own face wasn’t as animated as before. His brows knitted with unease, and his usually bright eyes now held a solemn stillness. “Grandpa,” he asked, “what is the purpose of cultivation?”
A flicker of something strange passed through the chief’s gaze. Xue Cuo was clearly not some ordinary boy. But the old man’s motives were pure and he only wished to tie Xiantian Village to a thread of good karma. He had no intention of harming Xue Cuo.
He gave a bitter smile. “That, I cannot answer, child. Best you leave now. Find your parents. This place is no longer safe. The Great Loch is dangerous. Don’t go wandering.”
Xue Cuo shook his head. He looked up at the sky, then abruptly turned and walked toward the village entrance.
The five- or six-year-old child was barely as tall as a man’s waist, yet his back carried a quiet weight. He said: “No, I’ll go and reason with him.”
—
At the village entrance, the male cultivator sat meditating.
Suddenly, his spiritual senses stirred. He opened his eyes and looked toward the path leading from within.
There, a child was walking towards him. He appeared five, perhaps six years old, his face blackened with soot, but the rest of his skin pale and luminous, shining faintly with a spiritual glow.
The cultivator’s gaze swept over him. Then he stood and smiled, warm and welcoming. “I knew it. The magpies were calling when I left this morning. And now, I’ve encountered a fellow Daoist! Tell me, little Daoist, where have you come from?”
Xue Cuo tilted his head, voice quiet and level. “Your face changes so fast.”
The man reached up to touch his face, brow creasing. “Oh? Little Daoist, your tone is sharp. Has there been some misunderstanding?”
Xue Cuo walked up to him and looked up. The cultivator squatted down, his expression still kindly.
The boy eyed him squarely but couldn’t put his finger on it. He bowed with his hands clasped. “I just wanted to ask. What sort of Dao do you cultivate?”
The man replied: “I’m a disciple of the Qingping Sect, and I’m learning its teachings.”
Xue Cuo nodded. “I see. Qingping, also righteous. Then why does Daoist Bro oppress mortals?”
The man was stunned. Then his eyes softened as if understanding something. Gently, he said, “Little Daoist, wait here a moment. I’ll be back soon.”
Arms folded, Xue Cuo nodded, suspicion still furrowing his brow.
The cultivator leapt onto his sword and vanished in a streak of light. Moments later, he returned, smiling serenely, a picture of gentleness. “Little Daoist friend, Were you fretfully waiting?”
Xue Cuo shook his head. “Nope.” Then he wrinkled his nose and his expression changed. “That’s a strong blood stench.”
The male cultivator reached out to grab him and was about to say something, but Xue Cuo shoved him aside and slapped a wind-control talisman, dashing back toward the village.
The village was quiet… unnaturally so.
Xue Cuo’s footsteps slowed. He walked all the way to the village chief’s house. He stopped at the doorway, frozen.
Suddenly, a pair of hands came down over his eyes, shutting the door behind him. “Little Daoist,” the male cultivator said softly.
He meant to offer some comfort. But in that moment, his palm turned cold. He let go in surprise, and found himself looking straight into a pair of eyes, brimming with unshed tears.
“Why did you kill… kill…”
The male cultivator’s smile froze. Then he forced a laugh.
He was not of high standing in the Qingping Sect, but he had always been fond of children. Teaching younger disciples was usually left to the shixiongs and shijies, so it was rare for him to meet a naïve little fellow like this. He’d simply let himself get carried away.
He didn’t know where this Foundation Building Stage little Daoist had come from, but a fellow cultivator of the Great Loch was still a peer, and blood recognised blood.
He crouched slightly and spoke as if instructing a child. “Little Daoist, this must be your first time out on your own. You’ve been misled by these villagers. They’ve told you I bullied them, haven’t they? Such nonsense is utter slander. Any immortal sect would respond just the same.”
Xue Cuo’s small fist lashed out, trembling with fury. “I asked why you had to kill them!”
The man was startled, leaning back half a step. But Xue Cuo was only at the Foundation Building Stage and naturally couldn’t harm him.
Xue Cuo used several talismans again, but were flicked away by the male cultivator. The cultivator was already in the Spirit Void Stage, two full stages above him. Between their stages stretched an impassable gulf.
Sword Uncle was still soaking in the lake, trying to cool down. He wasn’t by Xue Cuo’s side and there was nothing to be done.
The man gave a weary sigh. “Little Daoist, those filthy peasants have thoroughly confused you. If your parents knew, they’d probably suffer even worse deaths.”
“You’re lying! You killed them, and now you want to lie to me too!”
The man dodged a Thunderbolt Talisman, still confused. “It’s them who’ve died, what’s that to you? Don’t let yourself be deceived by mere insects.”
Xue Cuo chased him across the courtyard. The further he ran, the more corpses he passed. His heart lurched with an un precedented shock. His world filled with red. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sobbed: “I, I’ve brought harm to them.”
The cultivator was momentarily shaken by Xue Cuo’s expression, confounded. “Little Daoist?”
Xue Cuo wiped his face, then pulled out a deity-summoning talisman.
He had only ever drawn one. He had sensed back then, that it was dangerous, so he had never used it.
The pale blue talisman began to glow, lapis-light spreading in tiny sparks. A subtle, ancient Daoist rhythm stirred the air.
Night fell all at once, like a zither string plucked across heaven and earth.
Duoh——
Behind Xue Cuo, a Dao image flickered briefly into being.
A sleeping woman with eyes closed… slowly opened them.
“Ignite!”
The talisman burst into flame with no wind to feed it.
The male cultivator felt a chill behind his neck. The hair on his arms stood up. He unsheathed his sword and scanned all around. His expression turned dark. “Evil Xianghuo Dao*? You demon spawn! You don’t even know the line between mortals and immortals. You’re not a disciple of the Dao. You’re actually a little monster. I, Xiao Dongping, will eliminate evil you for the sake of the righteous path!”
(*TN: 香火 (xiānghuǒ): literally “incense fire”; culturally refers to offerings, temple incense, or the spiritual merit/power generated from veneration or worship. In cultivation fiction, it often connotes faith-based power—gods or cultivators gaining strength from being worshipped, feared, or remembered.)
Xue Cuo lifted his eyes. Where once they were black, they now shone like the glacial blue of the Great Loch’s waters. In that shimmering flood, countless whirlpools churned. His small frame stood like a statue of some ancient god. There was no joy, no sorrow in his expression, no mercy in his gaze.
From every stream of blood spilled in the village, golden motes of light rose and flowed into Xue Cuo’s gaze. All the pain, all the resentment of the dead poured into his blue eyes.
The man flinched, then swung his sword. “Evil demon! You don’t scare me!”
Xue Cuo raised both hands, pressing his fingers together. The talisman’s power weighed down on him. His nose bled, his mouth bled, his hair stood on end. “Blood for blood. I want your Dao to disperse with your life and death.”
The cultivator struck using his full power behind the sword. It was enough to shatter cliffs, cleave rivers.
But—
Duoh.
The bubble burst. The stream of water stilled.
The cultivator’s body cracked open, inch by inch. His eyes moved from disbelief to terror, to rage. He looked at Xue Cuo, and said: “You—”
Bang.
His body turned into a mangled, bloody mess..
Xue Cuo sank to the ground on his knees, his body knocking over the broken mud shrine at the village entrance. He fainted.
—
Night.
Two black-handed, black-footed shadow creatures carried a tattered sedan chair through the village, glancing about.
They bumped into each other, quibbled, and tugged, making groaning sounds. Then, seeing Xue Cuo, they skipped happily toward him, clapping their little limbs.
—
Elsewhere.
Sword Uncle had soaked in the lake until dark. Now, he was no longer scalding hot. It slowly and without urgency, began looking for Xue Cuo.
On the other hand, the Qingping Sect disciples had gathered up the offerings, as well as new disciples, and were congregating. Someone noted a fellow disciple’s life-lamp had gone out and cried out: “Something’s happened! Quick, fetch Xiaofeng-shixiong!”
