“Who are you talking about?!”
The voice shook. After that one cry he forced himself to step forward, but his legs were unsteady, his whole body strangely slack.
Youxia stumbled and pushed past the person blocking his way, and saw the small, neatly folded scrap of skin.
But why was his shixiong reduced to such a small piece?
He did not understand. Youxia looked up at the blood-gourd of a man; his voice trembled uncontrollably. “Where is my shixiong?”
The man’s lips moved; his eyes were vacant, as if some enormous shock had robbed him of all response. The pain too great for him to react.
Youxia turned to the silent onlookers and asked again, this time addressing Xue Cuo: “Shixiong, where is Xu Youyu-shixiong?”
Xue Cuo’s face was ashen. Each time Youxia asked, the sorrow etched deeper across his features, and clear tears tracked down the child’s cheeks one by one. He pressed his lips together, as if to cry aloud, yet his mouth seemed sealed by a branding-iron; no sound would come.
“Wah… oh…”
Xu Youyu let out a cry, then shook his head and laughed. The laugh dissolved into trembling. His whole body quivered, as though there were a great bellows in his chest. “No… this is a trick… no, no… it can’t be…”
The man like a blood gourd took a step forward; his eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse. He had been bearing it all he could, but it felt as if he had swallowed a blade. He wanted to call for help: Xu Youyu was dead, but no one could hear him.
He caught the faint coppery smell on that scrap of skin and wanted to press it to him. He wanted to beg him not to die; to tell Xu Youyu that he had not meant to kill him; to plead, please, don’t treat me like this.
He opened his mouth, but what came out was a strange, dreadful, animal scream.
Those thoughts tumbled like an avalanching mountain, drowning his reason. His own voice sounded dry as ice; for a moment he felt like a mortal hurled into purgatory, full of terror and utterly powerless.
“Xu Youyu.”
…
He remembered Zhuo Qingyuan staring in disbelief and staggering back, his eyes rimmed red with blood: “You mean to kill me? You’d kill me for a disciple?”
“Do you care for that disciple?”
“Haven’t you disposed of many disciples before?”
“Xiao Cui, I learned all my techniques from you. You taught me with your own hands! Why? You wound me for a medicinal ingredient?”
“Xiao Cui…”
…
Lang Cui suddenly coughed up blood and collapsed to his knees. Yes, it was he who had taught them; it was he who had shown how to strip bone from flesh, how to destroy the three hun and seven po*, he had taught it, step by step, because elixir-refinement demanded his direct instruction.
(*TN: According to Chinese Daoist philosophy, an individual’s soul is not a single entity but a composite of ten parts. These are divided into three Hun (immaterial, yang spirits responsible for intellect and consciousness) and seven Po (tangible, yin spirits that manage the body’s physical needs and emotions).
Lang Cui, spent, knelt there in a daze and looked up. The disciples who watched him were solemn and expressionless, like mute, cold statues, looking down from above.
Lang Cui shrank back instinctively. Among those people was a small child in white, his face vivid with compassion; tears streamed down in quiet drops.
The child did not glare at him with murderous eyes. From the start he had only looked at the scrap of skin.
Lang Cui crawled forward on his knees, leaving a long bloody trail. He laid the skin gently into the child’s open palm.
The little hand trembled for a moment, then closed around it.
“I’m sorry.”
Lang Cui looked up at the child, expressionless, his gaze hollow, bewildered. He said to Xue Cuo, “Save him, save him. Xu Youyu was a good man. I beg you, save him.”
“So… who killed him?”
The child’s lashes fluttered; his voice was as light as a butterfly’s.
Lang Cui’s face crumpled into something like a cry; slowly he let go of the child’s hand. He wanted to say it was Zhuo Qingyuan, yet the thought felt wrong.
Who was the murderer?
Who had killed him?
Someone seized Lang Cui by the collar and hauled him to his feet. Lang Cui saw a pair of fox-like eyes: red, sunken, utterly devoid of light.
“I’m asking you, how did shixiong… how did he…?”
The words died on his lips.
The grip on him tightened until it felt as if it would snap his throat, tear out his tongue, rend him limb from limb… to leave him kneeling and howling in a life worse than death.
Blood filled Lang Cui’s mouth. He stared at Xue Cuo and spat, “Xianghuo Divine Dao can you save him? If you save him, I’ll give you everything, tell you everything.”
Xue Cuo bowed his head. He took off his outer robe and wrapped the scrap of skin with care.
A pale blue talisman burned at his fingertips.
The onlookers were stone-silent.
Xue Cuo watched the pinprick of light wink and vanish, then faced Lang Cui. “Your shidi’s three hun and seven po have been shattered.”
“Just like Zhu Xiaoyou.”
“Your methods leave no path to life. But then, who would dare to spare them?”
Lang Cui went white; big tears rolled down his face, yet his gaze hardened with ferocity. “No, no. Others may have no way, but Xianghuo Divine Dao, Xianghuo Divine Dao surely can!”
He could not finish. He was lifted yet again; the man holding him ground his teeth, every word trembling with a terrible hate. “I ask you: who killed my shixiong?”
Lang Cui opened his mouth. “Not me.”
Not me.
I did not mean to kill him.
“If not you, then who are you? How did you come to be with my shixiong? He’s been missing for over a month. What do you know?”
Youxia’s voice rose, excited, but a pair of small hands caught his sleeve and pulled gently.
Youxia lowered his head, loosened his grip and knelt, taking the small cloth bundle from Xue Cuo’s hand. Hatred and bewilderment warred across his face. “Is shixiong beyond saving?”
Xue Cuo remained silent.
Youxia rose unsteadily, dazed, and pointed his sword at Lang Cui. “I ask you one last time: who killed shixiong?”
Lang Cui’s cold, indifferent face had gone ashen. He was silent a long while, then, as if speaking to himself, said, “There are many. I shall kill them all. Those who shoved Xu Youyu out, those who lured him, those who murdered him, and… those who refine the Wendao Pills.”
He lifted his head, as if he already knew Xu Youyu would not return. He lurched to his feet, looking around wildly. “Once I’ve killed them, then I’ll go save him.”
Xue Cuo called after him, “Do you even know what the Wendao Pill is?”
Lang Cui tilted his head and let a mocking smile curl his lips, like a sigh, yet stripped of emotion.
“I know. I, too, am an elixir my parents made for my elder brother. Except that I’m clever; I’ve brewed many useful pills.”
“The cultivator’s spirit palace, altar, even their flesh… all make excellent medicinal material.”
“About the Wendao Pills…… I don’t know who fired the first furnace, but the cultivators who take it are many, not few. Those elders have long used it to buy people’s goodwill. Have any of you taken it?”
No one nodded. Only cold sneers and spitting insults answered him. Lang Cui, dazed, said, “You want to know where they refine elixirs?”
Xue Cuo nodded. “You’re willing to tell me?”
For a moment a viciousness flickered across Lang Cui’s face and was gone. He looked small and isolated; then he gave a harsh laugh. In truth, while Xu Youyu had been with him, he had not wanted to bother with such matters.
There are many selfish folk in the world; those pure of heart are few.
And now there was one fewer.
Lang Cui’s laugh was sharp and unbearably sad. “What is there that can’t be done? Tomorrow at noon come to Ningxiang Palace and I’ll show you.”
He found himself caring again . Why was Xu Youyu dead while those people lived on?
It was so unfair.
Lang Cui left the cave, blood still dripping from him. The air within was heavy and mute.
Wen Renyi felt both sorrow and righteous anger, and was surprised that Lang Cui would reveal Wendao Pill’s origins. Indeed, he seemed even more unhinged than the rest. Yet on any rational level, he was deeply upset; who could look upon a cultivator reduced to a single strip of human skin and remain composed?
The assembled cultivators exchanged glances, profoundly downcast.
“Our sect bows us out with hands cupped. Ha. I wonder whether we are the sacrifice our master pushed forward?” one muttered.
“Not likely. If our shabby little sect had such means, we’d have elbowed our way into a middling sect by now.”
“Xue-shixiong.”
“Shixiong, so this is what Zhu Xiaoyou faced.”
“The road is stormy. What will tomorrow’s scene be like?”
“Don’t dwell on it. I have already placed life and death beyond my concern. Fellow Daoists, I cannot bear this; I cannot bear such cruelty. I never imagined our illustrious Dao would be like this. Once this is settled, if I survive, I shall go among mortals and rebuild my path from the start.”
“Fear not a lonely road. Comrades, tomorrow we share wind and rain. There is no greater joy. Even in death, there is nothing to fear.”
“Right! I’ll draft more ‘Letter to Fellow Daoists’ and send it as we march!”
“Forget it, your handwriting is a dog’s scrawl. I’ll do it.”
The cultivators smiled and rallied their spirits.
Xue Cuo took Youxia by the arm and led him to the inner chamber, where no others were admitted.
Youxia’s gaze was vacant as he stared at Xue Cuo. He had almost drawn his sword a moment ago, but his shixiong had shaken his head and pointed to his chest. Youxia had barely restrained himself. Now he lowered his head and could not help asking, “Shixiong, why did you tell me to let him go?”
Xue Cuo said nothing. He opened the little cloth bundle gently. Inside the white robe a faint blue mote glimmered. It flickered and resolved into a thumb-sized likeness, sleeping upon its own skin.
Youxia’s eyes widened; a sound, half-cry, half-laugh, escaped his throat. He sank to his knees and cradled the small bundle. “Shixiong… Youyu-shixiong.”
Xue Cuo wiped his face; his complexion was a little pale. Kong Yun, who stood nearby, had long perceived that something was off with Xue Cuo and had quietly guessed as much, which was why he had seemed so composed a while ago.
“Is this Xu Youyu’s soul?”
Xue Cuo wiped the cold sweat from his brow and nodded gravely. Then, to the grief-stricken Youxia, he said quietly, “Shidi, there’s something I must tell you.”
Youxia, torn between sorrow and fury, for the first time bowed to Xue Cuo with utmost seriousness; his lips trembled. “Eldest shixiong!”
He lifted his head and spoke with ringing determination: “From this day forth I, Lin Youxia, will brave fire and water for Eldest shixiong; I shall not shrink from any danger.”
Xue Cuo hurriedly shook his head. His eyes fell on the trapped soul and he murmured, “It was not I who aided shidi-gege. It was a deity of the Xianghuo Divine Dao. If you wish to see shidi-gege safely to the next realm, you must recite her Daoist name.”
Such an act would bind Youxia-shidi in karmic debt to the Xianghuo deity; whatever befell thereafter might affect his Dao-path.
Youxia did not hesitate. With a thud he dropped to both knees. “Which deity? I, Lin Youxia, will renounce the Tianyi Sect this day!”
Kong Yun reached out in praise. “Good! A human who knows to repay a favour!”
Xue Cuo: “…”
“Shidi,” Xue Cuo went on, “this deity’s title is ‘Her Ladyship, The Naturally Wondrous, Merciful and Stern, Dao-Responding Goddess of the Great Loch’. If you recite Her name and She answers, your life will likely be bound by that karma. Think carefully.”
Youxia cradled the bundle as though it were priceless. He knelt long and performed the full kowtow, forehead to earth. “Her Ladyship, The Naturally Wondrous…. Merciful and Stern… Dao-Responding Goddess of the Great Loch. Your grace in saving life, this disciple will be eternally grateful…”
Under the night sky, above the Great Loch, a sliver of devout golden light drifted from the black-and-white realm of the gods, floated down and landed upon the hem of the statue’s robe.
Kong Yun tugged Xue Cuo out of the inner room to let Youxia compose himself.
He looked Xue Cuo over carefully. Xue Cuo felt his scalp prickle under the gaze. Stopping Kong Yun’s scrutiny, he muttered, “You… what are you doing?”
Kong Yun tugged at Xue Cuo’s hand. “You can’t judge a man by his look. You’ve got tactics after all.”
Xue Cuo snorted and sniffed, but his eyes were calm. “Good and evil are repaid in the end. That sort of person does not deserve to know that shidi-gege yet clings to a shred of soul.”
The next day.
Before Ningxiang Palace a group of disciples in plain white had gathered, led by a six-year-old child and a slight demon-like figure bearing a golden-feathered sword.
At the palace gate stood a pale youth in a snow-coloured cloak. He turned his head slowly; his face was scarcely human. He smiled a smile without warmth.
“The things you come to see are inside. Do you dare enter?”
