Xue Cuo pushed Yin Feixue aside and put away the incense burner.
Yin Feixue’s swollen form shrank back to its usual size. He craned his head forward. “Yinbing-xiong, are you still angry?”
Expressionless, Xue Cuo replied, “No.”
He stood with his hands clasped behind him. Below the cliff lay corpses scattered everywhere. With the sudden departure of the figure in white gauze, the ghosts, left without a master, had sunk back into the soil.
Yin Feixue folded his arms, the black blade standing upright at his side. “The feng shui and veins of energy here have been utterly disrupted. There’s no saving it. And this mass grave of ten thousand ghosts… who knows how many evil spirits will be bred here in future?”
“No saving it?”
At his echo, Yin Feixue smiled. “That’s right, no saving it. Just a wasteland. The dead were all common folk… Heaven’s Warden of Rebirth is not someone they could ever afford to petition. And in this age of turmoil, when everyone can barely fend for themselves, who would be fool enough to waste the effort on them?”
Xue Cuo said nothing.
Yin Feixue went on: “Still, wiping them all out would hardly be difficult.”
Xue Cuo turned to him. Yin Feixue laughed brightly. “My Tiandu City is here. Others may ignore it, but I cannot.”
Those who practise Xianghuo Divine Dao are most often seduced into it, led astray, or driven by dark desires, harming both themselves and others.
So, which of these did Xue Yinbing fall into?
Yin Feixue regarded him openly. Xue Cuo was calm, yet beneath that calm stirred thoughts too deep to read.
Stepping closer, Yin Feixue reminded him, “Your strength is damaged. You’re in no state to pursue that demon.”
Xue Cuo’s eyes dimmed. He frowned uneasily, shifting away from the white tiger. “And what is it you want now?”
His divine power was impaired, his strength lacking. If Yin Feixue chose to seize him at this moment, it would be all too easy.
He raised his arm to summon a talisman, but Yin Feixue was faster, seizing both his hands and pinning him to a tree.
“If I truly meant you harm, Yinbing-xiong, you wouldn’t escape.”
Yin Feixue grinned, baring his teeth slightly. It was no threat, only a plain statement of fact, his manner relaxed. “But I, this king, am upright and open. I’ve never been one to stab another in the back.”
Xue Cuo’s counterattack came quicker still. A talisman cultivator he might be, but who said talisman cultivators never trained their bodies?
Yin Feixue was plainly startled, then his battle-spirit blazed. He and Xue Cuo clashed fiercely upon the cliff.
It was pure physical combat. No Daoist arts, no weapons.
Xue Cuo’s movement was lightning-fast. Though weaker in raw strength than Yin Feixue, he had the edge in agility. Yin Feixue, exhilarated, laughed: “Come on then! This is Drunken Elder Fist, a style I learnt among mortals. Let’s see how you handle it!”
Xue Cuo’s hands cut like blades, his steps those of a demon clan. Blood traced his lips, but he wiped it away carelessly. “Fine.”
Yin Feixue slid forward, body swaying, his footwork unsteady yet his techniques ingenious, hard to guard against. Xue Cuo’s style was fierce and nimble, his steps strange but always just enough to slip past the attacks.
Yin Feixue spread his claws, mimicking scissors. “And what fist is this?”
Xue Cuo: “Shrimp-Soldier and Crab-General Fist.”
In Her Ladyship’s great loch, fish, shrimp, and crabs were most plentiful. Long immersed in their world, Xue Cuo had inevitably struck upon a new path…
A faint flush touched his face, though barely visible. He muttered inwardly: The name’s awful. Winning’s what matters.
Fortunately, Yin Feixue did not mock him. Instead, he studied as he fought, and before long had mastered seven or eight parts of the style.
Xue Cuo showed no fear, his moves ever more inventive, until at last, with a cunning twist, he toppled the great tiger to the ground.
Yin Feixue was so astonished he failed even to roll away.
Xue Cuo crouched at ease. Yin Feixue hauled himself up, sat cross-legged, looking thoroughly discomfited, yet forced to admit: “In sheer movement, I’m a step below you. But I’ve memorised it. Next time, I’ll surpass you!”
If Xue Cuo fought him openly, the outcome was uncertain. But in body technique alone, Yin Feixue could not match him.
Xue Cuo gave no answer. Instead, he asked, “Do you remember? You promised me a painting if you lost.”
“That’s no trouble,” Yin Feixue said. “But I’m no hand at brush or ink. It would only be crude work. Better you come to my Tiandu City. There you can take your pick of fine paintings and books.”
Xue Cuo drew paper and brush from his mustard-seed pouch, spread the sheet, and dipped the feather into golden ink.
Then he gave Yin Feixue a look of uncertain meaning, smiled faintly. “No. This painting only Your Majesty can make.”
The tens of thousands of corpses at Broken Head Mountain had lain there who knows how long, wiping out who knows how many villages like Yinliu Village.
They filled a vast pit, trapped in baleful miasma, unable to be released.
It was suffering, it was torment.
Countless broken remains scrabbled upwards, yet no matter how they climbed, they could never escape.
Pain and hatred became the very fodder that nourished the realm of ten thousand ghosts.
Then, from the cliff above, a single golden lotus drifted down. Small and swaying, it landed on a rotting hand.
That hand was thin, small… still a child’s.
He stared blankly, black hollow eyes wide, the torment on his face melting into bewilderment.
His bare bones brushed the lotus. At the touch, golden light burst in his eyes. He seemed to see his parents.
They were still searching for him. But he was long dead.
The little ghost wailed, his tears dissolving to mist. His body rotted away all the faster, until at last he became a tiny golden spark, vanishing into the lotus.
Somewhere above, the rumble of water sounded. Xue Cuo lit the incense burner once more, the feather in his hand radiant.
Before him lay a broad white sheet, a great talisman, whose head and tail he had just completed.
He smiled and turned. Behind him crouched a tiger, white-maned, as mighty as a hill, every inch a king… yet its expression was thunderous, its teeth clenched.
Xue Cuo was serene. “This talisman is named Plum-Affair Talisman. None but Your Majesty can paint it.”
The white tiger twitched its mouth, rose with a scowl.
“Your true body is far too large,” Xue Cuo said mildly. “Best shrink a little.”
Yin Feixue glared, baring his fangs. Xue Cuo stretched out his hand with a smile. “Your Majesty, if you please.”
Could this great king, the proud Lord of Tiandu City, go back on his word, and be laughed at?
Yin Feixue shook his head, shrinking smaller.
Xue Cuo shook his own. “Not enough.”
Yin Feixue shrank again.
“Not enough.”
Shrank again.
“Still not enough.”
Yin Feixue raised his paw and let out a roar, just as the young man chuckled. The sound was so melodious that the tiger’s fur bristled from ears to tail.
This brat must be the disciple of some disreputable god… a sound cultivator! Lucky I, the king, have strong arts, or I’d have fallen to him!
Then suddenly he was lifted, soft belly caught in the youth’s arms.
In high spirits, Xue Cuo set the cat-sized tiger upon the talisman paper. He took the paw, its pads soft and pink, and dabbed them in gold.
Yin Feixue let out a growl. The tiger shook his head, bounded across the talisman, golden eyes flashing as he squinted at Xue Cuo. “So it’s just painting? Watch this king!”
The paper unfurled with the wind, becoming a golden scroll that soared skyward.
The white tiger ran across it, stamping countless prints that resembled golden plum blossoms.
The tiger’s ferocity restrained the miasma. Xue Cuo altered the talisman with deft hands, so that on the left it bore the words “Great Auspice and Prosperity”, and on the right “Joy to All Who See”. The Xianghuo power of crossing over was released.
Watching the little tiger stamping plum-blossom prints in his frantic scamper, Xue Cuo’s lips curled.
Then, smiling still, he raised the summoning talisman.
There was unease in his heart.
This place was not under the Goddess of the Great Loch’s protection; it lay thousands of mountains away. Those who had died here were not her followers. Should she risk herself to save them, it might bring some merit. But if she refused, if she let them remain unpassed, she lost nothing.
The smoke rose straight and green.
Xue Cuo pressed his fingers, released the summoning talisman. The silver belt at his waist glimmered faintly.
The talisman paper gave no response.
He prayed again.
Failed again.
Once more.
The talisman paper rose with a crackling rush, and Xue Cuo vaguely glimpsed an endless loch. Beyond its waters, golden pools stretched into one expanse. A hazy figure plucked a lotus bloom and flicked it with a curved finger.
Xue Cuo lifted his gaze.
The heavens split with a slender crack, dyeing the clouds gold.
The souls who had writhed in torment at last found redemption. Their dazed expressions softened as they turned into delicate golden motes of light, drifting away in every direction.
The black miasma of yin, as if confronted with its nemesis, dared not bar their path, and could only let the specks depart.
His blue robe snapping in the wind, his black hair flying, Xue Cuo praised from the heart: “Your Ladyship’s virtue is boundless.”
That voice descended as though from the Ninth Heaven, usually serene, without grief or hate. Yet today, it bore the faintest trace of ire: [Overseer of Rebirth, unfilial son of man.]
Xue Cuo froze: Did Her Ladyship just scold……
He dared not speak, dared not stir, sitting meek and silent.
[Just now, I could not permit it. The Xianghuo Divine Dao has fallen; to answer is hard.]
Xue Cuo quickly said: “Your Ladyship is most compassionate!”
Something like a gentle pat brushed the crown of his head. The figure of that Xianghuo god, cold and detached, faded away. Xue Cuo looked up, only to find that in the pit of corpses, though most bodies had rotted, nearly half still resisted deliverance.
[I refuse! I demand revenge!]
[I will not leave! Never leave!]
[Where is he? Where is he?]
Entwined in rancour, burning with fury, these victims once slaughtered alive, now spurned even reincarnation, desiring only to cut down their foes.
Surely Her Ladyship could have redeemed them… yet she had not. Xue Cuo’s face chilled. This debt, naturally, must be repaid by his fellow Xianghuo-worshippers.
Yin Feixue alighted on the last sparks of the talisman, descending from the heavens. His four tiger claws shone with gold, scattering motes in dazzling splendour.
Resuming human form, he laughed aloud: “Though I hold Xianghuo gods in contempt, Yinbing… your tactics are an exception!”
Xue Cuo stared at him, then covered his eyes. “Put on some clothes!”
Yin Feixue: “…”
…
…
Bo Jinling burst from the Ghost Gate and stumbled to the ground.
This hollow lay deep within the mountains, once the lair of a golden dragon, had now been deceived into making it a hideout. Remote and hidden. Behind, gales tore; the golden dragon gave chase, crashing down and shrouding the cavern in dust.
Bo Jinling cast aside his veil, rushing to the dragon’s side. “Are you hurt? Are you… alright?”
The dragon groaned low, closed his eyes, and turned his head away.
Bo Jinling faltered. Then suddenly the dragon’s eyes snapped open. Writhing in agony, he rolled across the ground, evil qi tearing through his flesh, rending his organs.
Bo Jinling’s face blanched. Scrambling, he flung himself before a statue, trembling as he offered incense: “Shifu, it is this disciple’s failing. The guardian dragon meant no grave offence. Please, curb your wrath.”
The statue’s form was monstrous, body like a fiend with four arms gripping weapons, yet the head was exquisite, pure and tender, like a goddess of the Ninth Heaven.
A column of smoke rose straight upward. Bo Jinling saw thick black mists, volcanoes erupting on either side, molten fire roiling. Amidst it stood a bronze hall, cold and immense. On the throne within lay a colossal corpse, head flung back in defiance of the sky. A gleaming ancient sword pierced its chest, pinning it eternally to the seat.
[Your assailant today was no ordinary foe. Should you meet him again, do not clash. Wait until I recover my true body and gather strength. Then, I shall cut him down.]
Bo Jinling hastened to say: “But Broken Head Mountain has been long prepared. Once the resentment matures, the heavenly fire will descend, and we can breed a Rakshasa ghost. If we abandon it now, I fear…”
[Hmph! The world teems with mortals. With the realm in chaos, what shortage of flesh and blood?]
Bo Jinling bit his lip, glancing at the dragon. “But he is already mired in rancour. If he spills more blood, he may fall entirely, beyond control.”
[No matter. I bestow you thirty-two bone nails. Drive them one by one into his dragon skull, and all will be well.]
Bo Jinling fell silent. The statue shuddered. [What? Do you hesitate? Disciple, you carved his liver and marrow with your own hands and sacrificed them to me. Has your resolve for the immortal path wavered?]
Grinding his teeth, Bo Jinling said, “Of course not.”
[Good. The nails are given. Go.]
When the incense guttered out, Bo Jinling lifted his veil and slowly withdrew.
The youth’s body was slender, fair as carved jade, his beauty ambiguous, neither wholly male nor female. Crimson threads wound about his pale skin, little golden bells chiming softly.
He approached the dragon, kissed his brow with gentleness, and pressed in the black nails.
The dragon convulsed, and Bo Jinling soothed him:“Ah-mu, don’t be afraid. It will be over soon.”
When all thirty-two nails were driven in, the Dragon God opened his eyes, body shifting into human form.
Years in the mountain had left him fair-skinned and robust, tall and well-built. Bo Jinling rang the bell, and the dragon lifted his head, revealing a face both handsome and wicked.
Black lines veined his features; his eyes, once golden, now bled red. They fixed on Bo Jinling, brimming with pain.
Bo Jinling sprang forward, taking his arm. “Ah-mu, you’re awake. Come with me.”
He led the dragon deeper, where stone pillars held bound captives aloft.
“Ah-mu,” Bo Jinling said, “cut out a few human livers for me. The Lord God requires them.”
The dragon stood still, unresponsive, until the bell chimed. Then, step by step, he walked forward… stopping before an old woman.
In the black cavern she could see nothing, yet she heard that uncanny bell.
She shrieked, pleaded, cried for every soul she knew, at last screaming: “Little Golden Dragon God! Saviour of the suffering!”
The name was simple, crude even, but to the mountain folk it meant everything.
She remembered herself as a girl, gathering firewood. She slipped, tumbled from a cliff, clinging to a frail dead tree, sobbing for her parents, then at last calling: “Little Golden Dragon God, save me!”
She cried to the clay idol swathed in red cloth in the mountainside shrine.
No answer came. She fell, yet felt weightless, pain-free.
A voice whispered: [Do not open your eyes.]
Drenched in mist and battered by wind, she clung to something scaled and cool beneath her hands. At last, she was flung gently onto the mountain path.
She opened her eyes.
Ahead on the trail stood a tall, elegant figure, horns upon his brow. He glanced back, plucked a flower, and walked away.
Her heart pounded. From then on, she made cakes each year for the dragon’s birthday, shaped like little horned figures. And one year, when she tidied the shrine, she found all the offerings untouched save her own. They had been replaced by a flower.
Decades passed. Her devotion never waned. Until one day, the golden dragon appeared in truth… only to fall dead before their eyes.
The villagers perished. The survivors were dragged to this place and confined.
Terrified, she begged, struggled desperately.
And now the man before her, horns golden, eyes bleeding red, hands shaking with agony yet merciless, tore open her belly and ripped out her heart and liver.
Hot blood splattered his cheek, trickling down like tears.
Expressionless, he killed one, then two, offering the organs to Bo Jinling.
Bo Jinling wiped his face, made sacrifice to the god, then shyly returned, embracing the dragon and settling into his lap.
“Ah-mu, you’ve been good. I know how hard this is.”
He kissed the dragon’s hand. “When the Lord revives, you too shall ascend. Then this suffering will end.”
Raising one foot, coquettish, he rang the bell to guide the dragon’s hands upon his body.
Unmasking, his beautiful face was revealed. The red threads and golden bells on his skin trembled lightly.
“Don’t be sad. You deserve a reward.”
“I permit you to possess me.”
