Xue Cuo waited until she had cried herself out. Fortunately, Shen Qingsang only lost composure for a brief while. Soon she dried her tears and wrote upon the ground: [Thank you].
Xue Cuo shook his head. “To save these helpless women, you are willing to remain in a demon’s lair. I admire you, but I cannot accept your thanks.”
Shen Qingsang sighed softly, her fingers unconsciously tightening as she wrote a longer message. Each stroke bit into the earth like a weight of a thousand catties.
[They are good women. Since you have such means, could you not aid them? I was once a cultivator and had amassed some savings. Though broken now, I am willing to serve like a dog or a horse, and would die without regret.]
She had once been a daughter of heaven, untouched by the dust of the world. Framed, ruined, several times she had longed for death. Yet it was these grotesque silkworm women who had taken her hand, taught her to endure the darkness, to share warmth, to find clean food and water.
At first, Shen Qingsang believed such existence worse than death. But later she asked herself: why should they be the ones to die?
They wished her to live… not to torment her.
And she, too, wished them to eat clean food, to drink clean water, to dwell in a warm house. Even should the day come when they judged the world beyond bearing and chose death, it should not be from the scorn or pity of others.
Anxiously she looked at him. Xue Cuo’s gaze had receded into the dark. Shen Qingsang sensed anger in him. Yet the fury was not aimed at her, but smouldering at something else.
Silent, he lifted his eyes past her shoulder. The chamber had grown oppressive. At some point the blood-reek had thickened into a pale pink mist.
Two uncanny hands rested lightly upon Shen Qingsang’s shoulders, unseen by her.
Xue Cuo’s eyes rose further. Behind her loomed a god. Draped in a tattered, blackened red cloth, the vast body filled the entire room. Where legs should have been, a fat white trunk bulged, sprouting countless short, translucent limbs.
Sha, sha, sha—
Sha, sha—
One hand brushed away the talisman at Shen Qingsang’s ear. Oblivious, she only touched her ear in puzzlement. Xue Cuo’s lips moved, but she could not hear. Bewildered, she scratched upon the ground:
[I can’t hear again]
Her pleading gaze sought him, eyes wide with fear.
At last Xue Cuo understood.
From the first moment in this courtyard, the one who severed his link to the Goddess, the one whose presence threatened him… was Him.
A god.
A remnant god, dead these ten thousand years, yet waiting to revive.
His chosen successors, His retainers, were these women. His most beloved vessel was Shen Qingsang.
The strange mutations of the women had nothing to do with the Rakshasas, but with this awakening deity, harvesting power and faith.
Those collapsed, broken statues in the village that Xue Cuo spotted… they must once have enshrined Him.
Perhaps the villagers never even knew His name, only sacrificed as their ancestors had, seeking rich mulberry groves and silkworm thread. Who could have dreamt that day by day, their incense would truly rouse Him?
And with His stirring, the women were transformed.
Why had Bo Jinling come here? He was said to have been disguised as a Daoist. Could it be the villagers, desperate to cure their daughters’ strange affliction, brought him into the village?
What followed must have been even more unspeakable.
He killed them all, laid his formation here, imprisoned the silkworm women. Was his purpose not only resentment and blood-qi, but also the devouring of this fallen comrade?
Two gods contending here. The one hiding within this house was already near his end.
Had Xue Cuo not come, He might not have endured much longer. When the silkworm women all perished, He would have been consumed by the rival hand lurking in shadow.
Xue Cuo had wondered: would the Rakshasa ghost truly feed these women? More likely, it was this god who tended them, unwilling to die, ensuring they ate and drank.
Again, the uncanny hand swept away the talisman. Shen Qingsang was utterly deaf now, unknowing. Then those hands covered her eyes.
Xue Cuo could only watch. He was a mortal. The other was a god.
Even a fractured shadow of divinity was not his foe. That He revealed form and reached forth might itself be both warning and mercy.
He would strip Shen Qingsang of sight and hearing, make Himself her only light, demand her purest faith. Why?
Xue Cuo’s mind flared with sudden clarity.
Because of… silkworms.
Those blind, deaf little creatures.
He glanced over the half-insect women upon the floor. Some had already become His worshippers.
Shen Qingsang shuddered, her face contorted with grief so raw it broke the heart. She rubbed her eyes, yet still felt her vision dimming, fading away.
She opened her mouth silently, helpless, looking to Xue Cuo.
Dong—
At some unknown moment, the young man had knelt. Before him rested a small incense burner. Its substance was unclear, dull and tattered.
Within lay a thin layer of ash. It was golden ash. A colour that made the heart fearful, unbearable to behold.
Xue Cuo gave a low grunt, lifted his hand, as though to light incense.
But as his hand rose a little, it was abruptly forced down again, as though crushed by some immense power.
Xue Cuo ground his teeth, sweat streaming from his brow. His fingers inched towards the incense burner, the talisman in his hand flaring into a tiny flame.
“Let go.”
Out of Shen Qingsang’s sight, a massive hand bore down hard upon his own.
The meridians in his body reversed, the golden pool within him shook.
Yet he did not fall.
That surprised even him. Lifting his gaze, Xue Cuo looked upon the deity.
He realised with astonishment that, having so often received the Goddess’ tender regard, this paltry divine pressure did not feel so unbearable.
The red cloth draped about the figure was in tatters, so red it had blackened; now it stirred of its own accord, though there was no wind, a sure sign of rising anger.
Yet the incense would not catch.
The god seemed to exhale in relief, released his hold, and turned away from Xue Cuo. He pressed on with his work, blindfolding Shen Qingsang, intent on erasing the runes from her face entirely.
“Wait!” Xue Cuo’s voice rang out.
The god ignored him. A divine fingertip rubbed away a corner of the sigil… but then trembled suddenly. The red cloth quivered like thunder, whipped away from Shen Qingsang, and swept to Xue Cuo’s back.
Xue Cuo still clutched an incense stick, but his offering was not for the Goddess of the Great Loch. It was for that accursed Rakshasa fiend squatting above Xishi Village, feasting on the god’s own stolen power.
A hideous sound split the air, like snapping bone, like vermin crushed beneath a boot.
Blood trickled from Xue Cuo’s ears. His once-ethereal face contorted, his eyes glinted murderously. He let out a cold, mirthless laugh. “You lay a hand on Shen Qingsang, and I’ll bow to the Rakshasa demon as my patron. A forced melon is never sweet. To coerce a disciple, such conduct is unworthy of the divine!”
The red cloth shuddered like a storm-tossed sea. The deity could have crushed Xue Cuo in an instant, but to do so would be to take on crushing karma… karma his fractured god-body could no longer endure. And beyond that, within the youth radiated a dreadful aura, one so ancient and terrible that even at the height of his power, he would not have dared face it directly.
Rage consumed him. Humiliation gnawed at him.
The red cloth flared, an ocean of blood without end.
That such an insect should deem his resurrection anything but supreme honour! The arrogance of humankind was intolerable.
And yet, the god’s outline slowly receded, fading into nothing.
Shen Qingsang’s blurred vision cleared. She looked down and started in shock: the young sir who moments ago had stood unscathed now lay sprawled, grievously wounded, breath shallow.
Her face went white. She hurried to lift him. His fingers trembled, cold sweat streamed, his body seized rigid.
He had just stood before a god.
[Sir, what’s wrong?]
Xue Cuo shook his head, gave a faint smile, and traced on her palm: [I’m fine.]
Her brows furrowed with worry. [But you’re still spitting blood.]
He wiped his chin with a careless hand, glanced into the distance, and muttered, “My lady is not of gentle temper.”
Puzzlement clouded Shen Qingsang’s eyes. But Xue Cuo steadied himself, took up a broken talisman brush, and cupped her face.
“Miss, I will draw another talisman for your limbs, your heart, your visage, and the soles of your feet.”
She stilled, not blushing, but asking simply: [Why?]
His brows arched. He smiled, and wrote: [On the limbs, to link mind and spirit. On the heart, to gather energy to the soul’s platform. On the face, to let you see, hear, and speak. On the soles, to let you walk, run, and chase.]
His brush dipped in golden ink, he repainted the sigil upon her ear, inscribing also the Goddess of the Great Loch’s sacred name. His voice flowed into her ears.
“Miss, you have waited long for this day, guarding the last hope for these women. I, Xue, dare not lay false claim to your merit.
“Today I grant you one talisman, that you may avenge injustice and repay enmity. The gods of this world are full of guile. Do not let them creep past your guard and break your heart’s defence.
“It is better to rely on yourself than on the divine.
“Whatever has made you suffer, whatever has watched your pain and given no aid, no matter what mask they wear in the end, you cannot, must not, trust them.
“Miss Qingsang, get up.”
Half-understanding, she opened her eyes. She rose to her feet. The mulberry leaves and spirit fungus on her body withered, but her sight returned, her hearing opened.
“Sir…”
She covered her lips, then parted them again. From her throat issued a hoarse woman’s voice. Strength surged through her limbs; her cultivation seemed to return to the Original Void realm.
She looked clearly upon those around her, upon her plight. She turned to Xue Cuo, bowed low, and said with gravity: “Thank you, Mr. Xue.”
“Your cultivation will last but a quarter-hour,” Xue Cuo warned, “but so long as the talisman remains, you will still be able to see and hear.”
He smiled faintly. “They all say I’m a genius with talismans. I never thought much of it. Now, it seems, it has its uses after all.”
He tossed Shen Qingsang a sword. “Shall we go?”
Shen Qingsang twirled it with a flourish. She could never return to the unsullied fairy she once was, but she was firmer and braver than ever before, blazing with light. “Let’s.”
“Slash our way out.”
