Ying Xiao said, “But the Dragon King and Dragon Mother have been dead for over ten thousand years.”
Ao Mu replied, “You’re only realising that now?”
Ying Xiao: “…”
Ao Mu pressed the talisman flat with a warding stone and waited for the cinnabar to dry. “It’s only normal that nothing answers the summons. If something does turn up, then you and I will just use eldest shixiong’s escape tricks.”
With a sigh, Ying Xiao took the thick stack of talisman papers Ao Mu handed him, flipping through them from side to side before sucking in a breath. “So many… your eldest shixiong really is something.”
Ao Mu patted his chest. When he wasn’t speaking, he truly looked like a wicked, unrestrained rogue, wild and defiant. He said, “Eldest shixiong gave me every talisman he drew when he was sixteen. Use them as you like. If it’s not enough, we won’t confront them head-on. We’ll dry out the water in the First Cave with talismans, then blow the palace apart and force them to come out.”
Ying Xiao had already followed him out of the temple gates, but upon hearing this he silently turned back inside. He faced the tall, solemn statue of the goddess. Her features were indistinct. He lit a stick of incense and placed it before her.
After a moment’s hesitation, he discreetly lit a special thread-incense and set it into the small burner beside the statue.
The once unremarkable clay lotus blossoms opened one by one, revealing a tiny clay figurine hidden within. Ying Xiao murmured under his breath.
“Du’e Child.”
“If you don’t come back soon, the little golden dragon is going to blow Qianyun Marsh into a thousand cloud pits.”
Having whispered this in conspiratorial tones, he glanced back. Ao Mu, as expected, had noticed nothing. Ying Xiao let out a breath, tilted his head towards the sky, and stood there in a silence slick with cold sweat.
Master… oh, Master.
Xue-shixiong-aa, Xue-shixiong… why make life so difficult for a proud and upright eagle?
With a sigh, he stepped outside to look for the little golden dragon.
…
Thin green smoke curled upwards, vanishing into the unseen.
The previously vacant clay figurine suddenly stirred. With two flower-bud buns tied atop its round head, plump and stubby-limbed, it hopped onto the table and circled the talismans Ao Mu had left behind, scratching its head.
[What utter rubbish.]
[This idiot.]
The clay figure seemed delighted. Glancing around, it shoved the cinnabar inkstone closer, dipped its tiny clay hands into the vermilion, and began smearing, correcting, and redrawing the talismans.
Xue Cuo never believed these talismans could truly summon the Dragon King. But he still wanted to help his shidi tidy them up a little.
By chance, he had recently witnessed the revival of a deity and gained some insight into the great principle of heaven and earth giving birth to all things, of all things possessing spirit. After integrating this understanding into the talismans, they should at least be convincing enough to frighten people.
After a while, the clay figurine clapped its hands, climbed back onto the altar, parted the clay lotus, and hid itself deep within. as though nothing at all had occurred.
…
Elsewhere.
Outside the ancient city of Qingzhou, members of the Mo tribe heard a strange sound of water. At first it was faint, then steadily grew louder. Many lifted the flaps of their tents and ran outside, confused and alarmed.
The clouds at the horizon burned like fire, sweeping across the barren Gobi and scorching all the way to the distant mountain ranges.
The earth was stained red.
Nine towering tombs of human bone loomed like the burial mounds of ancient gods. And now, those tombs had awakened.
Cattle and sheep trembled in their pens. Slaves huddled together, shivering. An elderly slave poked his head through a narrow gap and stared dully at the crimson mountains afar, rasping, “The Goddess… it’s the Goddess…”
Slash—
A cold wind swept across his neck.
The aged head rolled across the ground, blood spreading over the earth as dark red seeped into the parched sand.
Supported by his tribesmen, the Mo tribe’s shaman climbed the platform. Hair loose, reeking of wine, he trembled as he opened the book bound in human skin.
Ten thousand years of peace had nearly erased the Mo people’s memory that these nine great tombs suppressed an ancient deity.
The shaman vaguely remembered that this distant god was their mother. But ten thousand years was far too long. Aside from this shamanic text passed down through generations, no one read the old histories any longer, and the title itself had fallen out of use.
He flipped through the pages again and again as the ground shook ever more violently. The roaring water sounded like thunder from the heavens, filling all who heard it with dread.
“Shaman! Have you found anything?”
The Mo emperor stared coldly at the nine great tombs. He held a golden sceptre and wore splendid robes, bloodlust and savagery condensed in his proud brow.
“Who is it? What is it? How do we kill it?”
The shaman strained to decipher the ancient script with a mind soaked in alcohol. Line by line he searched, yet found nothing.
“Great Shaman?”
“Shaman!”
“What is that thing, Shaman?!”
The Mo emperor strode down from his throne and seized the shaman by the collar. Sweating profusely, the shaman suddenly raised the book and cried, “It’s Mother. Our Mother!”
The emperor flew into a rage. “Has drink finally rotted your brain? I want to know how to stop these omens!”
The shaman collapsed to the ground, trembling as he pointed towards the mountains. “The ancient tombs. Burn the ancient tombs, and the heavenly gods will descend to purge the evil.”
“So that’s it.”
The Mo emperor smiled faintly, gazing across the blood-red land. Rising, he took up a great bow from his tent and loosed a flaming arrow into the distance.
“Warriors of the Mo tribe. Light the fires. Burn those ancient tombs!”
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
Torches surged forward like coiling dragons.
The Mo tribesmen mounted their camels, driving slaves ahead of them, carrying loads of fire oil and charcoal towards the tombs.
Beneath the crimson sunset, a Mo warrior’s eyes gleamed darkly as he stared without expression at the slaves encircled by oil. The torch slipped from his hand.
Just as the tongues of flame were about to lick the ground, a sudden breeze swept down from the mountains. The slaves’ shackles fell away like scattered leaves.
The Mo warrior drew his curved blade at once. “Who’s there?!”
Freed of their restraints, the slaves reacted instantly. They hoisted their families and companions onto their backs and fled like the wind. As they ran, they felt as though the breeze itself carried their feet. It was light, effortless… as though they were strolling through woodland paths.
Someone dared to glance back.
Beneath the crimson sunset, a tall, slender figure in blue stood upon the treetops. He lifted his sleeve, and delicate paper talismans fluttered about him. The Mo warriors loosed volleys of arrows, but the figure did not so much as flinch. He gathered up the fire oil and timber and vanished.
Ghostlike, he slipped between the nine great tombs, leaving not a single one ignited. The slaves surged towards the burial mountain/ They sensed dimly, yet unmistakably, that something was shielding them.
On the high platform, the Mo emperor paced back and forth, fingers grinding against his sceptre. “Why are they still not lit? Send more men.”
“Someone. Someone. Who are you?!”
The emperor jolted in alarm. In the darkness, a blue figure had appeared soundlessly behind him. Guards, attendants, ministers, even the high-ranking cultivators tasked with protecting the royal house… all lay strewn across the ground.
Cold dread seized the emperor’s heart.
The intruder sat atop the tent, chin resting in one hand, several jars of fire oil dangling from the other. He tossed them aside casually and swept his gaze across the throne fashioned from human bones, naked revulsion almost solidifying in his eyes.
“She has awakened.”
“The debt the Mo people owe her… it’s time they repaid it.”
Xue Cuo smiled faintly, his form slowly turning translucent. “Those who stab their mother in the back will be abandoned by her. A child who murders their mother will never be forgiven.”
The emperor’s carefully prepared hidden weapon flew wide. He cursed inwardly, then froze as a deep, rolling roar filled the air.
From beneath the collapsed poplar trees, sweet spring water burst forth.
The water surged ever stronger, its colour shifting from cool blue to blood-red, gathering into a vast, raging river. It appeared without warning, flooding the land, devouring the ancient riverbed in an instant, stripping the earth bare.
The Mo people had nowhere to flee. The nine great tombs seemed wrapped in an invisible barrier, refusing them passage. Helplessly, they watched as the flood swallowed them whole.
The Mo emperor fled in madness, astride a camel, clutching gold and jewels. He reached the nearest tomb, yet could not climb it—though slaves stood only steps away. With eyes blazing, he roared, “Pull me up! Curse you, pull me up!”
The slaves shook their heads and vanished into the forest.
The emperor’s eyes split wide in fury. Then, it suddenly blurred. Disbelief flooded his gaze. White figures had appeared around the tomb.
Layer upon layer, circle upon circle, they blanketed the entire field of bone, forming towering walls of bodies. They blocked the flood, sheltering the trembling slaves within.
“How… how is this possible?” the emperor muttered.
A chill brushed his cheek. He looked up… and saw golden lotuses filling the sky.
No… not drifting.
The lotuses travelled with the river. They were not flying; the river itself loomed overhead. The emperor had no time even to gasp before the surging waters engulfed him, leaving nothing behind.
Golden lotuses bloomed across the tombs. The lingering spirits, as though guided by some unseen will, wavered. They longed to depart, yet unwilling to leave.
Xue Cuo folded his arms, standing amidst the wind, his robes billowing like clouds. “Shibo. If you do not appear now, when will you?”
“Haha, good lad!” The thunderous roar of water answered him, laden with rage and hatred, as though intent on announcing itself to the world.
She devoured every last Mo tribesman, crushing even their souls to dust, sinking them into the riverbed, never to rise again.
The trembling slaves suddenly beheld a hazy, pale-gold figure. Radiant as candlelight, cool as jade, gentle as kin.. yet majestic as a true deity. She scattered rain and dew, stilled flood and thunder, and stood quietly in the distance, extending her hand in protection.
One slave suddenly remembered. Was it her?
The name whispered in moments of unbearable pain, when endurance failed and secret prayers were offered… granting fleeting peace. The spring in the desert. The honey in the forest. An ancient tale passed from mouth to mouth.
“Divinity,” someone murmured.
From his body rose a small point of light. Pure faith. Drifting into the palm of the Yellow River Goddess.
Her gaze was complex. The fury and bitterness etched upon her face slowly eased as she looked back upon her desiccated, fractured body. Upon the nine tombs heaped with human bones, tears fell… one by one.
The river’s voice grew heavy and mournful. Countless pallid souls felt an immense sorrow they could not endure.
Suddenly, a golden lotus fell into the water, sending up a small splash. The goddess turned her head.
Across the ten-thousand-li river stood a tiny figure. He raised two fingers, burned a talisman to ash, and spoke a single, resolute word:
“Open.”
Boom.
An ancient stone bridge burst forth from the river. Drawn by overwhelming force, the wailing white spirits surged towards it, eager to set foot upon the span.
The goddess looked mildly surprised. “You can actually open it here.”
Xue Cuo cupped his hands in greeting, looking faintly abashed. The Yellow River Goddess said coolly, “A treasure like this appears only once in ten thousand years. Daze truly moves swiftly.”
At that moment, a procession of ghost soldiers emerged upon the bridge. Their leader was tall and imposing, carrying a mourning staff and a soul-cleaving blade, his cultivation profound. He stared at the countless spirits, stunned. Then, he turned to Xue Cuo and bowed deeply.
“Eldest shixiong! Chen Zongping, First Constable of the Spirit Tribunal, pays his respects.”
Only then did he recall himself and hastily bow to the deity. “Great Goddess of the Nine-Bend Yellow River, disciple Chen Zongping acts on the orders of Her Ladyship, Goddess of the Great Loch, here to deliver the wandering souls of this land.”
The Nine-Bend Goddess clasped her hands behind her back. After a moment, she vanished. Her voice echoed softly to Xue Cuo:
“I never expected Great Loch would truly find someone capable of opening the Ghost Gate here. But having given my word, I naturally will not refuse.”
Xue Cuo nodded slightly to Chen Zongping, signalling that they might begin guiding the spirits. Then he found himself stared at by Chen Zongping and the other ghost catchers, their eyes shining far too brightly.
“So fame really doesn’t compare to seeing him in person.”
“A living Eldest Shixiong. I want to get closer.”
“Don’t lift your head, you’re blocking my view!”
“Let me see Eldest Shixiong!”
