Lin Xiao surveyed the village before him with a heavy, penetrating gaze.
Unlike any dwelling he had encountered before, the layout of this village could only be described as utterly haphazard. Dozens of cottages had been built side by side stretching from north to south, their outward appearance crude and squalid — that went without saying — and because the land they occupied was far from generous, even the arrangement felt strangely cramped and suffocating.
In front of several of the houses hung garments that had long since faded, and beneath every roof beam, thick webs of spider silk clung in heavy curtains. Desolation met the eye in every direction; ruin lay at every turn. Only beside the dry well at the village’s entrance rested a rattle-drum with a glossy red lacquered face, its color still as vivid and bright as the day it was made — seemingly the one solitary object in this entire village that retained any connection to the world of the living.
Lin Xiao walked slowly toward the well, bent down, and picked up the rattle-drum. He wiped the dust from its surface, twisted the handle, and the two plump little beaters struck the drum face, producing a dull, rhythmic thud — thud — thud.
If he listened carefully, he could almost make out the innocent laughter of a young child.
Lin Xiao narrowed his eyes. It was abundantly clear: this was a village that had lain abandoned for some time. Every scene within it bore witness to a past full of life and bustle — yet that life had come to a halt with eerie and inexplicable abruptness at some unspecified moment.
He thought of how he and his subordinates had now been trapped in this mountain for an entire day. No matter what methods they tried, they could not find their way out of this strange peak. He wondered whether it had anything to do with the deserted village before him.
A chilling, sinister gust of wind cut through his thoughts. The wind had a tangible, almost physical quality; it circled his ankles once, then, as if playing a mischievous trick, lifted the hem of his sapphire-blue robe.
Immediately following, a pair of hands — pale white as jade — twined around his long, straight legs, and from below came the soft, coy murmuring of a woman’s voice: What a fine-looking young gentleman—
Lin Xiao’s pupils contracted sharply. Without a moment’s thought, he wrenched the sword from his waist and drove it forcefully downward.
Yet the point met nothing but empty air. Not even a ghostly shadow was visible before him.
Lin Xiao’s heart hammered like a drum. Beads of sweat the size of soybeans broke out on his pale forehead. The sensation of those hands had been so real — it was absolutely not something conjured by his own imagination. What in the world was this place?! He snapped his head up and glared around furiously. The sword in his hand, sensing its master’s sudden surge of killing intent, rang out with a low, vibrating hum.
He had never believed in ghosts or gods. But from the moment he had entered this mountain, everything around him had exceeded the bounds of his understanding: a mountain one could not leave, the endless cycle of being turned back on oneself, the sudden appearance of an uninhabited village. Most pressing of all was the darkness, which was quickening its pace — the village before him would soon be swallowed entirely in black. If there were truly malevolent spirits here, they might still show some restraint in the broad light of day, but once night fell, in what form would they choose to appear before him?
The mountain mist gradually thickened. The evening breeze carried with it the sporadic tinkling of camel bells, pulling Lin Xiao’s senses back to the realm of the living.
The clop-clop of hooves grew closer, and a party of seven or eight riders came galloping into the village.
Most of those on horseback were young men of vigorous, upright bearing. A vibrant energy radiated from their every pore. With a single coordinated crack of their whips, they carved through the dense, stagnant air of death that surrounded the place with the force of a surging tide.
It was as though Lin Xiao could hear the very darkness split like tearing silk. The eerie visions of moments before dissolved on the wind in an instant. His heart steadied. He slowly sheathed the sword, which still hummed faintly in its scabbard.
The young man leading the riders was about sixteen or seventeen years old, fair-skinned and handsome, the blade of time not yet having left its marks on his youthful face. He wore an air of stern resolve as he galloped straight toward Lin Xiao, and had scarcely dismounted before he spoke in urgent haste: “My lord, several of us went to scout the surroundings. There are no villagers in or around this place — no inn, no tavern, not even a temple to be found!”
Lin Xiao offered no reply. That there was no inn or tavern had already been within his expectations. This village radiated strangeness from every corner. Something truly dreadful must have occurred here at some point — something capable of reducing a living village to a dead city overnight.
But not even a temple or a Daoist monastery.
Lin Xiao turned and looked back at the village. In the gathering dusk, the houses seemed to take on a dark life of their own, gazing back at him in silence. Behind the rotting window frames, shadows flickered and stirred — as though the very next moment they might burst through the wood.
That sensation of desperate, heart-seizing dread came over him again. Lin Xiao exerted every effort to rein in his composure, forcing his gaze away from the buildings.
It seemed that not only had the common people of the region given this mountain a wide berth of their own accord — even the local government had made a deliberate decision to sever every bridge between this mountain and the outside world, with full intention of turning it into a dead peak.
“My lord!” The young man named Chang Rong broke into his thoughts, and then a dust-covered Daoist tumbled from a horse and landed at his feet.
The Daoist had been secured on the horse behind Chang Rong’s attendants. His robes were filthy, blending almost seamlessly with the murk of dusk, and what with Lin Xiao’s mind having been elsewhere just moments before, he had entirely failed to notice that an additional living person had appeared among them.
“When we went down the mountain to scout a path, we spotted this Daoist creeping along behind us in a furtive manner. When we asked him why he had appeared here, he gave evasive, mumbling answers. This subordinate suspected him of ill intent and brought him in.”
Very much in keeping with Chang Rong’s usual style.
Lin Xiao made no comment, merely frowning as he looked the Daoist over. The man appeared to be somewhere in his forties or fifties — with drooping, eight-character eyebrows and a goat’s beard. In contrast to his grimy robes, however, his face was rather clean and fair.
Wincing and howling in pain with one breath, he glared furiously at Lin Xiao and his group with the next, and opened his mouth to curse: “You young gentlemen (Note 1) — fair enough of face, yet so utterly uncouth and rude in conduct!” His accent was peculiar as he spoke, as though he were making a determined effort to enunciate every syllable clearly; but the very deliberateness of it made his speech sound stiff and unnatural instead.
Lin Xiao regarded the Daoist with cool eyes. “Who are you? Why have you appeared here?”
The Daoist made no answer, continuing to rail and complain with considerable indignation. Beside him, Chang Rong’s expression gradually shifted toward impatience, and with a sharp schink, he drew the saber at his waist.
The Daoist lost half his wits on the spot. Clutching his neck, he tumbled and rolled away a considerable distance, as though he feared that if he rolled even slightly too slow, Chang Rong’s blade would send his head rolling separately from his body.
“Speak civilly, good sir! Speak civilly!”
Chang Rong swept his saber through a clean arc in the air and leveled the tip at the Daoist from a distance. “Speak civilly?” he thundered. “We’ve been trapped in this wretched mountain for an entire day! Forget living people — we haven’t even caught sight of a single bird or beast. You appear out of nowhere, acting suspiciously on top of it — needless to say, the traps in this mountain are almost certainly your doing! This master will kill you right now before you can conjure up any more tricks to harm people!”
The Daoist sputtered with fury. “You have no reason at all, you impudent young—!”
Seeing Chang Rong bearing down on him with real menace, he scrambled away while shouting: “If you kill me, you’ll never find your way out of this mountain! Do you know the history of this place?!”
Those words stirred something in Lin Xiao’s chest. He turned and gave Chang Rong a look — enough to frighten him, that was sufficient. Whatever the Daoist’s background, the fact that he could appear in a mountain utterly devoid of human life meant that, for the moment, he represented a thread of hope.
The Daoist, seeing Chang Rong sheathe his blade, finally allowed his heart to settle back into his chest. He wiped the sweat from his temples and was just about to speak when he lifted his gaze and caught sight of the sun — now reduced to nothing more than a faint, fading halo above the horizon. His expression changed at once: “Heavens above, we’re in trouble! The sun is about to set! All of you — follow this humble Daoist and make your way down the mountain at once! If we have not descended before dark falls, we will truly be unable to leave!”
Lin Xiao’s heart tightened. The Daoist’s thinking aligned exactly with his own. Whatever had previously transpired in this village, anything capable of making the local authorities give this mountain so wide a berth for so long must still be lurking here.
There was no time to waste. He strode toward his horse. “Chang Rong will lead with the Daoist in front; all others will follow close behind. No one is to fall behind!”
Everyone acknowledged the order. Chang Rong tossed the Daoist back up onto the horse as unceremoniously as he had before, and took the lead, riding ahead to open the path.