Prologue

I have lived so long, I’ve lost count of how many such lights I carry on my back.

1

The first person Ying Fansheng ever “dealt with” personally was a boy about his own age.

More precisely, that had once been a boy.

The other party had already fallen a while ago, yet his hand still wouldn’t let go of the knife; the hilt seemed to have grown into his palm. It was Father who finally came over and pried his fingers open to take back the blade he’d lent him.

The evening wilderness was stiflingly hot; the dry branches and leaves overhead pressed together suffocatingly, giving no room to breathe.

The boy lay on the warm, muddy ground, his eyes still open, unwilling to close.

He’d eaten three full bowls of rice that morning, yet now he had no strength left at all, and could only lean against a rough old tree and slowly slide down to sit.

The turtle poked its head out of his pack, glanced around, then withdrew again, indifferent.

“You’ll get used to it.” Father clapped him hard on the shoulder, then went over to close the boy’s eyes. “The first time I did this, I made a bigger mess of it than you—I nearly let him get away. Lucky my own father was there to clean up after me. He gave me a good smack across the face and called me useless.”

He looked up at his father. “Will it be like this every summer, from now on?”

Other people’s summers were about cooling off in the shade, chatting idly, swimming and splashing in the water, chilled melon and fruit, the loud chorus of cicadas. His summer, though, could only be a dead boy—and in the future, would go on being someone else, again and again…

Father was silent a moment, then sat down beside him, carefully wiping the marks from the blade’s edge, and smiled. “Well, there’s still spring, winter, and autumn to enjoy.”

“Father, has our family really done nothing but this, ever since a thousand years ago?” He lowered his head, not wanting to look anymore at the lifeless body before him. “Why can’t someone else do it? I don’t believe we’re the only family capable of this.”

Father breathed on the blade and asked, “Does it hurt you, in the instant the knife falls?”

He nodded.

Even knowing the truth of what they were, watching them collapse under the blade, they were still flesh-and-blood people. If he could feel fine about it, he wouldn’t look like this right now.

“There’s your answer.” Father sheathed the knife. “Since you already know what it feels like, why let anyone else bear it?”

He said nothing more.

“Not the Zhangs, not the Lis—a thousand years ago it happened to be our family that noticed something was wrong. Call it fate, call it coincidence, or call our ancestor a meddler if you like—but once we’d meddled, we couldn’t just let go of it.” Father stood, holding out a hand to him. “Get up. Let’s bury him. He was alone, and this is remote wilderness—no one’s likely to find him.”

Those who thought of them as murderers probably hadn’t yet noticed that the relatives they buried would, forty-nine days after death, turn into a pile of black sand—if they ever dug up the coffin, they’d surely weep all over again, in utter shock.

Anyone marked by that hole was no longer human.

That thing in their back courtyard, disguised as a well, was a malevolent eye—and more than that, a calculating monster.

Father told him that a thousand years ago, an ancestor of the Ying family had stumbled upon a hole in a stretch of wild land. Back then it was no bigger than a human head, lying inconspicuously in a patch of tall weeds. A hole in the ground—what was so strange about that? Nothing, ordinarily. But being a family skilled in the mystic arts, the Yings noticed something wrong—this hole was like a wound born in the earth, one that no method could heal. No matter how much dirt they poured in, no matter how sturdy or heavy a cover they cast, it was useless; anything placed over it in hopes of concealing or sealing it would vanish within a short time. They’d once weighed it down with a thousand-jin block of iron, and by the next day the iron block had vanished without a trace—not even a scrap left behind. Astonished, they became certain this hole was actively resisting any method meant to destroy it. And the Ying family, skilled for generations in astronomy and celestial omens, sensed that this seemingly insignificant hole was a hidden danger buried between heaven and earth. Though no calamity was visible yet, their family’s handed-down notebooks of secret knowledge held a saying: “Where the earth bears a wound, the heavens must bear a corresponding flaw.” Meaning, if such an unhealable “wound” existed on the ground, it indicated a matching flaw somewhere in the heavens. Should the worst come to pass, all under heaven would suffer a disaster beyond bearing—though exactly what kind of disaster, there was no further description. And so, the Ying ancestors decided to stay nearby, watching and observing; if it behaved itself, so be it, but should anything change for the worse, they’d be able to respond in time. And so this became the Ying family’s secret, passed down generation after generation. They had, in fact, mentioned it to some fellow practitioners over the years, but those people had only laughed at them for making a fuss over nothing—said they’d be better off spending that time building a bigger name for themselves in the world of mystics than clinging to old family books, wasting a talent for reading heaven and earth on something so pointless. Just look at the famous ones among their peers—every one of them favored by emperors and nobles, gaining both fame and fortune, remembered through the ages. And look at the Ying family—scraping by on small fees from fortune-telling and divination, unable to afford so much as a decent house, let alone fine clothes. Poverty was one thing, but to spend all day pondering celestial patterns instead of striving to build a name in the halls of power—might as well cultivate some grand skill for exorcising demons instead; even without money, at least they’d earn a reputation for ridding the world of evil, and that wouldn’t be a wasted life. But somehow, generation after generation, the Yings remained infuriatingly stubborn, deaf to all such “well-meaning advice.” Money, as fate willed it; fame, they didn’t care for either—over a thousand years, and they truly had stuck with this hole the whole while, never going anywhere. Through all the upheavals of the world, through dynasties rising and falling, they seemed rooted to this spot, watching as a stretch of wasteland turned into a village, then cycled again and again through prosperity and war, slowly arriving at the present—an ordinary residence in Green Wall County.

Amid countless changes, the only constant was the Ying family, keeping watch here.

Even the hole itself had changed.

Starting roughly two hundred years ago, it had gradually grown larger—from the size of a human head to twice that—and had also begun showing other abnormalities.

Back then, the Ying ancestor on duty discovered that during the hottest days of midsummer, when the sky showed the astrological sign of “Fu Huo Lian Xing” (Concealed-Fire Linked Stars), rats would come running toward the mouth of the hole. Rats in the courtyard weren’t unusual in themselves, but these particular rats, upon reaching the hole’s edge, would unhesitatingly leap straight down into it. Over the centuries, they’d tried countless methods to seal the opening, none of which worked; no matter how carefully they watched, small animals and insects wandering by would inevitably fall in from time to time—but falling in had always simply meant falling in, with nothing unusual following. This time, though, the rats behaved very differently. They stepped up to the hole’s mouth but did not fall—something like an invisible hand within the pitch-black opening seemed to hold them up, suspending them in an eerie posture above the hole.

Witnessing this, the Ying family felt both astonished and quietly worried, unsure for a while how to respond. When the floating rats were set back down on the ground, they captured a few and studied them closely, but found nothing abnormal about their bodies, so for the time being they simply caged them. Days later, they still hadn’t found anything unusual about these rats, and to make comparison easier, they caught some ordinary rats and caged them together—only to find that the strange rats immediately attacked their own kind. Most inconceivable of all, though they only bit with their mouths, the bitten rats didn’t die from the wound—instead, they instantly turned into a pile of ash still holding the shape they’d had at the moment of death, which then scattered apart at the slightest outside disturbance.

Astonished, they repeated the test multiple times, always with the same result. They also put other living creatures in with the strange rats, but the rats didn’t attack them—even when bitten, the wounds remained ordinary, without turning the victim to ash. So they concluded that those few rats that had floated above the hole’s mouth had become monsters capable of easily killing their own kind. Fortunately, the sign of Concealed-Fire Linked Stars lasted only three to five days; once it passed, the hole seemed to lose interest in summoning rats, and lay there as unremarkably as ever, as if nothing had happened.

In the end, they put those dangerous rats to death, and a few hours later, the dead rats turned into a pile of black sand. Having witnessed such a scene, the unease in their hearts grew even stronger.

The following midsummer, the same thing happened again—only this time, it wasn’t just the rats in their household, but even some birds outside were “drawn” in. Having prepared for this, they swiftly captured the creatures that had floated above the hole’s mouth, and found that they too had gained the ability to harm their own kind.

Realizing this was an extremely dangerous matter, they began searching desperately for a solution, but even after years of effort, they couldn’t stop the power hidden within the hole. All they could do, each year before the Concealed-Fire Linked Stars sign arrived in midsummer, was keep watch by the hole around the clock, driving away any living creature that approached.

From that point on, summer became the Ying family’s most tense and exhausting season.

But no matter how careful they were, the thing they feared most eventually happened anyway.

That summer was particularly hot; as usual, they kept their hearts in their throats, working to keep any living creature from approaching the hole. But deep in the night, exhausted and momentarily distracted, they let their guard down—and someone “flew” in over the courtyard wall. To call it “flying” wasn’t quite right—it was more as if some hand had yanked him forcibly inside… And then, just like the rats and birds before him, he floated above the hole’s mouth, utterly unconscious of it—this man who had dropped from the sky was a night watchman who’d simply been passing by outside.

Their hearts clenched tight in that instant.

By the time the watchman had floated back down to the ground, they were more torn than they’d ever been.

Once he came to, the watchman found it all very strange—he hadn’t been drinking, wasn’t sleepwalking, had in fact been diligently sounding his watch, and had no idea how he’d ended up wandering into someone’s back courtyard.

They asked the watchman if he felt anything wrong. He found the question equally puzzling and said nothing was wrong with him at all.

After some hesitation, they let the watchman leave.

For the next three days, the watchman was indeed exactly as he’d claimed—no abnormalities whatsoever, going home, strolling the streets, sounding his watch, all perfectly normal. But once those three days passed, it was very much not fine after all—that day, the watchman was home alone when a neighbor came to visit; the two exchanged a few words but the conversation went sour, and the watchman suddenly grew inexplicably violent. His once-clear eyes suddenly filled with something black, and he seized his neighbor’s arm and bit down. The family, keeping watch nearby, couldn’t stop it in time, and watched helplessly as that innocent man turned instantly to ash.

Upon seeing them appear, the watchman showed not the slightest fear—instead, he smiled and told them, coming here won’t do you any good.

They told him to come home peaceably with them and stop doing anything more terrible. But he lunged at them with a mocking sneer on his face, determined to see them dead.

Left with no choice, they had to raise the blade against their own pain. In terms of skill, he was still no match for them.

Afterward, to avoid complications, they temporarily brought the watchman’s body back to the Ying family’s hidden chamber, hoping there might be some secret technique to restore his life—but they searched every book of secret knowledge handed down from their ancestors, and found no record of anything capable of bringing the dead back to life.

That summer was the darkest period of their entire lives.

Despair, panic, self-doubt like never before.

The Ying family had spent nearly a thousand years, and that hole remained an unhealable wound, a malevolent eye that would never close no matter what. They’d exhausted every effort, and in the end, all they had to show for it was a killing.

Forty-nine days later, the watchman’s remains turned into a heap of scattered sand.

Learning from bitter experience, since the hole had grown restless, they could no longer remain merely passive as before—even at great cost, they had to try something.

Though they lacked the power to raise the dead, they could forge a seal using half of their own lifespan—one that, while unable to stop its ability to “hunt,” could at least keep its prey from falling into its clutches.

From then on, a well that could never be capped stood permanently in the Ying family’s back courtyard. The bricks used to build it were fired with secret techniques, embedding within them the incantations formed from the lives of Ying ancestors, enveloping the entire back courtyard within a seal. From then on, even if it could lure prey back, it could no longer claim them. This was the only method they could devise—costly as it was, at least it bought them a measure of safety, for a time.

But unfortunately, that peace lasted only a hundred years.

This knife was forged personally by Father’s father, heavy and sharp, able to cut through iron like mud, and even more efficient for beheading. The old man had said the Ying family would need a good knife, in the end.

Though the seal forged from the ancestors’ lives still held, the hole’s power had never diminished the slightest for its existence, and this mysterious, malevolent wound kept “growing”—compared to a hundred years earlier, it had picked up new tricks.

During the days of Concealed-Fire Linked Stars, the most dangerous days of summer, they discovered a stranger—a young woman—floating above the well’s mouth with no warning whatsoever. But looking closely, she wasn’t actually a real person, more like a soul in a near-transparent state. In their urgency, they tried binding the woman’s wrist with a dream-soul thread, so that once she vanished from the hole’s mouth, they could use the thread to trace her location.

She turned out to be in a small town a thousand miles away.

They soon found the woman; she had no awareness whatsoever that some part of herself had ever left her body—no surprise, since humans in the depths of sleep are at their most vulnerable and unguarded.

Their feelings could only be described as stunned—this hole, in the span of a mere hundred years, had learned an entirely new method of hunting, rendering the Ying family’s seal effectively useless.

When the woman, her eyes gone strange, savagely lunged at her own family, what could they do?

To protect the innocent, all that was left was the blade.

Grandfather passed the knife to Father; Father would, in time, pass it to him.

Over the years, the creatures who died beneath the blade had also grown increasingly unpleasant—not only fighting back, but speaking bizarre words to them like some old acquaintance who despised them, mostly mocking the Ying family’s “bleak and futile” existence.

He’d once asked Father—since the hole was already this dangerous, why not seek help from others?

Father said, seeking help was easy enough, but people’s hearts were far harder to fathom. For a thousand years, only the Ying family had known this hole’s secret, had witnessed its eerie, formidable power; were outsiders to learn of it and instead exploit this wound for unpredictable purposes, that would be a far greater danger.

He seemed to understand Father’s answer, and yet not quite understand it too.

In any case, this was how the Ying family had arrived at the present.

Fortunate amid misfortune—this lethal wound only wreaked havoc during the hottest few days of each year. They’d grown accustomed to calculating the period of Concealed-Fire Linked Stars in advance, watching carefully and guarding against it, though every year two or three unlucky people were still caught by it. The two of them, father and son, could barely manage that number. Even so, even once summer passed, their days remained dull and monotonous—bound by the Ying family’s rules, never setting foot beyond Green Wall County, never letting the hole slip beyond their watch.

So even now, still young, he often felt conflicted—not wanting to be trapped within this narrow patch of ground, yet also not wanting to be given a chance to leave home only for that particular reason. In the dead of night, thinking back on what that old man had said to Father, sleep grew even harder to find; his small head was crammed with far too many thoughts for someone his age.

But no matter how much he pondered, it made no difference; what needed doing still had to be done.

After burying the boy, the half-crescent moon already hung above the treetops. Father planted three sticks of incense before the fresh grave, and father and son bowed as was customary—this task, at least, was now fully complete.

On the way back, father and son rested briefly at the gate of a small temple. Chewing on some dry rations, he pointed to a stone tablet not far off and asked Father what use such things could possibly have—you saw them everywhere, and plenty were even carried on the backs of stone turtles. Having said this, he ran over specially to examine it, making out that it recorded the life story of some general from a previous dynasty.

Father said, when a person is famous enough, accomplished enough, people always find some way to make sure the living remember them, one way or another.

And those who weren’t famous, weren’t accomplished—did they simply not deserve to be remembered? he countered.

Father laughed, and told him just to remember to eat well and sleep well, so he could grow up strong.

He looked at that stone standing there in the dark night, even faintly arrogant in its bearing, and asked Father again—had anyone in their own family ever left their name on tablets like these?

Father joked that their family’s gravestones bore everyone’s name.

He felt somewhat indignant, and said their own family might well be no less formidable than that general he’d never even heard of—could that general have kept watch over one place for a thousand years straight? Could he use dream-soul thread to track down dangerous beings? Could he bear the misunderstanding of being a murderer while protecting other living things from being turned to ash?

If not for the Ying family’s near-unbelievable persistence, who knew how many innocent lives that hole might have “eaten” by now. It was their names that ought to be deeply carved into these stones, so that everyone would remember what price they had paid for this world.

Father rapped him on the head and said with a laugh, even carving your name into a tablet a hundred times over wouldn’t change anything—what’s meant to pass will pass, what’s meant to be forgotten will be forgotten. Don’t fuss over such small matters, just eat your flatbread properly.

He took a few more sullen bites, but still couldn’t help himself, and asked Father again—why did stone tablets always need to be carried on a turtle’s back?

Father said that wasn’t actually a turtle, but a bixi—it just looked like a turtle. In truth it was a kind of demon with an especially long lifespan, and because it was strong and stood steady, people liked to carve stone statues shaped like it to bear tablets—partly for the sake of stability, and partly hoping to borrow the creature’s longevity so that whoever and whatever the tablet recorded might likewise be remembered through the ages. Then, quite seriously, Father shared a little secret with him—said that not all the bixi carrying tablets in this world were mere stone statues; some were transformed from real bixi, who gave up millions of years of freedom in exchange for perfecting their cultivation and ascending as dragons. So those stone turtles carrying tablets that he saw—quite a few of them might well be real bixi, still deep in painstaking cultivation.

He thought about this for a long while, then asked, puzzled—just by carrying tablets for millions of years, could their cultivation be perfected? If so, the cultivation path for other demons seemed unfairly difficult by comparison.

Father laughed and said, apparently there was an unwritten rule among the craftsmen who erected these tablets—when a tablet was carved for someone of noble status, once finished, it would be covered with red cloth for three days and nights; if a bixi appeared beneath the tablet after those three days, they would hold a ritual to thank the heavens and the gods, because they believed anyone whose tablet earned a bixi to carry it was certain to ascend to immortality. Conversely, for the sake of their own cultivation, bixi would only choose to carry tablets for such illustrious figures, helping spread their virtuous reputation far and wide, bringing blessing to all under heaven. But this, too, was only a legend he’d heard from his own ancestors—after all, he himself had never encountered a real bixi to this day; what one commonly saw in the world were only carved stone imitations. The Ying family specialized in celestial arts, not demonology, so what he’d heard might well just be hearsay passed down from earlier generations—worth hearing as an interesting tale, nothing more.

Hearing this, he pursed his lips and said, so even turtles carrying tablets had to be picky about carrying only for the famous—then he took Huanhuan out and said to its face, you’d better not go carrying anyone else’s tablet in the future.

Huanhuan rolled its eyes at him.

Father nearly died laughing, saying a little thing like this couldn’t even carry a bowl. He glared at Father and said, maybe it’ll grow bigger someday!

Father looked at Huanhuan and said, then would you want it to be like us—never free for its whole life, guarding one place until death?

He froze for a moment—he’d only said it casually, never having thought that far.

Father looked up at the night sky and said, if suffering to the utmost could guarantee ascension, that would be one thing, but think about it—ascending as a dragon is no easy matter. Over millions of years, too much could change; if, before its cultivation was ever complete, the tablet it carried toppled or crumbled, then all its effort would come to nothing, and from then on it would become nothing but an abandoned stone that no one cared for, forced to remain in the same place, alone for lifetime after lifetime. Just like our own Ying family keeping watch over this hole—we have no idea how much longer our abilities can hold it, no idea what our family’s final outcome will be. Maybe we’ll lose, maybe someday we’ll find a way to defeat it, but the one certain thing right now is that we too must give up our own freedom, striving toward a “perfect merit” we can’t be sure we’ll ever achieve. Looking at it another way, we’re rather like the bixi ourselves—that hole is the tablet our family has carried on its back for generation after generation, only this particular tablet is so wicked that for a thousand years all we’ve thought about is how to throw it off our backs and smash it to pieces.

Father rarely spoke to him at such length; he understood only half of it, while Huanhuan, oddly, listened with rapt attention, its small eyes seeming to shine.

A gust of wind blew past, cooling his sweat-damp body slightly, and he happened to glance at Father’s upturned profile—this man whom everyone in Green Wall County dismissed as an idle swindler had, in the moonlight, faintly reddened eyes.

He suddenly thought—the Ying family’s earth-shrinking technique, capable of crossing a thousand miles in an instant, was surely something others would deeply envy. But perhaps what Father truly longed for was the day he could travel without such haste—on foot, on horseback, by boat, taking all manner of slow, unhurried paths, walking freely through the seasons of heaven and earth without a care, and upon returning home at his leisure, the first thing he’d do would be to wipe the dust from his face, pluck the wild grass or petals clinging to his clothes, and brew a good pot of tea—rather than, forever on guard, going to check that back-courtyard “well” that never brought anyone any good feeling.

Let’s go home. Father stood, his face once again wearing that familiar expression—calm, at ease, smiling like a swindler who’d just pulled off a con.

The familiar light flickered before his eyes once more.

This year, their summer ended here.

2

From daytime until now, he had finally made his decision.

Deep in the night, he slipped out of the house in secret.

That year’s winter was bitterly cold, cold enough to freeze a few people to death, it seemed—even Green Wall County, always mild, couldn’t escape it, and snow even fell.

Right now, the thin snow on the ground had been trampled into a layer of thin ice. He’d chosen the darkest clothes he owned, and even in the night, kept to the least conspicuous corners as he walked. His destination was “He’s Hundred Herbs” on South Street, the largest apothecary in Green Wall County.

Going to buy medicine this late? Of course not—going to steal medicine.

He’d already tried to buy it during the day, but they wouldn’t sell it to him.

Since the onset of winter, Father had fallen ill. What good was mastery of celestial arts, what good was using dream-soul thread to eliminate evil a thousand miles away—he was still mortal flesh, and mortal flesh still fell sick. First a cough, then a fever, and then even lying down grew difficult; he was constantly short of breath, and eating less and less.

He’d grown afraid. Father seemed never to have had any experience with taking medicine before—he always said medicine wasn’t as good as proper food, and whenever he had some minor ailment, he’d brew some strange soup and drink it, and it would genuinely resolve itself.

Looking back now, that had only ever been coincidence.

The physician said the situation wasn’t good, then rattled off a string of terms he couldn’t quite follow—the gist of it being that to root out the illness entirely, they’d need to try a life-saving qi-restoring broth brewed from a thousand-year-old ginseng root, and the sooner it was procured, the better; the longer they delayed, the worse it would grow.

Though he knew nothing of medicine, he understood well enough how precious a thousand-year-old ginseng root would be. He took every last coin the household had and rushed to “He’s Hundred Herbs” first thing in the morning, hoping this was the one place in Green Wall County that could offer him this thing.

The apothecary’s owner naturally knew father and son, but like the rest of the villagers, held little goodwill toward them—hardworking folk who toiled from dawn to dusk for their money had scant patience for people like them, seen as idle types who tricked others out of their money with mere words.

Anxious, he pushed all his money in front of the owner the moment he arrived, saying if it wasn’t enough he’d find a way to make up the difference—whatever the price, he would pay it, as long as he could get the thousand-year ginseng.

Though the owner had little fondness for father and son, this was still a customer seeking medicine to save a life, and he couldn’t simply turn him away outright—besides, the money he’d brought wasn’t far off the mark.

The owner called his wife over to check the storeroom.

She came back and reported that they’d received three roots of aged ginseng this year, two of which had already sold. The one remaining had already been reserved by Squire Qian, who was to collect it in three days.

The owner spread his hands—you heard her.

He said he’d gladly pay extra, double or triple the price, and would never go back on his word—he only asked to have the ginseng today.

The couple flatly refused, saying the rule of first-come-first-served couldn’t be broken.

Desperate, he blurted out that he’d just seen Squire Qian yesterday, glowing with health, not remotely ill—it was his own father who was truly sick!

The couple looked somewhat embarrassed, but still held firm to their rule—whoever paid the deposit first, the item stayed reserved for them.

He knew Squire Qian was among the most prominent figures in Green Wall County—wealthy beyond question, with a son said to hold official position in the capital, practically the pride of the whole county.

He knelt before the couple—he had never knelt for anyone before; Father wouldn’t allow it, saying good outcomes were never won through kneeling, and there was no need to wrong his own knees. There were only the two of them left in the Ying family, and even without Ying blood in his veins, he was still Father’s son.

The couple still shook their heads, telling him to find some other way.

He frowned, stood, and before leaving, turned back to ask one more thing—if someone far more formidable than the Qian family came looking for them today, would they still stick to their rule?

The couple froze for a moment; before they could answer, he had already left the shop, vanishing into the cold air.

When Father asked where he’d gone that morning, he told the truth—he’d gone to the apothecary, but hadn’t gotten the medicine.

Father said, what use was buying that anyway, a waste of money; don’t listen to that quack physician, it’s just a minor illness, it’ll pass on its own once the weather warms. He also said the apothecary owner had done nothing wrong—first-come-first-served was simply the rule.

He said nothing, only stoked the charcoal fire in the room a little higher.

He wasn’t going to wait for the weather to warm.

The back half of the apothecary was the storeroom—not large, but packed with medicinal herbs, the air thick with a chaotic mix of scents. He held up a fire striker, searching quickly and nervously.

Cure Father’s illness first—even if it meant a beating afterward, so be it, so long as this was his first time stealing and they didn’t beat him to death.

But before he’d even spotted where the ginseng was kept, the owner caught him red-handed.

Bad luck, it seemed—the owner, sleeping soundly upstairs that night, had for some reason grown uneasy about the count of a few herbs in the storeroom not adding up, and had insisted on coming down to check before he could rest easy.

He backed against the counter; his only relief was that his face was covered by a cloth.

But a mere face cloth was hardly enough to stop the owner from recognizing him at once.

Shock, fury—the owner shouted his accusation.

His heart nearly leapt out of his mouth; he could only repeat, over and over, that he’d come to save a life, not to steal deliberately, and he set the bag of money down on the ground, begging the owner to give him the ginseng.

Hearing the commotion, the owner’s wife came hurrying over as well, and finding a thief in their shop naturally sent her fury flaring—seeing it was him only made it worse, and the couple immediately unleashed every harsh word they’d normally held back.

Such a young age, and already up to no good—clearly a lack of proper upbringing.

His father’s a good-for-nothing type too, no wonder he turns to thievery in the dead of night—like father, like son.

Whether we do business with you or not is our call—how dare you steal instead of just walking away when refused?

Even if Squire Qian wanted the ginseng to soak in wine, it still had to go to him! You think they’re idle wastrels like your father? Every road you’ve walked today was paid for by the Qian family’s money! If you ask me, that ginseng soaking in Squire Qian’s wine bottle is still better than going into your father’s stomach!

Perhaps it really was just careless, angry talk from a couple not thinking straight, but to his young ears, every word landed like a blade, cutting him raw.

You only see the people who build roads, but you don’t see the ones who spend a lifetime protecting the lives of people who have nothing to do with them… Even if you don’t know it, what has Father ever done wrong on ordinary days? He simply never became what you’d call “respectable”—you look down on him, that’s all.

A flame ignited in his suddenly furious heart, spreading through every vessel in his body in an instant—a strange, powerful force he’d never known before seemed to burst free from a prison sealed shut for too long, trampling all his clarity and reason underfoot, seizing hold of his once-calm, kind soul.

“You have no right to speak of him that way!”

He lunged forward, one hand clamping around each of their throats. Those eyes, always so clear and bright, instantly filled with an ink-black mist; his eyes were eyes no longer, but two pitch-black holes, hungry to swallow everything.

From his arms to his fingertips, as though bathed in the harshest light of midsummer, a force born of him yet not controlled by him turned the couple into two piles of ash, not yet dispersed—their faces still frozen in shock.

In that moment, he had no idea what he was doing, didn’t even know where he was—only that the fury in his heart demanded an outlet.

A loud bang.

Someone kicked him away, sending him crashing hard into the counter.

He could see clearly again now, it seemed; blinking his eyes back to normal, the first thing he saw was Father’s ashen face.

He hadn’t even noticed when or from where Father had burst in.

Urgent footsteps sounded from outside—it was the apothecary’s young assistant, shouting to ask who was there, mixed in with the sound of a child crying for its mother and father.

Father had no time to think; he slashed a beam of light through the air and yanked his dazed son through it.

The Ying family’s earth-shrinking technique had never been used in such a state of panic before.

3

In some unnamed dense forest, he stood dazed beneath a large tree. Opposite him, Father gripped the blade, looking at him with almost the same expression he’d once used to look upon the wicked ones who’d died by his hand.

His body trembled slightly, and he stammered: “I only wanted to get that ginseng root… I brought money with me. I never meant to kill them, truly I didn’t! I was just angry at what they said… I just wanted them to stop…” From the moment they’d arrived until now, Father hadn’t said a single word; his illness combined with his tangled emotions made him look more frightening than he’d ever been.

“Father, don’t be angry, your health is already poor as it is.” He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright, and lifted his head instead. “I don’t know what came over me, but since they died because of me, if you kill me in payment, I’m willing—I won’t run.” He closed his eyes and turned his head aside; having committed such a monstrous wrong, surrendering his life seemed only right.

A sharp whoosh—a bitterly cold, keen gust of air brushed past his ear, followed by a resounding clang.

Father’s blade had sunk deep into a tree trunk, the force so great that leaves fell like rain.

Then Father suddenly crouched down, hands clawing wildly through his own hair, striking himself hard several times with his fists, gritting out through clenched teeth: “My fault… it’s all my fault…”

He rushed over and grabbed Father’s hands, panicked. “Father, don’t do this, I was wrong—just kill me! I don’t deserve to be your son.”

Father shook his head fiercely, pulled his hand away, and fixed him with a pair of bloodshot eyes: “Listen to me. This is not your fault. It was a moment of poor judgment on my part, all those years ago!” As he spoke, he broke into violent coughing.

“Father!” He hurried to pat Father’s back. “If you don’t want to look at me right now, I can go find somewhere to hide for a while.”

But Father grabbed onto him and wouldn’t let go, and once he’d steadied himself, sat down, gasping heavily. He didn’t dare speak further, didn’t dare pry Father’s hand loose either, and could only sit down alongside him.

In the pitch-dark forest, passing wild beasts made uneasy sounds.

He didn’t even dare breathe too loudly.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Father let go of him, leaning back against the cold, hard tree trunk, and said slowly: “Fifteen years ago, I went to eliminate a wicked woman—she was pregnant. When I found her, she was in labor, about to give birth. She didn’t mock me the way the other wicked ones did—she only asked me whether I intended to spare not even the child in her womb.” His gaze drifted to the knife lodged in the tree trunk opposite. “I gave her no answer. But the raised blade—I didn’t bring it down either.”

He looked at Father’s face, sunk deep in memory, and from those few short sentences, he seemed to already understand something.

“Father… did you… make the wrong choice?” His heart began sinking, and sinking further.

“I didn’t choose. I simply took a gamble.” Father laughed bitterly, turning to look at him. “A thousand years now, and each generation of the Ying family has grown smaller than the last. That the line has survived down to me without breaking is already something of a miracle. I always made myself believe that what our family shoulders is the mission of protecting the innocent from calamity, that everything we do is right. But I never told you—I too have wavered.”

He frowned, both wanting to hear more and dreading to hear more.

Father sighed. “The people they turned to ash were pitiful, innocent souls. I should have raised the blade without a shred of mercy, and been glad—proud, even—for every danger I eliminated.” He gazed into the depths of the dense forest, his eyes finding nowhere to settle. “But those people… before that moment, they too had been ordinary folk you’d see anywhere in the streets and markets. Every time my blade fell, I never felt the slightest bit glad. I hated those three words—’murderer’—I told myself I wasn’t one, and yet I truly was. In my dreams, those creatures turned to black sand would always gather back together, as if nothing had ever happened, and smile as they said to me: you could have just let it go. The safety of all beings was never your family’s responsibility alone. You can’t carry this weight, yet you insist on carrying it anyway. What’s it all for? Who knows you? Who cares about you? Fighting alone, a lifetime of solitude, and an accusation you’ll never fully shake.” Having said this all in one breath, he laughed, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

“Father…” He stared blankly at this man. He was fifteen this year, and this man before him had raised him for fifteen years, teaching him every skill the Ying family excelled in, doing his best to help him understand and accept, in the gentlest way possible, the burden their family had carried for so many years. No matter how difficult the moments they’d been through, he’d never seen Father’s face carry such conflicted, sorrowful desolation—like some towering ancient tree finally struck by lightning, about to break yet not quite breaking, swaying precariously.

Father wiped his eyes and reached up to grip his shoulder: “I always thought you were fine.”

Fine? Until today, he too had always believed himself fine—even though he wasn’t Father’s blood child, at least he was still human. A normal person.

“That day, I selfishly thought—perhaps I could use your life to salvage what remained of mine.” Father’s hand trembled slightly. “Your mother was destroyed, but you still had a chance, even if only half a one. If I’d killed you too, I feared that one day I might come to hate this knife—might even… come to hate my own family name.”

“I’m sorry.” He clenched his fists, his heart cracking apart, grinding painfully. “I’ve disappointed you. I still couldn’t escape the very thing you feared most.”

With that, he stood, walked to the opposite tree, and pulled the blade free with all his strength. Staring at that cold, gleaming edge that had taken countless lives, he suddenly turned the point around, about to drive it into himself.

Seeing the couple turn into what they’d become had left him in agony too—not only for having taken two lives, but the fact of turning from a human into a monster left him even more despairing.

A stone flew over just in time, striking his hand. Amid a burst of numbness he was forced to let go, and the blade’s edge slid down along his clothes, clattering to the ground.

Father approached him with red-rimmed eyes, fixing him with a hard stare: “All these years, I’ve reminded myself more than once—if you ever showed any sign of abnormality, I couldn’t keep you.”

He closed his eyes, expecting Father to strike him down himself. But instead, Father’s hand fell gently upon his head.

“But I can never forget how many diapers I washed for you, how I got up four or five times a night to feed you goat’s milk, listened to you wail and giggle, watched you toddle unsteadily toward me calling me Father.” His voice sounded thick, blocked up, oddly funny to listen to. “You are my child. A living, breathing person.”

He finally broke into tears, kneeling before him: “Father, I’m so afraid…”

“You’re not like those truly wicked people. You’re not a monster—that’s why you feel guilt and pain over this.” Father pulled him back up. “I will find a way to help you get through the rest of your life safely. But you must promise me something too—from now on, cultivate yourself with discipline, never quarrel with others, don’t rage, don’t be reckless; only a settled mind can guard a steady spirit.”

He nodded firmly. “I will.”

As long as he never turned into a monster again, as long as he didn’t make Father suffer like this again, he was willing to do anything.

The night grew heavier, like a pair of vast wings, wrapping up the tears and worries of both father and son together.

Inside the pack he never went without, something let out a soft sigh—but so faint that neither of them heard it.

4

The murder case at “He’s Hundred Herbs” ultimately became an unsolved mystery. The authorities investigated for a long time without any lead, and all manner of strange speculation circulated among the townsfolk for a few years before finally dying down. The He family’s young master was long since taken away by relatives to live elsewhere; afterward the apothecary was torn down and rebuilt into an ironware shop, said to have been blessed by some master who declared that iron wards off evil and could suppress it.

For several years afterward, he always went out of his way to avoid that street, buying what he needed and hurrying straight home, never lingering.

From that winter onward, Father’s health took a permanent turn for the worse; even as the weather warmed, there was no real improvement, though he kept insisting he was fine, that he could manage. Sometimes he would use the earth-shrinking technique alone to travel elsewhere, coming back with books or medicinal herbs, then quietly researching at home—brewing broths one moment, refining pills the next. In the last two years, when midsummer’s dangerous days arrived, Father had essentially retired from the field, leaving the task of chasing down and dispatching threats entirely to him.

Father said, the guilt over the couple could be repaid, bit by bit, each summer—repaid for a whole lifetime, and then, once his own natural life came to its end, he could go below and kowtow in apology to them.

Thinking of it this way made things a little easier to bear, but he knew that no matter how much danger he cleared away, how many lives he saved, those already lost could never come back.

When time reached the autumn of his twentieth year, Father passed away.

As he changed Father’s clothes, he thought Father actually still looked quite young—if his beard were shaved clean and his hair neatly combed, some young woman would surely have taken a liking to him.

Keeping vigil beside Father that night, he’d thought he would break down sobbing, but he didn’t—he only sat within the dancing candlelight, recalling again and again what Father had liked to eat, to play with, the amusing things he’d said, and all the limited places they’d gone together, every sunrise and sunset they’d watched side by side.

He finally became the Ying family’s newest heir, accompanied by the place that had bound the family for a thousand years, a knife, and a turtle with almost no presence at all—Huanhuan lay quietly on the table, watching father and son, occasionally blinking, always wearing that expression free of joy or sorrow, love or hate, living out its days in perfect steadiness.

He found himself, oddly, a little envious of Huanhuan.

“From now on, you won’t have to worry about Father taking your shell to cast divinations with.” He gave Huanhuan a small smile. “He won’t outlive you.”

Huanhuan yawned.

Dawn was still far off. His gaze fell to his own left forearm, where three bright red characters had been marked—Ying Fansheng.

Father had tattooed them onto him himself, the year before, saying this was the best method he could find to keep the rest of his life stable and secure. Father said the pigment used was no simple thing—it held powerful talismanic incantations, herbs that steadied the mind and guarded the soul, and the heartfelt wishes of generation upon generation of the Ying family, their blessing for him.

“A son grown, born of the Ying family; a mortal heart, a mortal man, guarding all living beings.” These were the last words Father had spoken to him while alive.

So Father truly had put thought into naming him. As long as he always remembered his own name, he would never turn into a monster. He held Father’s cold hand and didn’t let go, even as dawn broke.

No one in Green Wall County noticed that the Ying family’s fortune-telling stall hadn’t been set up for a long while, nor did they realize that the fortune-teller himself was gone. Even if they had known, it would have amounted to no more than an “oh.” What was there to remark on? Green Wall County had certainly seen deaths before, and this was merely some fortune-teller whose full name no one even knew—with him or without him, Green Wall County remained exactly the same Green Wall County.

The only one who helped him through the funeral arrangements from start to finish was Li Huoniu. This fellow had been his sworn brother for so many years; no matter how others looked down on father and son, Li Huoniu was always simply Li Huoniu, never once thinking there was anything wrong with the two of them. In fact, whenever other children mocked him as a good-for-nothing little fortune-teller’s boy, Li Huoniu was always the first to charge in and beat them for it. Though slight of build, his strength when angry was formidable, often sending those children fleeing in wailing terror. They’d spent several years studying together; Li Huoniu was always scheming to skip class, and his schoolwork was never finished on time—he’d once imitated Li Huoniu’s handwriting to do his homework for him, only to be caught at a glance by the old tutor, and the two fellow strugglers were punished together, made to stand and have their palms struck. Whenever punished, Li Huoniu would take him fishing in the river after school, feeling wronged on his behalf, and the two would grill and eat fish together until fully satisfied before heading home; once home, Li Huoniu would go explain to his father that it had been his own fault, not that the boy hadn’t been studying properly, and beg Uncle Ying not to punish him further. And afterward, out of genuine concern not to drag him into trouble, Li Huoniu had gradually broken his own habit of skipping class, and even when he had no interest in doing his homework, he did it himself from then on. In truth, no matter how much mischief he himself got up to growing up, Father had never once punished him for it, and had even told him Li Huoniu was a fine little friend worth cherishing.

For a long time, he’d felt Li Huoniu was like an older brother to him, but ever since fully learning the secret of their own back courtyard, he’d exhausted every excuse to keep Li Huoniu from ever coming to his house again. He couldn’t drag his only friend into unknowable danger.

He’d once asked Father why the hole never targeted the Ying family, so close at hand. Father said, it only dares to attack those without defenses—we’ve guarded against it for a thousand years, and that resolve which holds nothing back is more than it can handle. Or, put another way, we’re its predestined nemesis; until it’s thoroughly dealt with, we won’t come to harm. So don’t be too discouraged—everything has its natural check; it can’t go wrong.

Whether or not Father’s explanation was true, he believed it, and it only strengthened his resolve never to drag anyone unguarded into danger.

This didn’t affect his friendship with Li Huoniu, though. Whenever they had free time, they’d still eat and drink together, hunting for interesting trinkets at the market. Once, while feasting happily at a small restaurant, Li Huoniu casually asked him what he wanted to do in the future.

He froze for a moment. The future? Wasn’t his future the same as every Ying family member’s—spending a whole lifetime guarding that dangerous secret? But he couldn’t tell Li Huoniu the truth, so he only mumbled something about seeing what came, maybe just like Father, setting up a fortune-telling stall. And you? What do you want to do? Go take the imperial exams?

Li Huoniu laughed heartily, saying if he ever managed to pass the imperial exams, his own father would probably leap up from his grave in sheer delight.

He felt he’d asked a foolish question too—so what did he want to do, then?

Li Huoniu said, quite seriously, that he planned to join the fire brigade once he was old enough. Before his family had moved to Green Wall County, they’d once survived a fire, and he and his mother had been rescued by several firefighters. He thought firefighters were incredibly impressive—able to face down even the biggest blaze. He still remembered, once his mother had recovered, how she’d wept and kowtowed to those who’d saved them—that kind of gratitude, straight from the bottom of the heart, probably wasn’t something you’d feel in most other lines of work.

He laughed, so you want to be a firefighter just to have people thank you?

Li Huoniu shook his head—not exactly, he just felt this line of work suited him better than others. Look at this build, this strength of mine—it’d be a waste not to go into this trade! By now, Li Huoniu was living up to his name more and more, having grown, almost without anyone noticing, into a strapping young man.

He wasn’t quite convinced, though, and said being a firefighter was too dangerous. Li Huoniu shook his head—I’m not afraid. Walking down the street, I could just as easily get killed by a falling flowerpot.

Well, the lofty ambitions of youth never needed much reasoning behind them—at least Li Huoniu knew what he wanted to do, unlike him, who couldn’t even name his own future.

Later, Li Huoniu really did become a firefighter.

He was happy for him.

The Ying family’s ancestral graves lay on the mountain east of Green Wall County. There were no gravestones there, really—only a single large bluestone that naturally stood in that spot, carved with the names of the Ying ancestors resting eternally beneath. And per the family’s ancestral teachings, deep burial was all that was required—no mounded grave, no ritual worship, not even a visible marker in death.

Having buried Father, he ran his fingers over the newly carved name on the bluestone, silent for a long while.

A lifetime spent, killing and saving, and in the end, all that remained was a burial ground overgrown with wild grass.

Li Huoniu patted his shoulder, took out a bottle of good wine he’d brought along, poured it over the freshly turned earth, and bowed his head three times before the new grave, saying: “Uncle Ying, Fansheng and I are both grown now. The days ahead won’t be bad, don’t worry. I know your family doesn’t allow visitors, but today I’m going to let you drink your fill, and watch over Fansheng from up above and keep him safe.”

The scent of wine hung heavy in the air; he felt a slight sting in his nose.

As evening fell, he and Li Huoniu walked down the mountain beneath a golden-red sunset. With his ancestors for company, Father surely wouldn’t be lonely anymore.

Only, he didn’t notice that Huanhuan hadn’t come down with them. The small white turtle had crawled out of the pack at some point, unnoticed, and lay atop the fresh earth, head raised, making a strange sound from its mouth—something like a person speaking, or perhaps an incantation.

Before long, a ball of white light the size of an egg, shaped somewhat like a dandelion, rose up from beneath the soil, drifting slowly in midair; a pair of small holes that might have been eyes gradually appeared upon it, blinking blankly.

“Ying Qinzhi, I have marked you.” The turtle spoke to the ball of white light.

The light seemed to understand its words, turning to look at it as if someone long away from home had suddenly glimpsed the direction of that home, then swiftly flying toward it, striking against its body and vanishing without a trace.

And on the turtle’s back, a patch of five-colored, immortal-mist-wreathed light suddenly rose up, and within that radiance, the three characters “Ying Qinzhi” flashed briefly before vanishing.

The turtle turned its head to look at the great bluestone once more, gave a little hiccup, stretched its neck out, and then slowly crawled off down the mountain.

Beneath that golden light, the last name carved into the bluestone was the one he’d just carved himself—Father’s name: Ying Qinzhi.

5

Counting the years, he had now been a fortune-teller for five years.

He picked up the banner cloth Father had left behind and set up his stall in the old spot in Green Wall County, running a barely-alive business. Truth be told, he understood nothing of actual divination—Father had only ever told him, shake the coins however you like, say only good things and never bad, since most people’s lives are hard enough as it is, and what they really want is just a little comfort.

Always saying only good things, no wonder Father had been called a fortune-teller without real skill; by the time it reached him, he hadn’t earned much of a good reputation either—Green Wall County had simply gained one more idle fellow scraping by on other people’s coin.

Li Huoniu was his regular customer, always finding excuses to hand him money, saying spending a bit of money to hear such pleasant words was well worth it!

He told Li Huoniu not to spend money so carelessly—though a firefighter’s pay wasn’t bad, he ought to be saving up to start a family and build a life.

Li Huoniu never listened to him, always tossing down his coins and walking off, turning back halfway to pull a face at him and say, I come here to hear nice things, not to be nagged at!

He could only sigh helplessly.

Later, he learned to make various protective talismans—for wealth, for love, for safety, all sorts. He always kept the safety talismans aside for Li Huoniu, insisting he carry them properly. Compared to protective talismans, Li Huoniu put more faith in his own strong body and accumulated experience, but out of fear of his nagging, he kept them safe all the same.

Ever since Father’s death, his heart seemed to have sunk deep into the ocean, barely stirring with any waves. No matter what others said to him—kind words or harsh—he instinctively kept it all outside his chest. As long as his heart stayed steady, neither angry nor overjoyed, he would remain Ying Fansheng, and nothing else.

Outside of midsummer, his time was spent entirely between setting up his stall, packing it away, and keeping watch over that hole in the back courtyard. Through the days of Concealed-Fire Linked Stars, he grew increasingly adept—the earth-shrinking technique Father had taught him was second nature by now, and his use of the dream-soul thread had become highly skilled too. He seemed to have real talent in the mystic arts; only when it came to raising the blade would he sometimes hesitate at the last moment, and once he’d nearly let someone escape. Gradually, he came to understand why Father had been so grieved that night he’d made his terrible mistake.

A truly good person never enjoys taking another life.

Looking at that still-vivid name inked into his arm, he felt a quiet gladness in his heart—maybe, from now on, he really was just himself. If Father knew, he’d surely be pleased.

His expectation should have proven correct—if not for what happened next.

That New Year’s Eve, Squire Qian’s household caught fire. Three firefighters died in the line of duty—Li Huoniu among them.

He might have made it out alive; the man he’d already rescued cried out that his child was still inside, and Li Huoniu, already exhausted beyond his limits, turned back without a moment’s hesitation. Just steps from safety, he was crushed by a collapsing beam, and with his last breath, he handed the child he’d shielded in his arms to the comrade coming to receive him.

The fire raged all night and wasn’t finally extinguished until dawn broke. Squire Qian’s estate had been reduced almost entirely to rubble, but at least his own family had all made it out alive.

When the three unrecognizable bodies were carried out of the ashes, Li Huoniu’s mother wept until she fainted.

Standing before Li Huoniu’s grave, he still didn’t shed a single tear, only apologizing quietly: “So my safety talisman really was useless, after all. Don’t bother carrying one in your next life.”

The wind was especially fierce that day, cutting into his face like a blade, dry and stinging.

It seemed the older one grew, the fewer people remained close by—he’d only ever had two, and now there was none. His heart, sunk deep in that ocean, felt a faint stab of pain.

He heard that, to honor the fire brigade’s brave conduct that night, the town intended to erect a monument to their merit for Li Huoniu and the others. He thought that was only right—men who’d given their lives to save others surely deserved their names carved in stone, remembered for generations.

But half a year passed, then a year, then three years… and that monument still hadn’t appeared.

What he heard from others was that they were short-staffed to handle such matters, and the funds for erecting the monument had never been allocated—Squire Qian had originally agreed to cover the cost, but was consumed by rebuilding his own estate and had his hands full besides, and between one delay and another, the matter kept being put off. Besides, it wasn’t as though it were something that absolutely had to be done; as time went on, fewer and fewer people gave it any thought at all.

Every time he thought of this, on days that weren’t even cold, he couldn’t help pulling his collar tighter. Everything Li Huoniu had done was, in their eyes, simply a matter that could be set aside without a second thought—whether the monument was erected or not didn’t matter, whether he’d be remembered by many or few didn’t matter. Perhaps those who’d been rescued back then didn’t even know Li Huoniu’s full name.

He told himself he wasn’t angry—even if Li Huoniu himself had known, with his easygoing nature, he certainly wouldn’t have minded—just a monument, really, nothing worth making a fuss over.

But Ying Fansheng had only ever had this one friend, Li Huoniu.

During that stretch of time, he deliberately ignored the surging thoughts within him, still sitting at his fortune-telling stall as usual, smiling to greet every customer who came by, still, in the fierce heat of midsummer, carrying blade and turtle, rushing without pause to every distant, unfamiliar place duty called him.

Every night before sleep, he’d look at his arm and silently recite his own name until he drifted off.

Occasionally he wondered—if he were ever caught and treated as a murderer, they’d surely behead him according to the law. When that moment came, would he stay silent, or curse them all as ungrateful wretches?

But such idle thoughts always passed quickly enough. He knew that as long as he himself was unwilling, he’d never be caught. The skills the Ying family had taught him would protect his safety for a long, long time, ensuring he could bear this hidden, heavy fate firmly on his shoulders.

These past two years, he had, in truth, given some thought to his own future—that girl named Xueyu had secretly slipped several sachets and pairs of shoe insoles into his hands, and her face flushed like she’d been drinking wine every time they exchanged more than a few words. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was sweet, and he didn’t dislike her, though he didn’t quite like her either—perhaps his heart had sunk too long in that ocean, no longer quite used to surfacing. But time, perhaps, might bring surprises; perhaps someday, unexpectedly, he’d want to grow old with someone, raise children with them. But he also feared that day. Whether it was his own children, or raising a child with no blood tie to him the way Father had raised him, he couldn’t be certain whether he too could, amid the bittersweetness, pass on the thousand-year burden the Ying family carried into the hands of someone who’d never had a choice in the matter from the start.

So he kept his distance from Xueyu, before he’d sorted out his own feelings.

He thought he’d need a little more time—never imagining he would make his decision so quickly.

That day, the land on East Mountain had been leveled flat. A group of people, papers in hand, stood right where the Ying ancestors were buried, discussing how to build a comfortable summer retreat there.

By the time he arrived, alerted to what was happening, the ground had already been left in complete disarray, pale bones faintly visible, and even the stone bearing the Ying family’s names had been shoved aside.

The sunlight that day wasn’t especially harsh, and yet it stabbed at his eyes until everything went dark.

Tsk tsk, all these bones—is this a burial ground?

No idea, no markers, no graves—might just be some old mass grave from who knows when.

Weren’t we told this was just abandoned land, unused for years?

Right, that’s exactly what Lord Qin told me—said to just clear it out and start construction.

He barely managed to make out the conversation between the two men leading the group.

“What are you doing?” He forced down his roiling emotions, standing before them as calmly as he could manage.

One of them looked him over. “Under orders, building a summer retreat here.”

“This is where my family’s ancestors rest eternally. It mustn’t be disturbed.” He didn’t even bother asking whose orders they were following.

“What?” The two exchanged glances. “This… there isn’t even a grave mound here. And are you sure this is your family’s land?”

He gritted his teeth. “My ancestors have been buried here for a thousand years.”

“That’s not right.” One of them said, “We checked the land deed before taking this job—this plot clearly belongs to the Qin family. Is your surname Qin?”

At this, an attendant beside him spoke up quickly: “He’s not surnamed Qin, sir—he’s surnamed Ying, the fortune-telling lad from the west street here.”

“Oh… a fortune-teller.” The two seemed to relax somewhat, looking him over again. “Young man, this is where you’re in the wrong—no matter how many of your family you’ve buried on this land, this plot’s already been purchased by the Qin family, and belongs to them now.”

He’d never imagined this ground, where the Ying family had lain for a thousand years, could become entangled in something like a land sale. Wasn’t this supposed to be abandoned land no one had ever cared about?

“I don’t care who bought it.” He gritted his teeth. “You will not touch a single clod of earth here.”

“Young man, it’s not a matter of whether we can touch the soil—this land simply has nothing to do with you, and you’re being unreasonable saying this.” One of them gave a faint, contemptuous laugh. “If you want us not to disturb this place, you’ll need to convince Lord Qin himself to change his mind and build his retreat elsewhere.”

Lord Qin… who was this Lord Qin? He didn’t know the man at all.

“Why does it have to be here specifically?” he asked.

“Said some master consulted on it, and only this spot would bring prosperity to the Qin family’s fortunes.” The other man patted his shoulder. “Young man, there’s no use taking this anywhere—even if you took it to the authorities, you’d still be in the wrong. The land really was legitimately bought.”

He stepped back two paces and shook his head: “As long as I stand here, none of you are moving anything.”

“Ugh, why won’t he listen to reason.” One of them, troubled, turned to his companion. “Why don’t you go ask Lord Qin how he wants us to handle this?”

The other man thought it over, agreed, and rode off at once.

He walked over and forced the fallen bluestone upright with all his strength, using his sleeve to wipe the mud smeared over the carved names.

As the sun was about to set, the man who’d left finally returned, bringing with him a middle-aged man in fine, elegant attire.

“This is Lord Qin’s steward,” the man introduced. “It’d be best if he speaks with you directly.”

The middle-aged man dismounted and walked up to him.

“You cannot build here.” He spoke firmly before the other could open his mouth. “The Ying family’s ancestors are buried here.”

“But we’re the ones who bought this land now.” The middle-aged man smiled, then produced a bag of money. “My lord instructed us not to trouble you. This sum should more than cover moving and reburying your ancestors.”

He naturally refused it, saying coldly: “I don’t believe you knew nothing about this land’s history before purchasing it. There may be no grave mound, no tablet here, but at least half of Green Wall County knows the Ying family has remained here for generations.”

The middle-aged man kept smiling: “This land matters greatly to my lord. Having chosen it, he will not change his mind, whatever happens.” He forced the money bag into his hands. “Son, just take the money. This is not a matter you have any say over.” Then, turning to the other two, he said, “Help him along—clear this place out as quickly as possible, don’t hold up my lord’s business.”

The two men bobbed their heads eagerly, quickly agreeing.

Clear this place “out” as quickly as possible?

Clear out? Only trash needed clearing out.

He looked down at the heavy bag in his hands, then suddenly laughed and asked: “If the people buried here were some Lord Zhang, Lord Li, General Wang, General Xu—even a prince, or the emperor himself… would you still want to ‘clear’ them out?”

Everyone froze, saying nothing. The middle-aged man gave a cold laugh and shook his head, not deigning to say another word to him, and mounted his horse to leave.

Long after the sound of hooves had faded, he still stood there, numb.

Someone patted his shoulder, as if offering comfort: “Great men, kid. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

He didn’t respond.

A dozen or so iron shovels began swinging up and down, soil flying everywhere—and he made no move to stop them, felt no impulse to lunge forward and choke them. He stood there motionless as a statue, watching every one of their movements, while his soul kept diving deeper into that ocean, fishing for his own heart, which seemed about to sink even further out of reach—he feared he might never find it again.

Deep in the night, when all was silent.

In the Ying family’s back courtyard, a large pile of bones had been gathered—it had taken several carts to haul it all back, as he’d requested.

He sat before that pile of bones, trying to guess which parts belonged to Father.

After a long while, he laughed, and said, even a small, unregarded figure shouldn’t be treated with this kind of contempt.

Father, I’ve thought it through now. I know what my future should look like.

Those eyes, calm for so many years, filled once more with that long-absent blackness. He reached out and placed his hand upon the cold pile of bones.

In an instant, the bones turned to ash.

And at that very moment, on distant East Mountain, craftsmen working through the night labored energetically, and the vast new structure was set to be completed within days.

6

Green Wall County had never been this lively before.

The city gates had been freshly repainted a dazzling red; every house in town had been scrubbed spotless, anything worn or damaged repaired wherever possible, and whatever couldn’t be fixed was cleverly hidden away. From the city gates to the “Guest House” on East Street, colorful ribbons had even been tied to the trees lining the road, and along with the freshly planted, vivid flowers and grasses, they swayed under the searing sunlight in an almost exaggerated display of prosperity.

This was how seriously Green Wall County took this night banquet—preparations had begun half a year in advance, out of fear of the slightest slip. They’d never dreamed such fortune could fall upon their small county, to welcome a gathering of today’s most illustrious figures—especially since even the emperor himself was said to be paying close attention to this grand event; if handled properly, it might even open a path straight to the heights of imperial favor.

Imposing soldiers had already been stationed around the Guest House; arriving guests would first lodge there before heading, when the time came, to the venue of the night banquet itself—the “Linlang Residence” on the mountain east of Green Wall County. Passersby couldn’t help marveling that they’d never seen such a grand occasion in their lives.

The Guest House was the largest, best-appointed inn in the area, cleared out well in advance to accommodate the distant guests.

The first to arrive were the two hosts organizing the banquet—arguably the wealthiest men of the south and north respectively, one called Old Liang, the other Old Hu, both in their sixties. At this moment, though, the two sat heavy-hearted in the inn’s tea room, facing two cups of long-cooled tea, silently exchanging their mutual unease.

After the servants had changed the tea twice, Old Hu glanced upstairs and finally spoke: “Seven or eight have arrived by now, haven’t they?”

“Ah?” Old Liang came back to himself. “Yes—Proprietor Chen of Jinyu Tower arrived this morning, and together with Sect Master Jiang and Master Meng who came a few days ago, that makes eight guests in total.”

Old Hu nodded, but his brow furrowed deeply. “This year’s list still has thirty-seven more to come.”

“Thirty-seven…” Old Liang’s expression turned strange—here they were, the hosts of this whole grand event, and yet he seemed to feel not the slightest anticipation for these guests’ arrival at all.

“Brother Liang… this… whatever shall we do!” Old Hu glanced around and lowered his voice. “If they really come… something terrible will happen.”

Hearing this, Old Liang’s trembling hand nearly knocked over his teacup.

After another long silence, Old Liang, pale-faced, gritted his teeth and said: “If they don’t come, then you and I will be the ones facing disaster—we’ll have no heir left.”

Half a year earlier, when the two of them began organizing this year’s grand banquet, their sons had been kidnapped—cruel coincidence that, despite both men being wealthy beyond measure, fortune had been thin when it came to children, each having only a single son, raised like a treasured jewel, and now his fate hung uncertain—who wouldn’t be sick with fear and grief? Stranger still, the kidnapper wanted neither money nor power, only a single demand: that this year’s night banquet be held at that “Linlang Residence” in Green Wall County, with the timing to follow exactly what he specified, no earlier, no later. At first they naturally refused—men who’d seen much of the world, no strangers to such affairs—and immediately sent their most trusted, skilled men to rescue their sons. But the men never returned; instead, they witnessed a bizarre tragedy unlike anything they’d seen in their lives. That black-cloaked, faceless kidnapper, alone and unarmed, turned every man they’d sent into ash in the blink of an eye… The kidnapper emerged laughing amid the drifting ash, waving a hand at them and saying, if you don’t want your sons to scatter on the wind the same way, do as I say. Cooperate obediently, and after the banquet, I’ll return your good sons to you, alive and well.

By rights, given their age and experience, they’d faced no shortage of danger in their lives—even, in their younger days, walked paths where death was a constant companion. They’d never knelt, never been truly afraid. But this time, they were genuinely terrified—not only because it was their own sole sons who’d been taken, but because, at their age, if they hadn’t witnessed it with their own eyes, they’d never have believed anyone could turn a group of living people to ash with a mere pair of hands. That scene, they would never forget for the rest of their lives. What they were up against… could it even still be called a person? A fear rising from deep in their bones coiled around their hearts like a venomous snake, ready to strike at the slightest misstep.

They dared no longer act rashly, and had no choice but to follow the other party’s instructions, announcing that this year’s night banquet would be held within Green Wall County.

“But… Brother Liang, have you thought about this?” Old Hu’s forehead beaded with sweat the size of soybeans. “We are the hosts of this banquet. If something truly happens, and the attending guests suffer any misfortune… none of them are ordinary people—even the emperor regards them as pillars of the state. If word of our situation ever leaked out, I fear even if our children returned safely, the emperor would never let us off.” He grew more distressed the more he spoke, and stamped his foot. “If I’d known, I’d never have taken on this troublesome banquet in the first place!”

“Shh!” Old Liang quickly hushed him, steeling himself. “As long as the children come back, even if something happens here, it’s unlikely to be traced to us. After all, we’ve done nothing wrong—we’re simply organizing the banquet through the normal process. Things have come this far—all we can do now is keep our mouths shut.”

“But…”

“No more ‘buts.’ The banquet is in three days. All we need to do is proceed step by step as planned.”

“Ugh… I suppose there’s no other way.”

Just then, someone came to report that three more carriages had arrived outside the inn.

Both men’s hearts sank again. Last year, they’d have welcomed as many honored guests as possible—this year, they genuinely hoped no more would come. The fewer who arrived, the fewer disasters there might be, and perhaps their sense of guilt could be eased a little too.

Left with no choice, the two hurried to wipe the sweat from their brows and faces, straightened their robes, and, putting on the air of hosts, forced themselves to walk outside with what composure they could muster.

It was already afternoon; the sun, having blazed all day, had slipped behind clouds, though without any wind it remained somewhat stifling.

The three carriages stood lined up in a row, the weary horses tossing their heads restlessly.

Si Kuanglan smiled as he offered up an elaborately gilded invitation.

Old Liang took it and immediately looked delighted: “So this is young master Si, second son of the Si household—meeting you in person surpasses even the legend, such extraordinary bearing and talent!”

Si Kuanglan cupped his hands politely. “Old Liang, you flatter me. I’m honored that you came to greet me personally.”

“No trouble at all, no trouble at all. Since Old Hu and I are the hosts, welcoming distinguished guests is naturally our own duty to attend to.” Old Liang glanced behind him, noticing only the young servant driving the carriage, and couldn’t help asking, “Has young master Si come alone? Is the eldest young master unable to make it?” The invitation had also listed Si Jingyuan’s name.

Si Kuanglan smiled. “My elder brother has urgent business abroad. He appreciates the invitation nonetheless.”

“I see… what a pity.” Old Liang stroked his beard, though secretly delighted, and said to Si Kuanglan, “I’d long heard young master Si rarely attends such lively gatherings—we missed you last year, but I’m honored you’ve finally granted us this favor.”

“Mostly it’s the heat—I don’t much care for running about in it.”

“Ah… ha ha ha, someone, take young master Si up to rest. This way, young master.”

A servant hurried over to lead the way, but Si Kuanglan didn’t move, turning instead to glance behind him.

Before Old Hu stood a slight, delicate young gentleman with fair skin and red lips, dressed in luxuriously ornate robes—though they seemed a size too large, making him appear even more petite and dainty…

“Are you… Qiao Jin’an, head escort of the Starlight Dragon Escort Agency?” Old Hu, invitation in hand, looked the person over with confusion, as if about to call for someone to have him seized.

“I am…” the young gentleman tilted his head and laughed. “Head Escort Qiao’s son.”

“What?” Old Hu started. “Head Escort Qiao has a son this old already?”

“Indeed—my father’s just far too protective of me, never lets me out to meet people normally on ordinary days.” The young gentleman produced a jade ring from within his robes. “If he hadn’t come down with such terrible diarrhea right before setting off that he was barely half-alive, he wouldn’t have sent me to attend your banquet in his place. He said, worried you might not recognize me, to bring our escort agency’s dragon jade ring as proof.”

Old Hu took the ring and examined it; his suspicious expression immediately cleared—it was indeed the Qiao family’s token.

“Please keep this safe, young master Qiao. My apologies for my rudeness just now.” Old Hu hurriedly returned the ring, asking with concern, “Is Head Escort Qiao all right?”

“He’s fine, fine—lying in bed for ten days or half a month and he’ll recover.” The young gentleman waved a hand, the golden bell on the red cord around a pale wrist swaying to and fro.

Seeing Si Kuanglan watching him steadily, he—no, she—winked playfully at him.

“Excuse me, pardon the intrusion.” A deliberately shrill, feminine voice sounded from behind the young gentleman, a hand with painted red nails thrusting an invitation none too gently into Old Hu’s grip.

Everyone turned to see a tall, magnificently dressed lady, waving a silk fan, her towering coiffed hair adorned with dangling hairpins and flower ornaments, pearls and jade—every ornament one could imagine, the most exquisite and elaborate in the world, all upon her head, glittering everywhere so brightly one dared not look directly at her. Though somewhat excessive to the point of gaudiness, her face itself was still quite fine—brows like willow leaves, lips like cherries—apart from the thick layer of powder, she could just barely be called a beauty. A servant boy with a wrapped headscarf followed behind her, cradling in his arms an animal, half white and half gray, that might have been a dog or something else entirely.

“From Bright Moon Manor… Lady Shangguan?” Old Hu froze again, checking the invitation—no mistake, he’d written it himself—then looked back at the lady before him, somewhat awkwardly. “Though we’ve never met before… from what I understand, Lady Shangguan is already past her fifties…”

“Oh my, a woman simply well-preserved, that’s all. Besides, my Bright Moon Manor supplies most of the rouge and powder across the land—as the manor’s mistress, of course I must serve as its own best advertisement, mustn’t I?” The lady raised her silk fan to hide half her face, laughing coyly. “But you men really have no manners at all, how could you speak of a woman’s age so openly in public!”

At this, the young gentleman beside her was struggling mightily not to laugh.

Old Hu still hesitated—after all, this “Lady Shangguan” was attending for the very first time, and he’d never met her in person before either. Cautious by nature, he wanted more solid proof of her identity, yet feared offending her if she truly was who she claimed. In truth, he half-hoped she was an impostor, so he could simply turn her away—after all, this whole banquet had already been hijacked; the fewer the guests, the better.

Just then, someone stepped out from the inn, walking directly toward the group. He first cupped his hands toward Si Kuanglan and said respectfully: “Greetings, young master.” Then, glancing at the young gentleman, he moved to stand before “Lady Shangguan” and cupped his hands to her as well: “Greetings, Lady Shangguan.”

The newcomer was He Bai.

The young gentleman and “Lady Shangguan” exchanged a secretive glance—it seemed neither of them recognized this refined young man at all.

Seeing He Bai suddenly appear, Old Hu quickly pulled him aside and asked in a low voice: “Lord Sky, are you certain this is truly Lady Shangguan?”

He Bai smiled. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

Old Hu waved his hands hastily. “How would I dare, sir? Since you’ve confirmed it, there’s naturally no issue.” With that, he hurried back to Lady Shangguan. “This way, my lady—my apologies for the earlier lapse, please don’t take offense.”

“Hmph!” Lady Shangguan shot him a disdainful glance, and swaying her fan and her hips, swept past him, leaving a thick trail of powdery perfume in her wake—the servant boy and the creature in his arms both couldn’t help but sneeze.

The young gentleman clapped a hand over his mouth, forcing himself not to laugh, and followed along toward the inn. Passing Si Kuanglan, he deliberately winked at him—signaling, however far-fetched this looks, everything’s going smoothly so far.

Si Kuanglan pretended not to notice, and turned instead to Old Liang: “The banquet is in three days—how many guests have arrived so far?”

A flicker of unease crossed Old Liang’s face, but he quickly smiled again: “Counting young master and Master Qiao and Lady Shangguan, eleven have arrived so far.”

“How many more to come?”

“Thirty-four.”

Si Kuanglan smiled. “It’s stiflingly hot out—the two of you should rest inside more.”

In truth, no one else would be arriving—these were the last of the guests to come. This year wasn’t the Banquet of a Hundred Luminaries, then; call it the Banquet of Ten, perhaps.

As for the guests still making their way toward Green Wall County, they’d likely be circling in confusion for at least seven or eight days along the road—using tricks like “ghost walls” to keep others from advancing required their own kind of hand; the turtle wasn’t up to that sort of thing.

“Thank you for your concern, young master, but I can still manage. It’s you who’s traveled so far and hard—you should head to your room and rest,” Old Liang said quickly, gesturing him inside. “I do hope you won’t mind the humble accommodations here—it’s our own neglect if anything’s lacking.”

“You’re too kind.” Si Kuanglan said nothing further, and followed the servant leading the way into the inn.

He Bai followed behind him, keeping a two-step distance, saying nothing.

Just before heading upstairs, Si Kuanglan paused briefly and said: “My thanks.”

He Bai, passing right by him, naturally understood at once, giving a slight nod, and the two then walked their separate ways as if complete strangers.

Si Kuanglan smiled faintly and went upstairs. Looking around, the vast estate, despite housing a dozen or so more guests than usual, showed no sign of coming alive with any liveliness.

After all, whatever awaited them here was, in all likelihood, nothing good.

He unconsciously tightened his grip on the sword at his side.

Whenever he traveled far from home, Steward Miao always made sure to remind him to bring his sword.

After all, the martial world was treacherous, and people’s hearts hard to fathom.

7

That night, a cool chill finally began to settle in—Green Wall County’s promised year-round mild climate finally showing itself at last.

It should have been the perfect temperature for sleep; most guests’ rooms had already gone dark and silent. But a few night owls, unwilling to sleep, insisted on stirring up some mischief.

Along the long, narrow corridor, a furtive figure crept out, crouching beneath the window of a particular guest room, holding its breath to listen.

At that moment, faint sounds of someone tossing restlessly in sleep could be heard from within. The figure reached out, poked a small hole in the window paper, and inserted a thin bamboo tube, releasing a wisp of pale smoke. Soon, everyone in the room—master and servants alike—fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep…

After waiting a while longer to confirm there was no movement inside, the figure turned and gave a clumsy, near-silent whistle. Around the corner of the corridor, another figure emerged, approaching soundlessly, and skillfully slid the door bolt open.

The room’s lights were all out; the two moved in single file, carefully avoiding obstacles, terrified of making any noise.

Their target—a person already unconscious on the bed. Just a few steps from their goal, a cold cat’s meow sounded overhead.

The two looked up, only to see a flash of light—one blue, one green—streak down from the rafters.

Almost simultaneously, one shoved the other forcefully aside; in the darkness, something small and murderous whistled past their bodies, embedding itself with a clang into something solid.

Right after, another blade seemed to fall from above behind them; one, sensing danger, quickly ducked aside covering his head, while the other, dodging to the side, reflexively struck out with a palm, landing accurately on an arm, forcing the attacker back two steps and nearly knocking the weapon from their own hand.

Somehow, the room now held several more people, without a sound…

Before this sudden chaos could escalate into anything more serious, someone lit the oil lamp on the table.

“My lord?!”

“Young master?!”

“Huh? It’s you, you wretched cat?!”

Qiu Wanlai clapped a hand over her mouth, staring at Si Kuanglan in disbelief. Luo Xian, gripping his Buddha-Eye, hurried to apologize to Si Kuanglan for his surprise attack a moment ago. Meanwhile, Tao Yao, dressed in men’s clothing, and the cat that had just leapt down from the rafters glared at each other. She was astonished; the cat, unruffled, wore the look of someone who very much did not want to see her. He Bai, standing by the table, set down the oil lamp and calmly surveyed the room full of people.

The unconscious victim remained deep asleep the entire time, utterly unaware of how lively his own room had suddenly become.

Tao Yao got up, staring at the short, sweetly-scented arrow still embedded in the wall, then turned to click her tongue at Qiu Wanlai: “No need to go straight for poison arrows the moment you strike, is there? Even if we came to steal something, that hardly warrants death.”

“It’s you?!” Only now did Qiu Wanlai recognize Tao Yao’s face, and recalling how the Si family had gone out of their way to protect this girl before the Chongxiao Pagoda that night, she turned to Si Kuanglan. “Young master, what exactly is going on here? This room belongs to Master Meng of the Baiwu Studio—just a refined connoisseur of antiques. Surely he hasn’t crossed you somehow?”

“Certainly not.” Luo Xian cut in first. “My lord has always settled scores openly and aboveboard—why would he need to skulk about like this?”

“Skulk about…” Si Kuanglan smiled, his gaze shifting helplessly to Tao Yao.

“Don’t you glare at me.” Tao Yao spread her hands. “There was no way around a bit of skulking, was there? Sleeping powder beats knocking them out the head, doesn’t it? And besides, the sleeping powder I mixed isn’t just effective—it tastes good too. They’ll wake up not with a headache, but reminiscing fondly.” She then looked at the cat. “Why are you here?”

“Chunhua, do you know… this woman?” He Bai looked Tao Yao over, roughly determining her gender.

“Chunhua?!” Tao Yao froze for a moment, then nearly died laughing on the spot. “Ha ha ha, no wonder you wouldn’t tell me your name.”

The cat rolled its eyes and said to He Bai: “This woman is the one who helped me during the petrified-stone spirit incident.”

He Bai nodded, glanced at Tao Yao again, and said nothing more.

Tao Yao, meanwhile, was studying He Bai: “Never met you before. What’s your name?”

“He Bai, serving as Sky under the Bi’an Bureau,” He Bai answered politely.

“Is the cat yours?” Tao Yao asked, curious.

“It keeps itself.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

“None of your business.”

“No, no, this is far too strange—that it’s willing to stay with a human like you, willing to even let you give it such an ugly name…”

“Did you come tonight for the cat?”

“That’s not it, actually.”

Si Kuanglan felt for He Bai, and asked Luo Xian: “The three of you are here on official duty?”

“Yes. Last year’s night banquet, the Bi’an Bureau was also dispatched to the venue, just in case.” Luo Xian explained. “The higher-ups worried something might arise that ordinary people couldn’t handle, given how illustrious the guests attending would be.” He glanced toward the unconscious man on the bed. “My lord, you came here purely as a guest—so why would you be…”

“I only meant to attend the banquet honestly enough, and somehow got dragged into this bit of thievery.” Si Kuanglan smiled, looking at Tao Yao. “Isn’t that right, Master Qiao?”

“I never meant to drag you into it.” Tao Yao refused to accept that. “You could easily have just turned a blind eye and walked away.”

The night before, they’d just returned from Yanxia Forest, and walked straight into Si Kuanglan sitting in the inn’s main hall drinking tea, late at night.

How to explain it? Surely she couldn’t say she was afraid of ghosts and didn’t dare go to the outhouse alone, so she’d dragged Young Master Liu along for courage… Si Kuanglan had more schemes up his sleeve than a beehive had holes; better to just tell the truth than waste time lying.

And the result of telling the truth was that the real Head Escort Qiao and Lady Shangguan were now still drugged unconscious, tied up in a room at the inn, and Si Kuanglan had even helped pick out the most fitting outfit from Head Escort Qiao’s luggage to toss to Tao Yao—he’d even done Young Master Liu’s makeup himself… Quite the talented fellow, really.

The turtle had said, though it didn’t know exactly what Ying Fansheng intended, these guests attending the banquet were surely in for some terrible misfortune, possibly even risking their lives. Fortunately, Ying Fansheng had never discovered its true identity, still treating it as the little turtle who’d accompanied him since childhood; even after he’d gradually turned into a different person, he’d still kept it constantly by his side, occasionally even chatting with it about trivial matters. But ever since he’d gone to see the two old men, Liang and Hu, he’d stopped bringing it along too. That day, after returning, he’d taken it out of the pack it had lived in for nearly twenty years and set it down by the river in Green Wall County, saying he had too much to do from now on and wouldn’t have time to care for it anymore—better to just release it, and let each of them find their own peace. It sensed something terrible was about to happen, but for the moment had no way to resolve it. It had secretly gone to where he was holding his hostages, but the two prominent young men were nowhere to be found—perhaps he’d moved them somewhere more secret, or perhaps… whether the two were even still alive was unknown. But thinking further, even if it managed to rescue the hostages, given Ying Fansheng’s current state of mind and abilities, he would simply find some new way to accomplish his “wish”—one way or another, he would bring these figures of public renown to the place he’d designated; as for the final outcome, it dared not think too much further.

But it knew clearly: there was only one method that would truly resolve this once and for all.

That night, Tao Yao had said the banquet must proceed as scheduled, the guests must indeed grace it with their presence, everything must unfold, step by step, according to this “mastermind’s” expectations. Only, not every guest was one he could “entertain.”

It had seen hope in Tao Yao’s eyes—had seen the ultimate solution to the problem—yet its heart couldn’t find any joy in it.

Setting out from the inn, watching Tao Yao and the others bustling about on its behalf, it felt an aching hollowness inside—clearly it had done the right thing, and yet somehow it felt lacking in conviction.

“You don’t want to send him down a road of no return.” Si Kuanglan, looking at the turtle perched on the windowsill, suddenly spoke.

Everyone heard it. Tao Yao, Young Master Liu, and Moya all paused what they were doing, looking at this glowing-white “turtle.”

The turtle was silent a long while, then said: “There was a time I thought—once this child married and had children of his own, or met one or several more Li Huonius, and no longer had to guard through day and night, through the seasons, alone—I could leave him and go live my own life. I still remember the look in his eyes back when he pulled me from the fisherman’s hands—clear and kind. Though I never actually needed him to save me. But since we’d met, staying with him a while longer seemed no trouble.” Its mung-bean-sized eyes held a trace of nostalgia, and more so, conflict. “I have lived so many years, and never once taken a single life. Never even considered it. My existence has had nothing whatsoever to do with killing.”

But Si Kuanglan said: “You’ve stayed by that father and son’s side for so many years now. You should be used to it.”

“I will never get used to it.” It glanced at Si Kuanglan.

“Do you regret it?” Tao Yao walked over. “But even if you begged me now not to kill him, I couldn’t agree. This matter is far too dangerous.”

“I would surely regret it, if you kill Ying Fansheng.” It watched the gradually brightening sky. “But Ying Fansheng is already gone. On the night he turned his family ancestors’ remains to ash, Ying Fansheng killed himself.”

Everyone fell silent.

Who, faced with such a thing, could simply look away, act as if it had nothing to do with them?

Naturally, Si Kuanglan wouldn’t let Tao Yao and the others handle this alone—consider it trouble he’d brought upon himself, then…

At that moment, old Master Meng, still unconscious on the bed, actually began to snore. Si Kuanglan came back to himself and said to Luo Xian and the others: “Since you’re already here, that’s actually fortunate. If you don’t mind the trouble, perhaps you could lend a hand. This matter is rather peculiar, though—even I can’t say with full confidence that I can handle it properly. You bear the duty of protecting the innocent, and needn’t put yourselves at risk for a bystander like myself—no need to force it.”

“Not just helping him—helping us, us too!” Tao Yao hurried to point at herself, then glared at Luo Xian. “You, remember, last time I helped clean up that whole Duan Qingzhu affair for you, and you even ate my salted mouse—surely you owe me a favor by now!”

Luo Xian frowned: “Wasn’t that demon returned to you already?”

“The favor’s still not repaid!” Tao Yao then pointed at the cat. “And you, Chunhua, don’t think you’re done just because you stamped your mark—I risked my life to help your fish, you know.”

The cat squinted. “You really need us dragging along just to feel confident enough?”

“Cats really can’t say anything decent, apparently.” Tao Yao’s mouth curled up. “Ensuring the safety of the banquet guests is literally the Bi’an Bureau’s official duty—otherwise why would you all even be here? Sightseeing?”

The cat snorted, ignoring her.

“Young master, if you give the word, we’re naturally happy to lend our full support.” Qiu Wanlai certainly wasn’t going to refuse, but asked, “Though you’ll need to explain things clearly to us.”

“Yes, my lord, we’re completely in the dark right now, you…”

Before Luo Xian could finish, the south-facing window suddenly made a sound—a small pebble struck the window frame.

“Oh, right, they’re still waiting.” Tao Yao smacked her forehead and hurried to the window to look down.

Below the window was the back alley of the inn; a carriage stood waiting there, driven likely by Moya… Young Master Liu, still in his female disguise, called up in a hushed but urgent voice: “What’s taking so long? Where’s everyone?”

Qiu Wanlai and the others came over and looked down, frowning: “And who is that now?”

When Si Kuanglan explained that this “Lady Shangguan” and the boy carrying the fox were also servants of the Si household, the other three exchanged glances. Qiu Wanlai couldn’t help remarking: “Young master seems to have lowered his standards considerably for household staff…” With that, she shot Tao Yao another glance.

Tao Yao glared right back without hesitation: “Are you saying your former lord had bad taste? And yet you worship him so much—seems your standards are quite low too, then.”

“When did I say my lord… young master’s judgment was bad? I’m talking about all of you—every single one of you strange and eccentric!”

“Is it stranger than someone shooting poison arrows disguised as sugar water at random people?”

“Such nerve! A common commoner daring to disrespect me!”

“Angry? Go ahead and try dragging me off to jail, then!”

The two of them went back and forth with great relish, while everyone else looked on, exasperated—was this really how people about to handle serious business ought to behave?

Young Master Liu squeezed himself between the two of them, pointing at himself: “The one who’s sacrificed the most here hasn’t said a word of complaint—what are you two even arguing about?”

That finally quieted them both down. Looking at Young Master Liu, forced into his pretty disguise, Tao Yao couldn’t help bursting into laughter again. “Never would’ve guessed you’d make such a stunning beauty.”

“I’m keeping count of this one,” Young Master Liu shot her a look. “You wouldn’t do it, so what choice did I have!”

“All the good things get saved for you.” Tao Yao stuck out her tongue.

Moya let out a deep sigh; the turtle hidden in the cloth bag on his back sighed too, both faintly uneasy about having placed their trust in the wrong hands.

Si Kuanglan glanced at the unconscious man on the bed and said to Qiu Wanlai: “The most urgent matter is to secretly escort these eight guests out of Green Wall County—they can be settled temporarily at the inn in Yanxia Forest, with a few trustworthy people to guard them, then released to return home once this matter is resolved.” He thought for a moment, then turned to the three of them. “You should know—apart from the few of us, no one else will be attending the banquet.”

Qiu Wanlai was puzzled: “Going to such lengths—is the banquet actually dangerous?”

“Possibly.” Si Kuanglan then turned to He Bai. “There’s another task I’ll need you to handle.”

He Bai smiled. “Can’t very well have only a few of us actually attending the banquet, can we.”

Si Kuanglan nodded. “Much appreciated.” After a moment’s thought, he added to He Bai: “There’s one more thing—regarding that knot in your heart you’ve carried for years, I believe I may have found some leads.”

He Bai froze.

Si Kuanglan left the room, and He Bai followed after him; the two spoke quietly in the corridor, though what was said, no one else could tell.

“This being the case, isn’t the banquet ruined? If our judgment turns out wrong… I fear we’ll be charged with dereliction of duty above.” Luo Xian said bluntly.

“When my lord was still my lord, did you ever once see him make a wrong judgment?” Qiu Wanlai countered.

“True enough.” Luo Xian frowned, then suddenly seemed almost pleased. “It’s been a long while since we’ve worked alongside him—he really hasn’t changed a bit.”

Tao Yao thought to herself that only someone as straightforward as Luo Xian could treat working alongside Si Kuanglan as some kind of honor…

Just then, Si Kuanglan and He Bai returned; He Bai’s expression wasn’t particularly good.

Facing Luo Xian and Qiu Wanlai’s expectant looks for explanation, Si Kuanglan said to Tao Yao: “Go ahead and explain—after all, it was the turtle who came to you.”

Tao Yao pursed her lips. “All right.”

Outside, the night wind gusted harder and harder, leaves rustling loudly, drowning out every faint sound around them. Only the lamp in the guest room flickered restlessly, witnessing, amid everyone’s uneven breathing, a secret that might bring tremendous danger.

Meanwhile, far off on East Mountain, the “Linlang Residence” remained as elegant and magnificent as ever—bathed in moonlight, it looked like some immortal palace descended to earth, breathtakingly beautiful. As the venue for tonight’s grand banquet, it was likely about to experience the grandest occasion of its existence.

The great hall prepared for the feast had already been fully arranged, every detail exquisite and refined; between the carved white jade pillars all around, gauzy silk drapes swayed gently, veiling the lush flowers and grass outside in a hazy blur of color, faint fragrance drifting through the air, dreamlike and unreal.

Moonlight slanted in from one side, falling precisely upon the seat of honor.

Someone sat there, gazing at the still-empty seats before him, poured himself a cup of wine, then tilted his hand and let it all spill onto the ground.

8

The day of the night banquet, even heaven seemed to cooperate—the moon bright, the stars sparse, a cool breeze drifting through the air.

By evening, carriages and horses already streamed steadily before the Linlang Residence; the guards at the gate carefully verified the identity of every arriving guest, admitting them one by one, ensuring every step went according to plan, without the slightest slip.

Tao Yao, still in her guise as Master Qiao, deliberately kept her distance from Si Kuanglan and Young Master Liu upon entering, presenting the guard with an exquisitely gilded qilin token, as if nothing were amiss. That was the final proof of admission she’d received earlier from Old Liang.

All forty-five guests had arrived, each looking energetic and dressed in finery, terrified of showing the slightest disrespect toward this grand occasion.

It was just that everyone seemed far too quiet. From arrival to entering the hall, aside from Tao Yao and her group deliberately putting on an act of joyful reunion, speaking and laughing loudly now and then, occasionally praising how magnificently the estate shone, unlike anything seen in the mortal world—everyone else, including Old Liang and Old Hu who’d entered first, barely spoke a word, seeming like near-strangers to one another, exchanging at most a bow of greeting and a smile, nothing more. Without Tao Yao and her companions livening the atmosphere, this crowd of several dozen might easily have been mistaken for wooden figures dressed up as people.

Before long, everyone had taken their seats. Unexpectedly, the tables weren’t laden with any delicacies at all—not even so much as a plate of appetizer fruit or snacks. Though the cups sat ready, they remained entirely empty.

Old Liang and Old Hu sat in the seats of honor, smiling and nodding to the guests—and that was all there was to it.

“Two hours at most.” He Bai, seated behind Si Kuanglan, now dressed in a lavish silk robe, fanned himself gently while murmuring under his breath, “I’ve done all I can.”

“Understood.” Si Kuanglan smiled.

Overhearing this, Young Master Liu beside He Bai, covering his mouth with a silk fan, leaned over and hissed through gritted teeth: “Didn’t realize you actually had some real skills…”

“Just doing my duty.” He Bai coughed lightly, not looking at him, focused instead on surveying the surroundings.

Tao Yao, seated diagonally across, wasn’t nearly so restrained. She deliberately slapped the table and said loudly: “Is this how you treat honored guests? All this grandeur outside, and you can’t even serve a cup of tea?” Then, turning back deliberately, she addressed the person behind her: “Sect Master Tian, don’t you agree?”

Luo Xian, now disguised with a fake mustache stuck to his lip, saw Tao Yao staring fixedly at him and had no choice but to gruffly play along: “Master… Master Qiao speaks truly—don’t they know who we are, showing such disrespect!”

Everyone else remained silent, glancing at one another; even Old Liang and Old Hu simply kept smiling, offering not a single word of explanation.

Not entirely their fault, though—the real Old Liang and Old Hu were currently locked away with the other eight guests, along with the real Qiao Jin’an and Lady Shangguan, all held at the inn in Yanxia Forest, guarded by Luo Xian’s men, forbidden from moving an inch without orders.

This was the best salvage job they could manage—those who hadn’t arrived yet were kept from coming any further; those who had already arrived were set aside for now, so long as they were kept away from the Linlang Residence.

As for the present scene of “distinguished guests filling the hall,” as He Bai had said, it could hold for two hours at most.

Both Tao Yao and Si Kuanglan agreed that this was merely a performance for someone’s benefit—two hours would be more than enough sincerity, since surely someone was even more eager than they were to see the long-planned result unfold.

A little more time passed; the sky had turned fully dark, a few unwelcome clouds drifting over to block the once-clear moonlight, a chill creeping into the cool breeze, the swaying gauze curtains suddenly losing their earlier grace, growing bleak and sinister without anyone quite noticing.

“You’ve waited long enough, everyone.” A young man, dressed in ordinary scholar’s robes, entered without a sound, carrying a thick stack of paper booklets in his arms. He set the booklets down on the table at the seat of honor and smiled at Old Liang and Old Hu: “You’ve handled things well enough.” With that, he pulled a slip of paper from his sleeve and placed it before them. “I am a man of my word. Take this address and go collect your sons.”

At this, He Bai frowned slightly, his hand resting beneath the table forming a secret gesture, and the two old men hurried to grab the paper, then scurried out of the hall without a word.

Tao Yao covered her mouth, lowering her head to whisper: “Him?”

A voice softly replied from within her sleeve: “Yes.”

So he really was impatient—Tao Yao lowered her hand in satisfaction. Two hours had hardly even been necessary; if she hadn’t wanted to see exactly what he intended, she could have moved in already.

Having sent the two old men off, the young man picked up his stack of booklets again, looking at the guests below him, all glancing uneasily at one another, and smiled politely at them: “Everyone, tonight’s banquet will be hosted by me instead.”

He walked down unhurriedly, distributing the booklets to each table one by one as he spoke: “Tonight’s banquet has no food, no wine, and no music for entertainment—only this one gift to offer you all.”

Tao Yao relaxed slightly. This fellow, dangerous as he was, was still somewhat lacking in worldly experience—not only had he failed to notice anything off about this crowd of “guests,” he certainly hadn’t imagined that watching his performance from below sat Peach Capital, the Si household, and the Bi’an Bureau.

Opening the black booklet, Tao Yao and the others froze for a moment—there was nothing else on the pages, only a long list of names, every one surnamed Ying… The very last name was Ying Fansheng.

The young man walked back to the seat of honor and said flatly: “None of you distinguished guests have surely ever heard these names. Compared to you, from birth to death, they were nothing more than insignificant people in Green Wall County—guarding an old house, running a fortune-telling stall to scrape by, often mocked as idle good-for-nothings. These unremarkable people spent a thousand years guarding a hole—for the sake of that hole, they cared nothing for how they appeared to others, gave up their most precious freedom, and, year after year, had to live as murderers besides. Sounds particularly foolish, doesn’t it?” He laughed at himself, tapping his foot on the ground. “After they died, they were buried here—right where you’re all sitting now. But for the sake of this magnificent estate, they weren’t even permitted to lie here any longer. I had no choice but to bring them home, and burn them to ash.”

The hall fell into dead silence.

“Don’t misunderstand me—I only wanted to tell you what those people surnamed Ying had done.” He smiled as he walked down, stopping beside the foremost table, looking at the elegantly dressed middle-aged man there, and asked him: “Distinguished guest, I have a question for you—would you be willing to spend a thousand years guarding a hole?”

He Bai’s finger twitched; the middle-aged man shook his head.

“Indeed. No one would be willing. Even all of you, the most accomplished figures of today, would make the same choice.” He kept smiling. “If only that hole had never existed. What you don’t know is that the Ying family spent a thousand years and still couldn’t seal it—they even used their own lives to forge a seal, and it still wasn’t enough.”

The middle-aged man watched him in silence.

“And so, I had Old Liang and his friend invite you all here, hoping you might do me one favor.” He patted the middle-aged man’s shoulder, then looked out at everyone in the hall. “I hope you’ll help me seal that hole properly.”

This request was unexpected, to say the least.

“Young sir, we have no idea what you’re talking about.” Si Kuanglan spoke up, deliberately putting on an impatient expression. “We traveled a thousand miles to attend a banquet, not to listen to your nonsense. We’re not craftsmen—how could we possibly help you seal any hole!”

Tao Yao quickly played along, frowning in reproach: “You strange little upstart, do you think this banquet is your own family dinner, to be disrupted however you please? Can’t you see the heavy guard surrounding this entire Linlang Residence? If you know what’s good for you, apologize to us right now, and this young lord might just let you keep your body intact!”

Luo Xian slammed the table hard as well: “Outrageous! Do you know who we are!”

Seeing he’d drawn everyone’s fury, he showed no change in expression whatsoever, only smiling as he said: “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just try it, shall we? Though, if even your lives can’t seal that hole, then what difference is there, really, between you distinguished people and those Ying family nobodies?”

Tao Yao’s heart tightened—so this fellow really had circled back to the matter of lives, after all.

“What exactly is it you want?” He Bai asked coldly.

“I hate that hole. I want to seal it properly,” he answered earnestly. “I suspect, perhaps, that you’re right—the Ying family, whether alive or dead, were simply too insignificant, which is why their seal could never hold it down. But you’re different. You are figures of far-reaching renown, looked up to wherever you go. So I thought, perhaps if I added your lives to the seal, the Ying family’s thousand-year wish might finally be fulfilled.”

The moment he finished speaking, his hand, resting on the middle-aged man’s shoulder, gave a slight squeeze.

In the blink of an eye, a puff of ash rose beneath his hand; the middle-aged man was nowhere to be seen.

Tao Yao felt the turtle in her sleeve tremble slightly.

“Ah! A demon! Murder!!” “Lady Shangguan” screamed with great theatrical flair, dashing toward the exit of the hall.

But a flash of faint light flickered, and he came running right back in.

“Huh?!” He looked around, bewildered. “Why am I back again?”

“Now that you’ve finally come, you might as well stay.” The scholar brushed the ash from his hand. “The Ying family’s earth-shrinking technique, with a slight adjustment, can be used to keep honored guests in place. No matter how many people are outside, none can disturb us here.”

A cold sweat broke out across Tao Yao’s back—close call indeed, he’d already prepared to trap them all like fish in a barrel from the start; if those other guests had really come to the banquet, likely not a single one would have left alive.

Si Kuanglan glanced at “Lady Shangguan”: “Why did you run?”

Young Master Liu pouted. “A guest’s normal reaction, isn’t it? Just playing along with your little performance.”

“No need to play along anymore.” Si Kuanglan glanced at Tao Yao. “What do you say?”

Tao Yao frowned. “His intentions are already confirmed—no point continuing the act.”

A sigh sounded from within her sleeve.

Si Kuanglan shook his head at He Bai; He Bai immediately understood, took a deep breath, formed a seal with both hands, spread them apart to either side, and called out: “Scatter!”

Dozens of yellow paper figures suddenly sprang up from their seats, swaying as they fell to the floor. The vast hall now held only him and these several “distinguished figures” he’d never actually met.

Having believed himself thoroughly in control the whole while, he stared at the floor covered in yellow paper, stunned.

“You do have real talent, whether in forming barriers or taking lives.” Tao Yao looked at him, saying with some regret, “Pity you lack a bit of worldly experience. You thought that by kidnapping the two old men’s sons, everything was settled, and your prey would simply deliver themselves. If I were you, I wouldn’t have been so confident—I’d have at least planted a spy to keep close watch on the prey, just in case, since even the best-laid plans can go wrong.” Then, remembering something, she added, “Oh, and I nearly forgot—you were all on your own, busy setting things up at the Linlang Residence, so naturally you had no time to watch over us too. Unlike our side, with plenty of hands to make the work easy.”

He looked up at them, forcing a smile that came out terribly unnatural: “Who are you people?”

Luo Xian stepped forward, planting his bronze staff hard on the ground: “The Bi’an Bureau, under orders to protect all attendees of this banquet. Any who deliberately sabotage it will be dealt with according to the crime of rebellion!”

“The Bi’an Bureau… never heard of it.” He smiled.

“No matter if you haven’t.” Young Master Liu said, pulling the flower ornament from his hair. “You’d best stop this foolishness. Just count how many of us there are, and you should already know you’ve lost.”

“Lost?” He seemed to hear the funniest two words imaginable, and burst out laughing.

“Stop this now.” The turtle crawled out from Tao Yao’s sleeve, landing on the table, looking up at him and speaking slowly. “It was I who summoned them here.”

He frowned. “You?”

The turtle blinked. “You know that even if you killed everyone at this banquet, the seal wouldn’t grow any stronger—that hole would still be unsealed.”

His fists clenched.

“Even if you’d carried this out here, the Ying ancestors would take no comfort in it.” The turtle sighed. “You’ve just done, right in front of them, the very thing they’d have hated most.”

The moon still refused to show itself; a gust of wind blew past, the candlelight flickering unsteadily.

“That’s not right.” He drew a deep breath, an unnervingly calm smile spreading across his face. “The Ying family is already gone—not even a burial place left, nothing but a pile of ash. Comfort or defiance, they wouldn’t feel either now. And honestly, I didn’t do this for the seal’s sake either—I just wanted to prove, in this very mansion built atop the bones of the Ying family, that all you glittering, illustrious figures are nothing but worthless dust in my hands too.” His gaze settled on the candlelight. “That monument still hasn’t been erected. No one even mentions Li Huoniu anymore now. It’s as if he was snuffed out along with that fire. But walk through Green Wall County any day, and you’ll still hear people say this road was built by such-and-such squire, that mansion built by such-and-such lord, so-and-so returned home in glory, so-and-so passed the imperial exams—an endless, unchanging litany of praise and remembrance.”

“Ying Fansheng…” The turtle seemed choked, unable to find further words.

His whole life, it had witnessed most of. What he’d said—both wrong, and not entirely wrong.

As for asking her to kill Ying Fansheng—had this turtle ever truly wished for his death?

Tao Yao said nothing; the bell stayed silent too.

“Listen to me clearly,” He Bai suddenly spoke, his eyes as if coated in a layer of ice. “Come back with us to the Bi’an Bureau. The greatest wrong hasn’t yet been done—there’s still a way back.”

Si Kuanglan glanced at He Bai, a rare hint of relief in his eyes.

He only laughed and shook his head: “I just can’t understand it.”

“Neither can I,” He Bai said, stepping forward. “Can’t understand why my own perfectly healthy parents were reduced to ash. Can’t understand why, at such a young age, I had to leave my homeland. Can’t understand why everyone else gets to live in family happiness, wanting for nothing, while I had to suffer through every hardship just to survive.”

He froze, his unfocused gaze suddenly sharpening on He Bai’s face: “You… you’re…”

“My surname is He,” He Bai said calmly. “I dreamed countless times of finding the murderer, of ending him by every means imaginable. And I thought, just now, I should have raised my blade and cut off your head the instant I saw you. Ha—but somehow, all I said was… there’s still a way back.”

His gaze slid off He Bai’s face; his hand fell limp at his side.

“Not everyone who’s suffered has to become a monster.” He Bai pointed at his arm. “I’ve heard your father left you a talisman. Have you given up on it?”

Something in him seemed struck; his body swayed, and he slowly rolled up his sleeve, then suddenly burst out laughing, lifting his arm for everyone to see: “It’s given up on me.”

Where his name should have been carved instead sat a large, ugly scar.

He had cut it off himself?!

Everyone was startled.

He stared blankly at that scar: “It shouldn’t have stayed on me—that was never truly my name to begin with. I should have died beneath the Ying family’s blade, instead of becoming their child.” He tilted his head, black mist spreading through his eyes like spilled ink. “Since I was little, I’ve always felt drawn to that hole, always wanted to get closer to it. Only later did I understand—that wasn’t curiosity. It was kinship. Longing… a pull woven into my very blood.”

A strange gust of wind swept through, centered on him, scattering his hair, draining the color from his face, extinguishing the last thread connecting his heart to the Ying family, leaving behind only a pair of eyes empty of any emotion at all, black and bottomless as an abyss.

Tao Yao frowned, quickly scooping up the turtle and stepping back, addressing everyone: “Not good—we may not be able to pull him back anymore. Something else is at work inside him.”

Hearing this, Luo Xian immediately summoned his Buddha-Eye. As white light and golden pupil flared, they saw most of Ying Fansheng’s body now wrapped in a mass of flame-shaped black mist, burning fiercely though not quite fire, the end of that black mist twisting into a rope-like shape, stretching far off through the hall to some unseen destination—the whole scene resembling some impossibly elongated arm, reaching out from an inconspicuous point in the distance, gripping Ying Fansheng tight.

The Buddha-Eye could reveal demons and evil spirits, yet Tao Yao was certain that whatever possessed Ying Fansheng wasn’t demonic at all—it carried no demonic aura, only a sharp, bone-deep killing intent, something strange she’d never encountered before.

If it wasn’t a demon, then it could only be some malevolent spirit.

Luo Xian’s bronze staff had already struck downward toward his head, only to be caught bare-handed as he stepped back.

Luo Xian felt an unusual chill surge out from within the staff, a stinging pain even reaching his own palm.

“Don’t touch him!” Si Kuanglan drew his sword and lunged forward, sweeping Luo Xian’s staff aside in one motion, then slashed out with the blade—the sword’s energy flashing like a rainbow, striking straight at Ying Fansheng.

Ying Fansheng, confident enough not to dodge at all, found his body shattering apart in an instant, scattering everywhere like torn cotton wadding.

“So flimsy…” Luo Xian rubbed his hand. “My lord’s blood-sword is as overpowering as ever.”

“He’s unlike an ordinary opponent—if he’d grabbed your hand just now instead, I fear you might not have gotten another chance to fight him at all.” Si Kuanglan glanced at Luo Xian’s hand. “Lucky you had the Buddha-Eye in hand. And even a divine artifact like the Buddha-Eye couldn’t fully block its power.”

Young Master Liu said to Tao Yao: “That easily dealt with?”

Tao Yao produced two black pills with a silvery sheen, shaking them. “Whatever this thing is, this’ll leave nothing behind—not even bones. Cost a fortune, too!”

He Bai kept his guard up, watching the bloodless pile of “wreckage” on the floor, and drew a shimmering thin thread from his waist belt, looping the clasps at both ends around his thumbs.

“Everyone step back,” Tao Yao said, stepping forward. “I’ll clean up.”

Before she’d even finished speaking, another strange gust swept through, and the scattered scraps on the floor, as if seized by some divine force, suddenly gathered together, and in the blink of an eye, Ying Fansheng stood whole again, rising to his feet even as a great blade shot out from beneath the seat of honor’s table, as though commanded, savagely thrusting straight for Tao Yao’s chest.

Everything happened too fast; Tao Yao stumbled back several steps, fortunately yanked aside by Si Kuanglan just in time, the blade whistling past her ear. But before they could steady themselves, the blade, as if possessed, wheeled around at incredible speed, hurtling straight for Si Kuanglan’s back. Tao Yao, with no time to think, twisted her body and forced her own forearm into the blade’s path, taking the blow herself; only then did Luo Xian’s staff manage to knock the blade aside. He Bai leapt up in the same instant, slicing his thread down through the middle of the blade—with a resounding clang, the knife that had served the Ying family for hundreds of years split in two, ending its long life somewhat pathetically.

“Beast!” Tao Yao, furious beyond measure, gave no thought to whether she’d been hurt herself and flung both pills forward. The moment they touched Ying Fansheng, they instantly turned into a cloud of dust, engulfing him entirely. Amid a hissing sound, his body began convulsing violently, then gradually collapsing, quickly crumbling into a heap of black fragments on the floor, like a sandpile giving way.

Young Master Liu rushed over and grabbed her hand: “Are you insane? Blocking a blade with your own body?”

“You didn’t even manage to get here in time to save me!” Tao Yao huffed, shaking off his hand, quickly pulling her sleeve back down. “Just an ordinary blade. I’m fine, my hand’s just a bit numb.”

“I was too far away, how could I possibly make it!”

“No excuses—how many times have you cursed me to end up cut down by a blade someday?”

“I never said that! I said struck by lightning!”

“…”

Si Kuanglan hadn’t caught a single word of their bickering; watching Tao Yao act as though nothing had happened, he only asked: “Truly all right?”

“You take a heavenly thunderbolt and come out fine—I just blocked a knife.” Tao Yao stuck out her tongue. “Give me half a year’s extra pay and I’ll be even more fine.” She even deliberately shook her arm. “Not even a tear in my clothes, not a drop of blood. Don’t worry.”

Si Kuanglan looked half-convinced, still picturing in his mind the way she’d thrown herself in front of that blade without a second thought.

Young Master Liu was right—this woman was out of her mind…

Though the blade hadn’t touched him at all, Si Kuanglan still felt as though something had pierced him—not painful, exactly, but shaking him to his very core.

Surely this had to be over now—reduced to nothing but scraps.

Luo Xian, marveling at the pills Tao Yao had thrown, thought to himself that he’d known this girl was different from the start, but hadn’t realized just how ruthlessly she could strike.

He stood a few paces from the pile of remains, about to poke at it with his staff, when suddenly a whirlwind swept up from the ground, and Ying Fansheng emerged from within it once more—though noticeably worse off than before, tattered and torn, as if not fully reassembled. He glanced at them with a cold sneer, then shot out of the hall along with the strange gust of wind.

“Ptooey! Will this never end!” Tao Yao stamped her foot and immediately gave chase.

“I know where he’s headed!” the turtle called out from her sleeve.

“I don’t need you to tell me that. Just stay put and don’t come out!” Tao Yao seemed genuinely angry now—having been out roaming the martial world for so long, this was the first time an opponent had humiliated her so repeatedly. And yet, an unease lingered in her heart that never quite eased—no confrontation had ever left her feeling this bad; the thing inhabiting Ying Fansheng, that pitiless, city-razing wildfire of destructive force, stubborn and relentless in a way she found thoroughly detestable.

Giving no thought to what was happening behind her, she cut through the night with her speed technique.

She could only hope the others on the other side were still holding on…

9

Green Wall County had likely never seen wind this fierce before—everywhere, swirling forces tore through the air. The flowers and trees suffered first; they’d never in their lives imagined they’d be torn to shreds at the height of summer’s fullest bloom. The air was thick with broken petals and shredded leaves, uprooted grass tumbling everywhere—the scene rivaled the worst weather of some desolate frontier wasteland, with not a trace left of the tranquil, picturesque paradise it had once been.

Every household had shut its doors and windows tight; not a single soul remained on the streets, everyone grumbling in confusion over this sudden, inexplicable change in weather.

In the back courtyard of the old Ying residence, Qiu Wanlai, her long hair whipping in the wind, stood before that well, eyes narrowed, several short arrows of unknown toxicity held between her fingers, watching calmly as Ying Fansheng came charging in.

He Chunhua crouched steadily beside her, its long black fur rippling in the wind, radiating a quiet, formidable presence.

Moya and Gungun fared a little worse—Gungun clung desperately to Moya’s leg, while Moya gripped the pillar of the nearby awning with all his strength, only barely managing to steady himself, narrowly avoiding being blown over by this enormous, unnatural wind.

They’d split into two groups—the night banquet needed people, and the Ying family’s “well” also needed watching, especially these particular days when it was most prone to acting up; there was no room for carelessness. Before setting out, Tao Yao had specifically told He Chunhua: leaving you here means you’re the one cutting off his retreat. Even though none of us know exactly what this hole really is, we can at least be sure that whatever power he draws on, its source lies here. If anything goes wrong at the banquet and he manages to escape, whether to save himself or seek revenge, he’ll surely find some way to make himself even more formidable—so you need to hold this ground. If anything changes, with your abilities, you should at least be able to hold him off for a little while.

Facing this assignment, He Chunhua had only drawled lazily, what difference would even ten of me make here—you all say no one can seal that hole, but as long as it exists, if it’s not Ying Fansheng it’ll be someone else. Dealing with Ying Fansheng is nothing—dealing with the hole itself is the real matter at hand.

Who didn’t know that was the real matter—but something the Ying family had failed to accomplish in a thousand years, they could hardly find a solution to in two or three days either, no matter who tried. So Tao Yao had only patted its cat head and said, laughing, if all else fails, just show your true form and plant yourself right on top of it—maybe that’ll seal it up.

He Chunhua had rolled its eyes.

Regardless, with the Cat Kui and Lord Bell Star here, there was at least some measure of reassurance. As for Moya and Gungun, who couldn’t wield blade or sword—them simply looking after themselves was already a great help. If, in the worst possible case, none of them could handle Ying Fansheng, at least they could bore him to death with sutra-chanting; perhaps that was a solution too.

At this moment, Ying Fansheng sized up these unexpected obstacles blocking his path, said not a word, and strode straight toward the well’s mouth, already roiling with black mist.

The closer he drew, the more violently that black mist churned, emitting cracking sounds, visible fissures slowly creeping across the centuries-old blue bricks.

Swish!

A short arrow struck his knee.

Ying Fansheng’s body tilted; he dropped to one knee.

“Potent poison.” Qiu Wanlai watched him coldly. “Surrender now, and I can still give you the antidote.”

Ying Fansheng’s expression darkened further, a ghastly blue-black showing through the pallor of his skin—after all, he was still mortal flesh, and the poison still seemed to be taking effect.

“You haven’t sunk to unforgivable depths yet—stop now and you can still live!” Tao Yao rushed in through the gate, shouting, “You’re a grown man weighing over a hundred jin—are you really content to be toyed with by these weightless, filthy things?”

Si Kuanglan, entering a step behind her, surveyed the scene and said to him coldly: “Ying Fansheng, the fault lies with the evil spirit, not with you—why fight us to the death over this? Is this how the Ying family’s skill is meant to be used?” He deliberately stressed the name.

Ying Fansheng tilted his head; his expressionless face creased, just for that instant, into a frown.

Young Master Liu murmured: “Be careful—I worry you won’t be able to call him back.”

Luo Xian and He Bai said nothing, only readying themselves to act at any moment.

Ying Fansheng slowly rose, standing motionless for a moment, then pulled out the poisoned arrow and lifted his foot, limping forward.

Tao Yao’s heart sank.

Another poisoned arrow struck his other knee—this time he fell harder, but scrambled back up even faster, showing no sign of stopping. And strangely, as his resolve to press forward grew ever firmer, the wounds the poisoned arrows had left in his knees vanished without a trace.

Qiu Wanlai’s fury flared; she unhooked the fine black iron chain at her waist and rushed forward. With her skill, she’d have him bound up like a dumpling in no time flat—the wretched boy, not even afraid of poison.

“He’s human! Don’t let him touch you!” Tao Yao shouted.

But she was a beat too late—just as Qiu Wanlai went to bind him with the chain, he seized the opportunity and grabbed her hand instead.

A burning, chilling pain shot out from beneath her hand; just as she was reeling in shock, he suddenly let go on his own—a nine-headed giant cat had bitten down on half his body just in time, and with a toss of its head, half of him flew up into the air, while the other half, still caught in the cat’s mouth, was spat out contemptuously.

Knowing a Cat Kui’s strength was great, she still hadn’t expected it could bite a person clean in half in one go…

“This is the strength you five couldn’t handle?” He Chunhua glanced at them.

Before the words had even faded, Ying Fansheng—now split in two—reunited within the strange wind, as if that strike had been nothing but a joke to him.

He Chunhua was startled.

“Splitting him into however many pieces and shooting however many poisoned arrows won’t work.” Tao Yao watched his back as he continued forward. “Because what we’ve been fighting this whole time was never really him—it’s whatever’s possessing his body. That hole must have long since stopped wanting to be just a hunter confined by its limits.” She looked at the well, frowning. “It needs a way to truly ‘come out.'”

“Don’t let him get any closer to that place!” Si Kuanglan snatched the iron chain from Qiu Wanlai’s hand and rushed forward, swiftly looping it around Ying Fansheng’s neck, yanking him back hard.

Ying Fansheng toppled backward onto the ground.

Young Master Liu darted forward in a single bound, forming a seal and casting a binding spell—an arc of light flashed from the crown of Ying Fansheng’s head down to his feet, rendering him unable to move.

But just as everyone breathed a slight sigh of relief, Ying Fansheng let out a strange laugh, and the chain around his neck instantly crumbled into iron dust, Young Master Liu’s spell losing its effect at once. He stood up with ease, walking toward the well’s mouth like a man already victorious.

He wasn’t a demon, and yet he was ten thousand times harder to deal with than one—Tao Yao’s mind raced, searching for any other method they might use.

“A son grown, born of the Ying family; a mortal heart, a mortal man, guarding all living beings.”

A beam of white light dropped from Tao Yao’s sleeve; the turtle landed on the ground and crawled slowly toward him.

He stopped.

“Ying Fansheng, your home isn’t there.” The turtle looked at his face, its tone as calm as ever. “The place where your father bathed you, taught you to walk, to speak—none of that is there.”

He looked at the crawling turtle approaching him, his hands trembling faintly.

The white light in the back courtyard grew ever brighter, and with every inch the turtle crawled forward, its body grew larger by another degree; countless dandelion-shaped orbs of light burst from its back, spiraling in midair into one translucent human form after another—men, women, old, young, faces clear and distinct.

Everyone present was stunned by the sight.

Two of these human forms drifted gently down before Ying Fansheng—one a stubble-jawed middle-aged man, the other a sturdily built young man.

Ying Fansheng stared blankly at them, something strange flickering within those abyss-black eyes.

Both wore smiles on their faces, though neither spoke—one reached out to gently pat his head, the other clapped his shoulder in encouragement.

Impossible—they shouldn’t have been able to touch anything at all, not even having any substance.

The darkness in his eyes gradually shrank, revealing, at last, his long-lost, ordinary irises.

“Father… Huoniu…” He reached out to grab hold of them, tears spilling from his eyes. “You’ve been gone so long, I dream of you every night!”

They continued smiling at him, then gradually faded away, condensing back into small orbs of light, returning to the turtle’s back.

He staggered after them, lost his footing, and fell to the ground.

“If you still remember their faces, why keep heading toward that abyss?” the turtle asked him. “Don’t go any further. Your surname is Ying—you’ve spent your whole life as its enemy. How can you lose to it, here of all places?”

He raised his head, staring at it blankly, and shook his head. “I don’t want to lose. I only wanted to find an answer.”

“What answer?” it asked.

“The meaning of giving up everything for strangers.” He looked at each of them in turn. “I tried my best. But I couldn’t find it.” He slowly stood, his eyes full of disappointment.

He stepped backward, one step at a time, the darkness in his eyes stirring restlessly once more.

“When your father took you in, you were a stranger to him too.” Tao Yao looked into his eyes. “Ying Fansheng, it’s because families like yours exist that this world hasn’t become a worse place.”

He froze, both hands clenching into fists, beads of sweat like soybeans forming on his forehead, his body shaking violently. And yet, at last, he laughed strangely: “I’m going back.”

But in the very next moment, his brow furrowed in pain: “I’m already trapped. It’s going to take me, for certain.”

“Time to go, time to go!”

“No… wait.”

“Go! Go! Go!”

“No… I can’t…”

“You belong to me!”

“That’s not right! I don’t belong to you… I’m Ying Fansheng. Not yours!”

For a moment, wave after wave of conflicting expressions crossed his face, his torn soul locked in one final, incoherent struggle.

At last, gripping the edge of the well with all his strength, he turned back and, with the last shred of clarity he had left, shouted at them: “Bring me back! Now!!”

Bring him back… everyone present knew there was only one true way to bring him back.

Everyone gathered there had seen life and death before, always decisive when it came to killing, without hesitation—yet only in this one moment did clear-eyed necessity and a fragile knot of feeling collide within each of their hearts.

But it was all only a fleeting pause.

A sharp blade sliced through the night, a trail of crimson light falling behind it like a dazzling streak, striking directly into Ying Fansheng’s chest.

Si Kuanglan’s sword had moved faster than Tao Yao’s pills.

She glanced sideways at him—he was calmer than she’d ever seen him, as if he’d simply done something entirely routine.

She silently put the pills back into her cloth bag.

On the other side, Ying Fansheng slid down against the well’s rim, an expression of relief settling on his face, incongruous as it was. He struggled to raise his arm, tracing letters, stroke by stroke, over that scar… but sadly, he didn’t have the strength left to finish writing.

He glanced at the turtle and said: “I saved you because you were trapped in a net. So was I.”

The turtle, meeting his final gaze, saw instead—from years ago—that anxious little boy desperate to free him from the fisherman’s net.

Ying Fansheng slowly lowered his head, and let out his final breath.

A cloud of ash rose up, scattering like wild snow; not a trace of him remained on the ground.

Si Kuanglan sheathed his sword; everyone’s expressions turned grave.

Dozens of lives saved, a decade-old unsolved mystery finally brought to light, the culprit brought to justice… it should have been a good ending. And yet, why did their hearts still knot up so tightly, refusing to ease?

Moya sighed, pressed his palms together, and murmured a prayer to Amitabha Buddha.

But before he could finish the invocation, a tremendous crash sounded from the back courtyard—the blue bricks atop the well suddenly exploded outward, a fiery black mist bursting furiously from the exposed hole, carrying with it a posture of despairing, roaring fury.

Gungun let out a cry, his whole body lifting off the ground, dragged by some invisible force toward the hole’s mouth, only saved when Moya grabbed hold of him just in time. Moya himself fared little better—one hand clutching the fox, the other clutching Tao Yao, nearly swept off his feet entirely.

The sudden, violent wind seemed determined to sweep everyone up, devour them into that mouth that had just broken free of its seal. The ground shook strangely in that moment too, as if something massive hidden beneath were gathering its strength to burst forth violently, ready to wreak whatever havoc it pleased once the moment came.

The force within the strange wind was overwhelmingly strong; Tao Yao clung to Moya with one hand, Si Kuanglan grabbed her hand just in time, and Young Master Liu threw all his strength into holding onto Si Kuanglan—only just barely managing to stay standing. On the other side, He Chunhua shielded the three Bi’an Bureau members behind it, cat claws dug fiercely into the ground, and still found itself dragged forward several steps by that monstrous force.

Worse still, it seemed they weren’t the only ones affected.

Faint screams sounded from beyond the courtyard walls; several children came “blown” over the wall like leaves caught in a gale.

Then two cats, three dogs, and a flock of clucking chickens came tumbling in through midair as well.

The commotion outside grew louder and louder—it seemed this hole, having lost Ying Fansheng, had grown furious enough to try dragging every living creature in Green Wall County inside.

Si Kuanglan caught one child, Tao Yao snatched another, He Chunhua’s tail curled around a third, Moya grabbed two dogs, Gungun caught a chicken, and everyone else did what they could to shield these innocent creatures. But at this rate, how many could they really save? Once every living thing in Green Wall County came pouring in, they themselves would likely be in danger too.

Only now did they truly understand why the Ying family had failed, across a thousand years, to seal this hole. Its power exceeded anything any of them had ever comprehended.

Young Master Liu frowned, shouting to Si Kuanglan and Tao Yao: “I’m letting go! Steady yourselves!”

“What are you going to do?” Tao Yao asked warily.

“Look at who we are—how can we let some wretched thing toy with us like this?” Young Master Liu gritted his teeth. “I’m going down to take a look.”

“No! Have you forgotten what happened to every living thing it’s dragged in before?” Tao Yao said sharply. “We have no idea what it’s really capable of right now—what if even you can’t withstand that kind of power? Do you want to become something even more terrible than Ying Fansheng?”

“But at this rate, sooner or later we’ll all get dragged in!”

“Let me go instead.” Si Kuanglan handed Tao Yao off to Young Master Liu, picking up the sword he’d planted in the ground. “With this in hand, that hole might not be able to touch me.”

Tao Yao grabbed hold of him. “That’s not a place for you to go!”

In this critical moment, a massive orb of white light rose into the air, seemingly entirely unaffected by the monstrous force, drifting unhurriedly toward the well’s mouth.

Everyone froze—what could that flying thing be, if not the turtle? Only now it seemed to have grown even larger, its very appearance changed from before—tiger eyes, crocodile jaws, a pair of dragon horns now sprouting from its forehead, the scales on its limbs shimmering with rainbow light. Strange and grotesque as it looked, it also carried a certain dignified majesty about it, and the orbs of light it still carried on its back remained just as radiant, seeming to grow more numerous by the moment.

A tremendous boom.

The turtle landed, settling exactly over the well’s mouth, sealing it completely.

The strange wind stopped abruptly; freed from the pulling force, everyone tumbled to the ground at once. The children wailed in fright; the cats and dogs broke free and vanished in an instant, nowhere to be seen.

Tao Yao looked up to see a translucent, rectangular shape rising from the turtle’s back, dazzling white light flickering, countless human silhouettes shimmering within it.

“My kind loves to bear the deeds of those with great renown, seeking only to become dragons and ascend as swiftly as possible.” The turtle grinned at Tao Yao. “But born with an unusual appearance as I was, I was never favored by my own kind from a young age, nor did I hold any lofty ambitions of becoming a dragon. So for years, I’ve wandered alone across the world, roaming freely through mountains and rivers. But being a bixi, my nature still runs true—we’re born for one purpose, to ‘remember,’ for as long as possible. And my particular nature, as it happens, is to love remembering only the names of the insignificant.”

Tao Yao spat out a mouthful of dirt and climbed to her feet, looking it over. “Names of the insignificant?”

“Mm. A soldier who spent half his life guarding the border. A woodcutter who died saving a drowning child. A physician who quietly practiced medicine his whole life in some poor, rural corner. A peddler carrying his load through every season, hawking wares from place to place. A craftsman building bridges and houses beneath the blazing sun. A firefighter who died in the flames. A mystic who spent a thousand years guarding a hole…” it said. “All those who did their utmost to live out their lives fully, yet gained no mountains of gold, no imperial robes, weren’t even known or remembered by many—the insignificant ones.” It continued, “I’ve discovered that every time I stand before the graves of these departed mortals and call out their names, a small light appears on my body—tiny, but bright. I have lived so long, I’ve lost count of how many such lights I carry on my back. I don’t really know what they truly are, myself—perhaps it’s simply my power letting their names endure in this form; perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all, and is only some small trace of longing they’ve left behind in this world, some faint mark of having once passed through it.” It blinked. “I call them mustard spirits.”

“Mustard spirits… you seem to have invented an entirely new kind of demon, one I’ve never even heard of.” Tao Yao’s gaze fell to its limbs, and she frowned. “Your legs…”

Its legs had begun turning to stone.

“Oh, I suppose I didn’t have much choice, given the situation just now.” It said lightly. “Though I’ve always cherished my freedom and easy days, and never thought I’d revert to my true form so soon—after all, once I make this choice, I’ll never be able to wander about again. No more listening, no more watching, no more speaking, day after day, bearing my own tablet, stuck here through a long stretch of time.”

Everyone exchanged glances, unsure what to say.

Si Kuanglan, still the most level-headed of them all, asked it: “Are you certain you can seal it?”

“Isn’t it already sealed?” it laughed once. “I’m testing it out myself, honestly—my actual weight really is quite terrifying, and I think there’s some extra weight on me too. Perhaps it’s precisely because of them that I’m able to hold down this unruly, broken hole.”

They looked up; the “tablet” on its back still shone brilliantly. Because of its existence, all those who had once lived across different times—their faces, their smiles, their tears, their love and longing for this world—would remain forever on this demon’s back. Even if everyone in the world forgot their names, it would still remember.

Tao Yao crouched down in front of it. “No regrets?”

“Give me more time to choose, and I might come to regret it,” the turtle said earnestly. “But you were all about to be swallowed whole—I hardly had time to spare.”

Tao Yao couldn’t help shaking her head with a laugh. “Never in my dreams did I think I’d one day be saved by a demon who needed something from me. Well, there goes my dignity again.”

“I won’t tell anyone. Not that I’ll get the chance to, anyway.” It glanced downward, its four legs already having turned into four thick, sturdy stone pillars. “Still, I should warn you—I can feel some unruly force still churning beneath me. How long I can hold it down, I can’t say for sure.”

“Don’t worry, now that I know, I certainly won’t let it off the hook.” Tao Yao reached out and patted its front leg. “But rules are rules.”

“Of course, I never renege on a deal,” it said with a smile. “Just be careful in the future when you use me as medicine—wouldn’t want to break a patient’s teeth.”

Tao Yao patted its head with a laugh, then asked one more thing: “I’ve been calling you Turtle all this while—do you have a name of your own?”

It thought for a moment, then said: “Since he called me Huanhuan, I suppose I’ll keep being Huanhuan.”

“Then thank you, Huanhuan.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll come visit you when I have some free time.”

“Don’t come empty-handed. Bring some steamed buns.”

“Deal…”

In the courtyard, the light gradually grew as bright as day.

10

Today, clear skies.

The morning sunlight already shone in a bright gold sheet.

In the back courtyard of the Ying residence now stood a tall stone tablet, white as jade, smooth and gleaming. Beneath it crouched a massive white stone bixi, cutting a solemn, majestic figure.

The inscription on the tablet, too, was unlike any other—no content but names, densely packed row upon row—

Zhang Shitou, Niu Ermei, Xu Qingqing, Fang Chang’an, Lin Jue… Ying Qinzhi, Li Huoniu… Ying Fansheng. All names history would never record, small figures every one.

And in the very last row of names, one was squeezed in—newly carved: Huanhuan.

The characters were clumsy, but sincere.

At that moment, the streets of Green Wall County still lay in disarray—last night’s storm had come on with terrifying force, and everyone had spent the whole night in fear, only cautiously opening their doors and peering out once dawn broke. Seeing their equally shaken neighbors, they immediately began exchanging exaggerated accounts of their own night’s ordeal—before half a day had passed, all manner of true and false rumors were flying: someone’s cattle had been blown into the sky, someone’s roof was entirely gone, someone’s child had been blown clean into a neighbor’s house. Terrifying, truly—had someone among them offended some deity, done something wrong? And yet they’d all been so law-abiding, hadn’t they?

Stepping over the scattered leaves, broken branches, and roof tiles littering the ground, Tao Yao stood in the not-yet-cleared street, looking up at the increasingly glaring sunlight, feeling an unusually dizzy sensation. Last night hadn’t taken any great exertion on her part, and yet she felt exhausted, as if several bones had been pulled from her body, leaving her lacking some crucial support.

She took a deep breath, and quickly her face returned to its usual carefree, cheerful expression.

“Said you were bringing us here to escape the summer heat and have some fun, and here we go getting swindled again.” She stretched lazily, then swatted Gungun’s rear. “We’re heading back—what are you still doing holding onto someone’s chicken!”

Gungun grumbled a bit, reluctantly loosening its grip, releasing the terrified little chick.

She turned and happened to catch sight of Moya’s troubled expression, and couldn’t help patting his head. “The wind’s stopped, the hole’s sealed—can’t you cheer up a little? Looking so listless, I’d think you’d suffered through some terrible ordeal last night, when really, weren’t you the one who had it easiest?”

Moya still couldn’t muster any cheer, and looked up. “Tao Yao, if Bixi hadn’t been there last night, don’t you think we’d have been nearly helpless?” He sighed. “We’ve faced so many enemies along the way, resolved so many dangers, but never once has it felt like last night—it wasn’t a matter of winning or losing… it was helplessness. As we each struggled just to hold on in that gale, I kept thinking, how strange—who are we, really? Peach Capital’s Tao Yao and Young Master Liu, the Si household’s little King of Hell, masters of the Bi’an Bureau… I don’t even know how to describe what I felt, but even though that hole’s sealed now, my heart’s still very uneasy.”

Tao Yao froze—right, the little monk was right. That helplessness… Last night, she’d faced an enemy both visible and invisible; it turned out, with no preparation at all, even Tao Yao wasn’t someone who could always win. Though it looked like they’d won in the end, she knew clearly in her heart—this particular battle, she had lost. She didn’t like it, didn’t feel right about it, but the fact remained the fact.

“Don’t overthink it—you’re just a coward, that’s all.” She flicked his shiny forehead and laughed. “Choke on a fish bone once from eating too much fish, nothing shameful about that. Be more careful next time. Oh wait, right, you don’t eat fish.”

Moya watched her usual carefree smile and shook his head, exasperated.

“If choking on one fish bone were fatal, that’d be a different story entirely.” Young Master Liu, rubbing his dark-circled eyes, deliberately spoiled the mood. “You’re always like this—doing everything however you please, never willing to consult anyone else even the slightest bit.”

Tao Yao glared at him. “When have I not consulted you? Didn’t I bring you along when we went to see Bixi? You were in on every part of the plan.”

“That’s because I found out—you had no choice but to include me.” Young Master Liu glared right back.

“Fine, fine!” Tao Yao threw up her hands in surrender. “From now on, even if I go to the outhouse, I’ll let you know beforehand, all right?”

“Fine, but if you dare tell me, I dare go with you.” Young Master Liu pinched her.

“Hey, stop that!” Tao Yao laughed and dodged out of his reach.

She couldn’t help it—she was simply used to putting on a cheerful, careless face, used to keeping every unsettling emotion hidden somewhere they couldn’t see. Sorry—it wasn’t that she didn’t want to consult them, only that she wanted, as much as possible, to keep them from being touched by real danger.

“But there’s something you should consider.” Young Master Liu suddenly turned serious. “What if this isn’t the only ‘hole’ in the world?”

Tao Yao frowned, then relaxed again. “What can we do about it—either hope they’re still dormant and can’t harm living things yet, or hope someone else is as stubborn as the Ying family.”

Young Master Liu thought about this and said nothing more, though privately, he was already quietly turning the matter over in his mind.

More people began appearing in the streets, many carrying tools to start clearing the mess everywhere, grumbling and grateful all at once amid the swirling dust.

Behind them, Si Kuanglan was giving He Bai and the others some instructions, his gaze drifting toward Tao Yao every so often.

He Chunhua yawned, crouching lazily beneath the eaves nearby. Tao Yao crept quietly over to it, nudging it with her arm.

It shrank away slightly. “Sleepy. Don’t want to talk.”

“But I really am curious—how did you end up willing to stay by his side?” She gestured toward He Bai with her chin. “Come on, tell me!”

It said nothing.

“Tell me!” She scratched its chin. “If you don’t tell me, I’m not leaving—I’ll stay here and pester you to death.”

Already thoroughly annoyed, it lay down, smacked its lips, and said: “He traded an eye for me.”

“Oh?” Tao Yao was taken aback.

Just as she was about to press further, the light above her head was suddenly blocked by someone. Si Kuanglan stood before her, expressionless: “No sleep all night, and still this energetic?”

Seizing this rescue, He Chunhua quickly bounded away, back to He Bai’s side.

“Hey!” Tao Yao jumped up, pointing at it. “You can’t dodge this forever—if you don’t tell me now, you won’t escape next time either!”

Unexpectedly, Si Kuanglan took the chance to grab her arm and push up her sleeve—contrary to what she’d claimed about being completely fine, a knife wound was clearly visible. Surprisingly, there was no sign of blood or torn flesh at all—only a slightly split opening, as if cut into something without any life in it at all.

Tao Yao quickly pulled her hand back, pulling her sleeve down, a flicker of unease crossing her heart.

Si Kuanglan frowned and only said: “As a physician, you can’t even bandage your own wound?”

Tao Yao laughed. “It’s fine, I don’t bleed.” With that, she darted off as if nothing had happened, running to link arms with Young Master Liu and the others, chattering away.

Would she wear that same indifferent expression even if the sky came crashing down?

The sunlight falling on him grew ever more intense; Si Kuanglan watched that bouncing figure ahead, and for the first time, felt a genuine urge to truly draw closer to someone, to understand them.

Just how many secrets, beyond his imagining, did she carry within her?!

“Let’s go.” He walked past her.

The Bi’an Bureau members bowed in farewell. Tao Yao waved to them and hurried to catch up.

“They’ll handle everything that comes after, right?” Beyond the suffering common folk, she also thought of the wrecked Linlang Residence, the guests who’d been circling outside Green Wall County for days, and those distinguished figures still locked away at the inn… She could already picture their faces, furious enough to kill.

Si Kuanglan smiled. “Afraid of being hunted down?”

Tao Yao rolled her eyes at him. “What can they possibly do to me? I’m just being considerate of Green Wall County’s innocent people—nearly blown into the sky in the middle of the night, and now there’s this strange new tablet in the place they’ve lived their whole lives… Someone owes them an explanation, don’t they?”

“The Bi’an Bureau will handle it.” Si Kuanglan looked at the people busy along the street. “And no one’s coming after you, a nameless nobody—I’ll keep your secret.”

Tao Yao laughed heartily. “Much obliged then, young master. Though…” She looked at the ordinary passersby. “If it weren’t for insignificant little people like us, the world of great figures wouldn’t be any better off either. Otherwise, I can’t imagine why Huanhuan’s tablet would grow so heavy—heavy enough to hold down such enormous malice.”

At these words, the two of them turned, unconsciously, in the same moment, to look back toward the direction of the old Ying residence.

They could still faintly make out that tablet, glowing with a warm, clean light.

I’ll keep my word, come back and chat with you when I have the time, bringing steamed buns along.

Tao Yao said silently, in her heart, to the great turtle.

Epilogue

The carriage raced swiftly down the road toward the capital.

Thinking of how, in just a few more days, they’d get to taste Chef Zhan’s fine cooking again, everyone’s spirits finally lifted considerably.

A few days earlier, as their carriage passed by the foot of East Mountain in Green Wall County, Tao Yao had specially poked her head out to glance up at the Linlang Residence on the hill—it still stood there, perfectly intact, a group of people bustling anxiously in and out. She thought, its owner was probably lamenting the ruined banquet, having hoped that lending out this “treasured land” might not only win him connections with all manner of nobility, but perhaps even catch the emperor’s favor and send him rising to great heights—only for it to end in such a chaotic mess instead.

Tao Yao thought about it and felt that simply leaving like this didn’t sit quite right. She called for the carriage to stop, and whispered a few words to Young Master Liu.

Young Master Liu raised an eyebrow and said, “All right.” Then he got down from the carriage and headed straight for the Linlang Residence.

Moya, puzzled, asked: “What’s Young Master Liu going to do?”

“Delivering a little gift to that Lord Qin’s grand estate.” Tao Yao smiled slyly.

Si Kuanglan glanced at her, said nothing, and went back to his book.

A short while later, Young Master Liu returned to the carriage. “All right, let’s go.”

Naturally, Moya had to press for details. “What gift did you deliver?”

“Oh, that…” Young Master Liu scratched his nose. “Just used a little trick of mine—from now on, deep in the night, the people in that mansion might, quite by accident, run into what could well be a Ying family member sitting in the main hall eating dinner, or passing straight through a wall, or standing at the head of the bed listening to you talk in your sleep.”

Moya sucked in a sharp breath, hugging Gungun close. “Though I don’t generally approve of scaring people, I suppose this particular gift of yours… isn’t entirely unreasonable.”

“Huh, has my little Moya had a change of heart today?” Tao Yao laughed, watching the mansion gradually recede into the distance out the window. “That Lord Qin buying the land wasn’t wrong in itself—I just don’t appreciate the way they treated others with such contempt.”

The carriage rounded a bend, and everything on East Mountain vanished from view entirely. Tao Yao lowered the curtain, giggling. “We’re all neighbors sharing this land, after all—fostering a bit of goodwill can’t hurt.”

“Noting this one down!” Young Master Liu reminded her. “I’d say we’ve already passed a hundred incidents by now, haven’t we?”

Moya shivered. “No, no, definitely not!”

“Not yet, but not far off either.” Young Master Liu licked his lips at him.

Sensing some malicious intent, Gungun waved its paws and bared its teeth at Young Master Liu.

“Dare to snarl at me?” Young Master Liu twisted its ear. “Heh heh, you’re not getting away either! Braised fox stew!”

“Don’t you touch it!”

“It spat at me again! What have you been teaching it!”

“You’re the annoying one, and you’re blaming others for it!”

“Can the two of you—and the one fox—please quiet down a bit? I haven’t slept all night.”

“No! Neither have we! He keeps using the fox to disgust me!”

“Chirp chirp chirp chirp!”

“See, it’s cursing at me too!”

The carriage grew lively with chatter once more, the three of them bickering as always over one trivial matter or another. But it was all right, really—at least they were all still alive.

Si Kuanglan flipped through a few more pages of his book; a folded slip of paper sat tucked between the pages. He’d slipped it in there himself, on a whim. Before they’d set out for Green Wall County, Steward Miao, besides packing their luggage, had also handed him this piece of paper with a look of relieved satisfaction, instructing him to keep it safe.

It was a treasured product of Tao Yao’s calligraphy practice—that pillow-sized red envelope of his hadn’t gone entirely to waste, after all.

“Peach Capital subdues demons and spirits; the Si household resolves grievances. Everyone says demons bewitch the human heart, but who knows the human heart is itself the true demon.” The handwriting hadn’t improved much, but the words themselves weren’t half bad.

His fingers traced across the paper, then, without a trace of visible reaction, he turned the page.

The chatter beside him showed no sign of quieting down. He glanced sideways at that uninvited guest who had suddenly barged into his life, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

The carriage passed through the afternoon sunlight; no matter how rough the mountain road, nothing could slow its pace toward home—nor, certainly, could it silence the laughter and bickering of those inside.

The road ahead was full of unknowns and dangers, but as long as they remained who they were, peace and happiness were sure to follow.