Prologue

One life, one person, one path.

An empty room, two people.

A young woman in fresh wedding attire huddled in the corner farthest from the window, watching him uneasily.

Mo Ya stood before the window, pushing hard against it again and again, but the plain, even somewhat rotted wooden window frame wouldn’t budge an inch.

The room wasn’t large, square-shaped, gray walls and stone floor, a window but no door, not a single piece of furniture. The two of them were the only “furnishings” inside.

He couldn’t push it open. No matter what, he couldn’t push it open.

Mo Ya was sweating profusely, his heart a tangle of urgency, panic, and frustration.

The bridegroom’s robe on his body was a garish, unsettling red. After all these years as a monk, never touching meat or wine, never once feeling stirred by a girl, devoted wholeheartedly to the Buddha — he never imagined he’d one day be forced into a groom’s robe and dragged off to be someone’s husband. And he was still so young — he looked barely six or seven years old at most. How could they do something so outrageous!

He was utterly bewildered.

Why was this happening? At first he’d thought it was simply a kidnapping, but that man in black had actually paid money for him! He’d seen with his own eyes that man handing some precious pearl to Tao Yao, and Tao Yao had happily accepted it… So this wasn’t a kidnapping at all, but human trafficking? Which meant Tao Yao definitely wasn’t coming to rescue him — raised him all these years just to sell him off like that? Fine, even if Tao Yao didn’t care whether he lived or died, surely Young Master Liu wouldn’t stand for it — how could he hand over food he’d already claimed for himself? With Young Master Liu’s abilities, wiping out the entire Wen household wouldn’t be difficult, would it?! But the problem was, he hadn’t come, hadn’t come, simply hadn’t come at all… It was miserable, he wanted to cry — compared to being a groom, he’d rather be eaten whole by Young Master Liu.

If he remembered correctly, not long after the man in black brought him to this residence, he’d been led into this faintly fragrant room. The whole room was red — red lacquered furniture, red floors, a great red bed, and on it lay a young woman in a red wedding dress. On the table before the bed, a pair of dragon-and-phoenix wedding candles burned brightly, and a hunched, withered old woman, also draped in a red robe, stood by the bed grinning at him like a boiled shrimp.

He’d been utterly bewildered, murmuring “amitabha” over and over, glancing back at the silent man who’d bought him, guessing at all sorts of possible fates ahead — serve as a servant to this soon-to-be-wed couple? That he could accept, since he was decent at washing dishes. Or chant sutras for them? No, no, wedding celebrations and monk’s chanting hardly went together. So what did they want him for? Surely their family didn’t have some bizarre custom requiring a sacrifice before the bride’s wedding — like an innocent little monk?

No matter how many possibilities he imagined, none prepared him for the voice that drifted from behind him — “Worthy son-in-law.”

A stunningly beautiful middle-aged woman emerged gracefully from behind the curtains, smiling as she looked at him. “Finally, you’re here.”

“Worthy son-in-law?” He pointed at himself, his hair standing on end.

The woman stopped before him, smiling at his ghost-stricken face. “My Shanhai is entrusted to you now.”

“Shanhai?” He instinctively turned to look at the silent bride on the bed.

“Yes, my only daughter, Shanhai.” The woman gently took his cold, stiff hand, leading him toward the bed. “Her happiness now rests with you, worthy son-in-law.”

“No, no, no, no!” He yanked his hand away as if bitten by a venomous snake, chanting rapidly. “Amitabha, amitabha! Madam, please don’t joke like this. You’ve abducted me, and I’ve made no complaint even if you meant to work me like an ox or take my life — but I’m a monk! How could I possibly become your worthy son-in-law?! You’ve made a mistake, surely a mistake!”

The woman smiled, gripping his arm. “No mistake. The son-in-law I want is you.”

This time he couldn’t break free — the woman’s grip was iron-strong, clamping down like pincers, dragging him bodily to the bedside.

“Shanhai,” the woman said, one hand holding him, the other gently stroking the sleeping girl’s lovely face, “trust your mother. It shouldn’t be much longer now. Just wait a little more, and everything will be fine.”

“Madam, it’s nearly time,” the old woman said, coughing twice.

He had no time to make sense of these baffling words — for a devout monk, being forced to marry and become a groom was no better than being told to die on the spot.

But besides chanting sutras and washing dishes, what could he even do? His meager kung fu couldn’t even scare a cat, and just as he thought to resist, his right to resist was stripped away entirely — the moment the withered old woman’s hands seized him, something like needles pierced his fingers, and all his strength and consciousness dissolved into nothing.

As he collapsed, he only registered how soft the bed was, the ceiling spinning, the sleeping girl’s face beautiful as a flower…

Heaven only knew how much time had passed when Mo Ya opened his eyes again. All the suffocating red in the room was gone, even the furnishings had vanished — except for the garishly red wedding robe still on his body, everything around him was gray and black.

He sat up dazedly from the cold, hard floor, when suddenly a voice spoke behind him: “What’s your name?”

He jumped, turning around with a shudder — the girl sitting against the wall behind him was none other than the bride who’d been lying on the bed before! Seventeen or eighteen years old, in red wedding finery, beautiful as a half-blooming peony, delicate and shy without being overwhelming.

Truly a beauty.

Amitabha, how could a monk’s heart harbor such admiration — all form is emptiness, all beings equal.

“Th-this humble monk is named Mo Ya.” He pressed his palms together, watching her nervously.

“Mo Ya… haha, what a fun name.” She laughed, standing and walking over to crouch before him, extending a friendly hand. “I’m called… I’m called…” She seemed suddenly choked, repeating the attempt several times, then frowned, murmuring, “What am I called? I remember it clearly.”

Mo Ya looked at her weakly, stammering, “Madam benefactor… I believe I heard your mother call you… Shanhai.”

Hearing this, she smacked her forehead. “Right! I’m Shanhai. Wen Shanhai.”

“Oh… Miss Shanhai…” Mo Ya said cautiously. “A pleasure, a pleasure.”

“A pleasure, Little Monk Mo Ya.” She smiled, sitting down beside him.

Mo Ya quickly shifted away, not even daring to let their clothes touch, eyes filled with awkward wariness.

“Are you afraid of me?” She tilted her head, studying him.

Mo Ya shook his head. “I’m afraid of this robe I’m wearing.”

She laughed again. “The robe won’t eat you.”

Mo Ya frowned, suddenly turning to her with an almost pleading expression. “Miss Shanhai, you can see clearly for yourself — I’m a genuine monk, forbidden from wine, women, wealth, and worldly desires alike. How could I possibly be your groom! I beg you, for the Buddha’s sake, show mercy and let me go!” With that, he bowed his head to her several times.

“Don’t bow to me — I’m not your bodhisattva.” Wen Shanhai quickly stopped him, saying awkwardly, “We’re both stuck here. I want to get out too.”

Mo Ya froze, asking in return, “You want to get out too?”

Wen Shanhai nodded. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been in here.” She looked him over carefully once more, then added, “I don’t even remember how many little monks like you I’ve seen.”

“Little monks like me?” Mo Ya pointed at himself in shock. “I’m not the first?”

Wen Shanhai shook her head, glancing up at the empty ceiling around them, a flicker of blankness in her eyes. “Quite a few. All around your age, all little monks.”

Hearing this, Mo Ya was even more startled. “All monks? All brought here to marry you?”

She nodded, smiling bitterly. “All dressed in a groom’s robe, just like you.”

“Absurd!” Mo Ya’s dissipated strength suddenly surged back in a rush of urgency; he shot up, pointing at Wen Shanhai. “This is outrageous! Everyone knows monks cannot marry — why do you keep forcing this on people?”

Wen Shanhai looked at his flushed, agitated face, saying helplessly, “I don’t know either. But that’s just how it is. Every ‘husband’ who’s come to me has been a monk.”

“Amitabha, what a sin, what a sin.” Mo Ya felt he’d suffered the greatest humiliation of his life, unable to survive without chanting “what a sin” a hundred times over. But… wait. According to her, he wasn’t her first “husband” — so what happened to the monks before him?

“Miss Shanhai,” he fixed his gaze on her, “those previous ‘husbands’ you mentioned — where are they now?”

Wen Shanhai was silent for a moment, then said, “Eaten.”

Mo Ya’s legs went weak, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he stumbled back several steps. “Ea… eaten?”

Seeing his ghost-struck expression, Wen Shanhai smiled faintly. “You think I ate them?”

Mo Ya said nothing.

She pointed toward the room’s single window. “It’s the thing outside.”

“Not you?” Mo Ya grew even more confused. “The thing outside? What thing?”

“Anyway, just stay hidden here, that’s all that matters.” She shifted back, curling into the corner, drawing her legs up. “Stay away from the window.”

Mo Ya looked at her, then at the window, hesitating a moment before walking over to it anyway — just an ordinary wooden window, the wood somewhat rotted, shouldn’t be hard to open.

He turned back to her. “Miss Shanhai, I can’t stay here. Even if it means facing mountains of blades and seas of fire outside, I have to get out.”

Wen Shanhai said nothing.

He rolled up his sleeves and pushed hard, but the seemingly fragile wooden window remained utterly immovable.

No matter how much force he used, this one visible path to escape refused to give him any quarter.

A monk was supposed to renounce greed, anger, and delusion, but at this moment he truly couldn’t rein in his emotions — his frustration at the unyielding window vented itself entirely onto that accursed groom’s robe.

Mo Ya suddenly began tearing at his own clothes like a madman, shouting as he pulled. “I won’t wear this thing! I’m a monk, a monk!”

Soon, he’d torn and yanked the garish red groom’s robe off, flung it hard to the ground, and jumped on it, stomping repeatedly — days of accumulated grief and outrage finally finding an outlet.

Only after stomping his fill did he stop, gasping for breath, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow — only to break out in another cold sweat immediately. Why was the sleeve covering his hand still red? He looked down — the exact same groom’s robe was still wrapped intact around his body, while the one he’d trampled on the ground had vanished without a trace.

He froze, then stubbornly tried tearing it off again, but no matter how many times he stripped it away, he remained dressed in that same groom’s robe, an endless loop.

“Don’t waste your effort — that robe can’t come off,” Wen Shanhai said, watching this flustered little bald monk with sympathy. “Until this ‘wedding’ is over, we’re stuck like this.”

Mo Ya felt a headache coming on, splitting fit to burst.

“What exactly is going on?” He collapsed before Wen Shanhai, on the verge of tears. “Miss Shanhai, we have no quarrel between us — why toy with me like this!”

Wen Shanhai gripped his shoulders. “It’s not that I don’t want to help you — I can’t even help myself.”

Mo Ya raised his tear- and snot-streaked face, looking at her uncomprehendingly.

She stood and slowly began unfastening her wedding robe.

“You’re… what are you…” Mo Ya quickly turned his face away, repeating rapidly, “Improper to look, improper to look! Miss Shanhai, please, have some dignity!”

“Little Master Mo Ya, once you turn back and look, you’ll understand why I can’t help you,” she said softly. “I never meant to toy with you.”

Hearing this, Mo Ya hesitated a long while before finally turning back, one hand shielding his eyes as he peeked through his fingers.

Her robe had indeed opened, but beneath the red wedding dress wasn’t a young woman’s graceful body — it was… nothing at all. From her neck downward, there was only empty air. Were it not for the clothing wrapped around it, what stood before Mo Ya would simply have been a talking head.

Was there anything more terrifying than this — he’d been talking to a disembodied head this whole time?

Mo Ya’s tears were startled right back into his eyes. He collapsed onto the floor, pointing at Wen Shanhai. “You, you… how can your body be like this?”

Wen Shanhai quietly redressed, saying, “I’m curious too — how it manages to hold up the wedding robe even like this. I can’t see it, but the body seems to still be there somehow. Probably once even my head disappears, I’ll be entirely gone.”

Mo Ya didn’t know what to say — a girl who apparently had nothing left but a head was standing right there, alive, before him. He was terribly frightened, but seeing the self-mocking, forlorn look on Wen Shanhai’s face, he felt she probably wouldn’t hurt him. Gathering his courage, he crawled forward, approaching her, reaching out with trembling hands to check for her breath.

“I’m alive,” she said, lifting a hand hidden beneath her wide sleeve to block him. She looked down at herself, murmuring, “Each time a ‘husband’ comes, I lose a part of myself.” She lowered her head, looking at herself. “This time, it should be my head…”

Mo Ya patted his own racing heart, asking with a bloodless face, “What exactly happened?”

Before he’d finished speaking, the whole room suddenly shuddered violently. Though he couldn’t see outside, instinct told Mo Ya that something enormous had appeared outside the room — every step it took made the room tremble.

Wen Shanhai’s expression changed; she clamped a hand over Mo Ya’s mouth, dragging him into the corner farthest from the window, gesturing for him not to make a sound, wrapping her arms tightly around him, using her wide sleeves to hide him completely.

Thud! Thud!

The thing outside the room paced back and forth, the floor and walls trembling with each step.

Mo Ya huddled in her embrace, not daring to breathe loudly. The warm presence lingering in the darkness, the faint fragrance from the girl’s body — inexplicably, it settled his wildly pounding heart. She was truly protecting him. Mo Ya suddenly believed every word she’d said, believed she wasn’t toying with him, believed she was alive, even in this strange state her body was in.

He couldn’t say how much time had passed before the thing outside seemed to move away, and the world returned to its former stillness.

She released him, letting out a breath. “It’s gone. I hope I managed to mask your scent — let’s hope it doesn’t come looking again.”

Mo Ya’s face flushed deep red. “Thank you, Miss Shanhai.”

“Your guard against me seems to have dropped.” She looked into his eyes, smiling as she patted his bald head. “Don’t call me Miss Shanhai anymore. Just call me Shanhai, or Sister Shanhai.”

“Call you sister?” The words tumbled out of him. “How could you possibly be my sister.”

“You little imp, you’re barely seven or eight — and I can’t be your sister?” She glared at him. “I’m eighteen years old this year.”

Mo Ya sighed. “Fine, fine, I’ll call you Shanhai.”

“For me to actually look like your little sister, you’d need at least another ten years.” She relaxed back into her earlier lightness, then lowered her eyes with a smile. “Though I don’t know if I’ll still be around in ten years.”

“Shanhai, I’m terribly confused right now. I was walking a mountain path with my companions just fine, and then your people abducted me here — how did this happen?” Mo Ya grabbed her sleeve. “Whatever troubles you’re carrying, you can tell me. Even if I can’t help, if you just let me find my companions, they certainly can. So we can’t just hide here forever — we need to find a way out!”

Wen Shanhai looked at the window, troubled. “Mo Ya, going out there means possibly being eaten. That thing is looking for you — it always eats the little monks first, then comes to bite me. Every time it bites me, part of me disappears. And besides temporarily helping hide your presence, there’s nothing else I can do.”

Mo Ya frowned. “You’ve said the same thing to your former ‘husbands,’ haven’t you? Done the same thing, too.”

She paused, seeming to sink into a distant memory.

“Seems so,” she said quietly.

“But they still got eaten in the end, didn’t they?” Mo Ya said bluntly. “So keeping me here won’t work. If there’s really a monster out there wanting to eat me, no matter how I hide, it’ll eventually get me.”

“Then what should we do?” She looked at him, troubled.

“We can’t just sit here waiting to die.” He said earnestly. “We go out. The wider the world, the more chances for survival.”

“But…” She still hesitated.

“We’ll figure it out once we’re out!” He grabbed her sleeve. “Trust me. Monks don’t lie.”

She looked at his resolute eyes, saying, “Mo Ya, you don’t seem like a child at all.”

Mo Ya startled, a bit embarrassed. “We’ll talk about that later. Let me try the window again — help me.”

He stood, extending his hand toward her.

She gritted her teeth and, through her sleeve, took his hand.

Mo Ya struggled with the window once more, this time with Wen Shanhai standing beside him.

When the two of them pushed together, the stubborn window suddenly became an ordinary window, swinging open at a single push.

Blinding light poured in. Mo Ya squinted, and without caring what lay beyond, said to Wen Shanhai, “I’ll go out first. If it’s safe, you follow.”

With that, he climbed onto the windowsill, took a deep breath, and leaped out.

His feet landed on solid ground — heaven knew how high a drop he’d jumped from, his feet aching from the impact.

The blinding light faded; he saw his own slanted shadow on the ground. Looking up, blue sky, white clouds, warm sunlight, streets all around, roads crisscrossing in every direction, buildings arranged in orderly fashion — it all looked familiar, as if this were somewhere the black-clad riders’ horse procession had passed on the way to the Wen household. So, had they been held captive this whole time in a marketplace close to the Wen residence?

He climbed to his feet and turned to look back at where the window had been, only to freeze in shock — behind him stretched an endless road with no end in sight, utterly empty. He stood in the middle of the road; forget the window, there wasn’t even a single building.

He panicked, shouting into the empty air. “Shanhai! Shanhai! Can you see me? Come out quickly!”

Before he’d finished, someone dropped from midair, landing squarely on top of him. Both of them fell to the ground, Mo Ya yelping in pain.

Wen Shanhai scrambled up from the ground, looking around in bewilderment. “Why here…”

Mo Ya rubbed his aching head. “If you’d been any heavier, the monster wouldn’t have needed to bother taking my life.”

She looked around, murmuring, “This is the marketplace in Tianshui Town…”

“Marketplace?” Mo Ya stood, looking left and right, growing more bewildered by the moment.

The marketplace was utterly empty — not a single person.

No birds in the sky either, not even a single insect in this vast space. Mo Ya, unwilling to accept it, dove into the nearest shops — indeed empty, every single one.

The entire world was hollow, without even sound.

“What exactly is this place…” Mo Ya looked at her.

“It’s Tianshui Town’s marketplace, no mistake.” Wen Shanhai stood before a dough-figurine stall, the brightly colored figures mounted on the wooden rack looking freshly made. She picked up an adorably chubby little dough doll. “This is Dough-Figure Liu’s stall — been here for years. After Dough-Figure Liu died, his son sat here every day instead.”

“But there’s no one here,” Mo Ya muttered.

“No sign of the monster either,” Wen Shanhai suddenly turned, saying with delight. “We’re really lucky. Maybe the monster’s gone far away from us.”

“Really?” Mo Ya wasn’t quite convinced, but looking around, everything did seem peaceful, no sign of danger anywhere.

“How rare, not a single person on the whole street.” Wen Shanhai, holding the dough figure, ran over like a child, grabbing Mo Ya’s hand. “Come explore with me properly. It’s been so long since I could get out and walk around comfortably.”

With that, without waiting for his agreement, she dragged him wandering through the marketplace — dashing into a dry goods shop to grab a handful of dried fruit to eat, then diving into a blacksmith’s to swing a hammer around wildly, then wandering into a jewelry shop to try on every vermilion hairpin one after another, finally leaving with a head full of hairpins, thoroughly satisfied. Mo Ya realized her whole source of enjoyment right now was causing a bit of mischief in every trade she came across.

No one scolding, no one shouting — she played to her heart’s content, joy practically written across her forehead, as if she’d completely forgotten the fear and anxiety of the small room.

Mo Ya was dragged from place to place, all his questions swallowed up by her sudden burst of relaxation and delight.

“Shanhai, we…”

“What do you think of this fabric? Nice pattern and color, right?”

“Lovely, lovely, what I meant to say was—”

“That’s the shop selling paintings and calligraphy over there — there’s a dusk lotus painting that’s especially beautiful. I’ve always wanted to buy it for my mother.”

“Shanhai, you…”

“Come look, come look!”

What should have been a tense, oppressive atmosphere had turned into this kind of exchange.

Strangely enough, amid all this bustle, Mo Ya found himself involuntarily relaxing too, a go-with-the-flow feeling gradually spreading through him. As for that monster he’d only ever heard the sound of, it seemed to have lost its power to frighten.

The two figures in wedding attire became the only vivid splash of color on the empty street.

From east to west, north to south, Wen Shanhai never once stopped, showing deep interest in everywhere, even a tiny barber’s stall. Mo Ya felt he’d wandered through an entire lifetime’s worth of marketplaces.

Only when they walked into an alley did Wen Shanhai’s eager pace finally halt.

A residence with tightly shut gates stood in the middle of the alley — blue brick, gray walls, a few sprigs of fresh green bamboo leaves peeking over the wall, elegant and serene.

“Qinglan Academy…” Mo Ya read the plaque beneath the eaves.

Wen Shanhai stood outside this academy for at least the time it takes to finish half a cup of tea — neither leaving nor entering, just standing at the gate, staring blankly.

It was just a small academy — why stare so intently?

“Shanhai, Shanhai?!” Mo Ya tugged at her sleeve. “You’ve been standing here a long while.”

Wen Shanhai finally snapped out of it, saying, “Oh.”

“Is there something interesting inside?” Mo Ya asked curiously.

“Ruo Lin studies in there,” she said, still gazing at the academy gate, her face flushing as she spoke the name.

“Ruo Lin…” Seeing her expression, Mo Ya pieced things together, asking tentatively, “Is he… someone you love?” He was certain a girl like her must have someone in her heart, and certainly not a monk.

She nodded, gazing at the tightly shut gate before her as if fixed enough on it, someone longed-for might walk out.

“I used to study here too,” she said suddenly. “The teacher at the academy was very kind to us. Even when Ruo Lin and I couldn’t compose a poem, he never punished us.” She seemed to recall something pleasant, laughing. “The two of us were probably the dullest students the teacher ever taught. But no one at the academy could match Ruo Lin’s skill on the guqin. Many early-summer evenings, he’d play beneath the willows by the riverbank while I studied to the sound of his music. We rarely spoke, but a single glance told us exactly how the other felt.” She paused, her eyes dimming. “Ruo Lin said he wanted to marry me — said he’d send a matchmaker to my family to propose.”

The expression didn’t match the story; Mo Ya asked carefully, “Your mother didn’t approve?”

She smiled faintly. “My mother locked me up. Wouldn’t let me see him again.”

Another old tale of a wealthy mother-in-law scorning a poor son-in-law? Mo Ya guessed, “But surely this young master’s family background…”

She suddenly turned, looking earnestly into Mo Ya’s eyes. “My mother told me — before you become a true human, you have no right to any romantic bond. And even if you were an ordinary girl right now, I wouldn’t allow you to marry someone with only half a year left to live.”

These two sentences were far too complicated… Mo Ya turned them over in his mind several times before, belatedly, jolting in shock, blurting out, “You… you’re not human?”

Wen Shanhai smiled at him. “I’m the daughter of an Ao Ji. How could I possibly be human?”

“Ao… Ao Ji?” Mo Ya stammered, as if he’d never heard of such a demon before.

“A legendary demon said to feed on the dying,” she said calmly, then looked at Mo Ya’s utterly conflicted expression. “Are you afraid of me now?”

Mo Ya shook his head. “I’m not afraid of demons. Not every demon means to harm others.”

Her lips curved into a lovely arc. “Thank you for not running away.”

“What I’m curious about is your mother’s reason for stopping you,” Mo Ya said, trying to steady his fluctuating emotions. “Isn’t she a demon herself? Was your father a demon too? Is that why she forbids you from marrying a human?”

“My father is human,” she said with a bitter smile. “But I’ve never seen him. My mother says he left us before I was born, to become a monk.”

“Huh?” A whole dramatic scenario immediately sprang up in Mo Ya’s mind — a female demon, resentful because her lover became a monk, taking out her fury on all monks everywhere, using the strangest methods to torment innocent little monks in order to soothe her inner rage?

“My mother says she’s determined to keep herself alive until she sees him once more, to hear him say with his own mouth that he doesn’t want his wife and daughter. She’ll never accept him leaving without a word.” She sighed. “My mother was originally a gentle woman, but obsession can make a person hard as iron.”

“Your father’s still alive?” Mo Ya asked again.

“My mother says he’s at Yundu Temple, between Tianshui Town and Xiangyang City.” She gazed up at the sky, clouds shifting shape in her eyes. “She said she knelt outside Yundu Temple for seven days and seven nights, holding me, but my father still wouldn’t come out to see her. Her demonic powers weren’t strong enough to break through the barrier set around the temple, so she could only wait — wait until the evening of the eighth day, wait until snow filled the sky, and what finally came was only a piece of paper, with four lines written on it — human and demon walk different paths, our bond ends here. Let the mountains and rivers roam free, the sea of suffering has its shore. My mother said when she left Yundu Temple, she didn’t shed a single tear.”

Hearing this, Mo Ya murmured “amitabha” several times, shaking his head. “Even though your father became a monk just like me, I can’t take his side on this. Your mother only wanted one last meeting, some closure. Why would he refuse to see her even at the cost of his life? As a man, he ought to have a man’s sense of responsibility. Neither seeing her nor cutting ties cleanly — what kind of way is that?”

She looked at Mo Ya, her tone somewhat surprised. “You’re not very old, yet you have such insight into worldly affairs.”

Mo Ya pressed his palms together. “I’ve dwelled in the empty gate of Buddhism — if I don’t understand the suffering of all beings, how could I speak of relieving that suffering? I’ve walked this world for years now, seen no small number of people and matters. Don’t think me too dull-witted.”

She laughed. “The way you talk, you sound like some hundred-year-old eminent monk.”

Mo Ya smiled awkwardly, then asked, “So what happened between you and your Ruo Lin afterward? Why did your mother say he only had half a year left to live?”

She turned back, staring blankly at the green bamboo sprigs over the wall, a long while passing before she spoke. “Ruo Lin died of illness half a year later.”

“Huh?” Mo Ya’s eyes widened.

“Actually, I already knew exactly when he’d leave this world,” she said, watching the gently swaying bamboo leaves without moving. “I’m the daughter of an Ao Ji, after all. The greatest ‘ability’ of an Ao Ji is to determine the moment of a person’s death. We can see exactly how much lifespan a human has remaining, never wrong. That’s the fundamental reason we’re seen as ill omens. Humans despise our honesty — the smaller the number we tell them, the angrier they get, as if not telling them meant they wouldn’t die at all. Quite amusing, really.”

Mo Ya frowned, asking, “If you already knew Ruo Lin only had half a year left, why…”

“Should I have given up on him just because only half a year remained?” She shook her head with a smile. “How long he could live has nothing to do with how much I wanted to be with him.”

Mo Ya fell silent.

“The last time we saw each other, he gave me a box of rouge, saying that once we were married, he’d paint my eyebrows and touch up my makeup every day.” She recalled this calmly, her dark hair stirring in the breeze. “My mother locked me up for half a year. The day I learned of his death, I didn’t cry — I just buried the rouge he’d given me beneath the willow tree where he used to sit. I saw his funeral procession pass by, paper money scattered like falling snow. I wasn’t as sad as I’d expected — just felt a terrible emptiness inside.”

“Shanhai…” She wasn’t sad, yet Mo Ya felt an inexplicable pang of sorrow.

“The sun’s about to set.” She suddenly switched back to her carefree demeanor, turning to pull Mo Ya along. “Let’s go for a walk by the river.”

Mo Ya followed silently behind her, the red wedding gown on her body fluttering like a butterfly in the wind.

Shanhai, what kind of girl are you, really…

“Let go of her.”

A gleaming sword pointed straight at Tao Yao, the pale morning light through the window falling on the blade’s tip and the mask behind it, suppressing the height of summer’s heat.

“You got here fast. I haven’t even started fighting her yet, and you already heard the commotion.” Tao Yao’s hand rested lightly on Madam Wen’s left shoulder, showing no sign of holding a hostage at all, yet Madam Wen dared not move a muscle, gritting her teeth as she watched the rescuer arrive.

“A deal made willingly on both sides, and now you’ve taken the money but can’t bear to part with the goods?” the man in black said coldly. “That’s hardly what an honest person would do.”

“When did I ever say I was honest?” Tao Yao grinned. “Besides, I made the deal with you — I sold the little monk to you, not to her. Now that she’s spirited him away, something doesn’t sit right with me, so why not bring the little monk back and we renegotiate our deal?”

“Young as you are, you speak with such shamelessness. Show any more disrespect to my mistress, and don’t blame my sword for showing no mercy.” The man in black had held his sword aloft for so long without the slightest tremor — his hand as steady as the man himself.

“You know why I never fight anyone?” Tao Yao remained playfully cheeky, and the more she acted this way, the more Madam Wen tensed as if facing a great enemy, her breathing ragged.

The man in black said nothing.

Seeing he had no intention of responding, Tao Yao shrugged, putting on an unusually earnest, honest expression. “Because usually, by the time they try to fight me, they’re already dead.”

Because of the mask, his expression was invisible — only his left hand, hanging at his side, could be seen quietly clenching into a fist.

The room fell into a brief, tense standoff.

“You never intended to fight,” the man in black suddenly said, his tone absolutely certain. “At least up to this moment, you haven’t shown any killing intent.”

Tao Yao smiled. “You know me that well?”

“When the golden bell doesn’t ring, the King of Hell doesn’t come,” the man in black said, word by word. “I was careless last time — too rushed to recognize your identity.”

“And now, feeling especially honored, are you?” Tao Yao’s smile turned into that of a fox who’d successfully stolen some meat. “But if I didn’t want you to recognize me, you never would have.” Her smile suddenly turned cold. “You truly are a devoted bodyguard, never for a moment losing sight of your mistress, able to drop from the sky at the slightest disturbance. That’s no easy feat.”

The moment she finished speaking, a clang rang out as the long sword in his hand fell to the ground.

The man in black knelt on one knee, saying decisively, “I’m no match for you, so I can only beg, in this humiliating way, that you not harm my mistress.”

“Steward Qin…” Madam Wen finally found her voice, anger, despair, and helplessness all bound up in that single utterance.

“Hand over the little monk, and we’ll discuss everything else after,” Tao Yao said, looking coldly at this man who’d willingly thrown himself from such heights down to the ground. It took immense devotion and concern for such a man to abandon his own dignity like this.

He truly was utterly devoted to this woman.

“No!” Madam Wen gritted her teeth, shaking her head resolutely. “You cannot have him back. I won’t tell you where he is.”

Tao Yao’s face darkened. “Now that you know who I am, you should understand you have no right to refuse me here.”

“Then kill me,” Madam Wen said, taking a deep breath.

“You’re pretty shameless yourself,” Tao Yao said with a smile. Outside the window, the sky had fully brightened, bright sunlight falling not far from where she stood. “If I get upset enough, your entire Wen household might well cease to exist.”

“Madam, you—” The man in black looked at her anxiously.

Madam Wen said firmly, “Steward Qin, you’ve served me for years — you should know my greatest wish.”

“Tao Yao will really take your life,” the man in black said, his fist creaking as he clenched it. “She’s killed countless demons… she won’t hesitate.”

“I only need you to stay silent,” Madam Wen said calmly.

Hearing this, Tao Yao’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Ao Ji, you really are a stubborn demon who doesn’t know the weight of things.”

“No!” The man in black, sensing something was wrong, instantly grabbed his sword and stood.

Just as tensions reached their peak, a green shadow appeared from the corner of the room.

Young Master Liu, one hand clutching his chest, the other braced against the wall, his face deathly pale, gasping for breath.

Tao Yao looked at him with distaste. “Why do you look like you’re in labor…”

“Miserable. Feel like throwing up. Your medicine still isn’t any good.” Young Master Liu waved a hand at her. “I found the little monk.”

Hearing this, Madam Wen’s face changed drastically. “Who are you?”

“He’s just a patient who was brought in with me a moment ago,” Tao Yao answered for him. “You were so absorbed chatting with me, you didn’t even notice this fellow lurking around behind you, poking his nose into other people’s homes.”

“Since when do people from the Peach Court keep company with demons,” the man in black said, eyeing Young Master Liu coldly.

Young Master Liu snorted, ignoring him.

“That medicine’s good stuff — I already warned you to rest quietly, not move around,” Tao Yao rolled her eyes, glancing around Young Master Liu. “Didn’t you say you found him? Where is he?”

Young Master Liu shook his head weakly. “Couldn’t bring him out.”

Tao Yao frowned.

Hearing this, Madam Wen suddenly relaxed from her extreme tension, the corners of her mouth even curling into a faint smile.

Tao Yao thought for a moment, then said to Young Master Liu, “Lead the way.” Then she squeezed Madam Wen’s shoulder. “Madam, you’re coming along too. If you’re not by my side, I’m afraid if I get upset, I might accidentally get that flesh-rotting medicine of mine on you… or on whoever’s near you.”

Madam Wen gritted her teeth, saying nothing.

“Follow me, it’s deep underground,” Young Master Liu said, heading for the door. “The entrance is on the east wall of the next room.”

“You don’t need support?” Tao Yao watched his labored steps.

“Talk less nonsense and I’ll feel a lot better,” Young Master Liu said without turning back.

Tao Yao smiled, nudging Madam Wen. “Let’s go, madam.”

Madam Wen, helpless, moved reluctantly.

5

Setting up a secret chamber this deep underground — quite the effort put into it…

A spacious, antique room, exquisitely decorated, furniture finely crafted. Eternal lamps placed outside the room, neither dim nor glaring, casting this deep underground world in a rather comfortable light — if only the whole room weren’t entirely red, it might have felt more pleasant.

All the windows were plastered with red double-happiness characters, as were the cabinet doors — the deliberately cultivated festivity only made joy feel more remote.

On a spacious red wood wedding bed, Mo Ya and a girl of seventeen or eighteen lay side by side beneath a dragon-and-phoenix quilt, eyes shut in deep unwaking sleep. Their exposed left and right hands were tightly bound together by a half-black, half-red thread, which extended further, tied to a left hand with protruding veins, old as tree bark. The owner of this hand now sat slumped a few steps from the wedding bed — an old woman past eighty, wearing a bizarre red robe, withered as a corpse, and now bound tightly with rope, looking even more like an unappetizing strip of cured meat. Before the old woman sat a spirit altar, various colored talismans pressed beneath a strangely shaped incense burner, from which something unknown was burning, giving off an unpleasant, scorched smell.

Tao Yao pushed past Madam Wen, not even bothering to ask who this old woman was, walking straight to the bedside, touching Mo Ya’s forehead, lifting his eyelid to check. When her gaze fell on the thread binding the two together, she couldn’t help but frown.

“Mo Ya!” She patted his cheek gently.

Only his faint breathing answered her.

“Can’t wake him,” Young Master Liu shook his head. “See the finger marks on his face? I just slapped him.”

“You’re not worried about killing him?” Tao Yao glared at him, then nodded toward the old woman behind them. “You tied her up?”

Since they’d entered the room, this old woman had remained conscious the whole time, her half-open eyelids revealing eyes gone gray and murky, watching every one of their movements with unusual composure, showing not the slightest panic, as if the intruders were merely lost children who’d wandered in by mistake.

“Had to tie her up first,” Young Master Liu said, watching the old woman coldly. “The three of them are linked together now. Looking at all this red, and the wedding robes on Mo Ya and the girl — this is clearly some kind of marriage-binding technique. But something still feels off. Look closely at her left index finger.”

“Index finger?” Tao Yao looked down; the thread binding Mo Ya and the others wound down from the bed, the other end wrapped chaotically around the old woman’s left hand. She looked closer, her expression shifting slightly — the thread wasn’t simply wrapped around the old woman’s hand; the very end of it seemed to “grow” out from the tip of her index finger. A fine thread, emerging from flesh, stretching endlessly, then splitting into two strands, binding two people otherwise unconnected to her.

Tao Yao stood, quickly returning to Mo Ya’s side, grabbing his arm to look — sure enough, the tangled, overlapping threads weren’t merely wrapped around him; the two split ends were embedded directly into his and the girl’s fingertips.

Her brow furrowed.

“Young master, you’ve tied this old woman too tightly — could you loosen it?” the old woman suddenly spoke, baring her toothless gums in an unsightly smile at Young Master Liu. “Looks like you two understand this sort of thing — you should know if something goes wrong with me, this couple on the bed will suffer for it too.”

Tao Yao shot her a disgusted glance, walking over to Madam Wen, pointing at the wedding bed. “This is the wedding you arranged for your daughter?”

Madam Wen smiled. “This is the only way to give Shanhai a good life.”

“I’ve never believed a vicious old witch could bring anyone a ‘good life,'” Tao Yao said coldly, staring at this self-righteous woman. “Did you take the wrong medicine?”

Madam Wen looked at her. “You people from the Peach Court have probably never been treated as prey, or worse, playthings — hunted, hiding, scorned and shunned, wantonly tormented, heartbroken beyond words. These words have never once appeared in your life, have they, Tao Yao.”

Tao Yao said nothing.

“So what’s wrong with me choosing a path free of sorrow for my daughter?” Madam Wen looked toward the wedding bed, her eyes gentler than they’d ever been. “A child as gentle and kind as Shanhai deserves an identity that matches her nature. But that identity can never be the daughter of an Ao Ji. I want her to be truly human — flesh and blood, eating the five grains, living through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, seeing flowers and the one she loves with her eyes, not cold, hard death dates. She cannot be like me. Absolutely cannot.”

No one spoke; only her voice echoed through the room.

“What a fine mother,” the old woman broke the silence, her hoarse voice as withered as her body, devoid of any life. “Girl, do try to understand Madam Wen’s feelings — just pretend you saw nothing. Once my marriage-binding technique begins, there’s no way to stop it. If you kill me, both Miss Wen and the little monk will lose their lives too.”

“Marriage-binding technique?” Young Master Liu glared at her furiously, pointing at Madam Wen. “Old woman, you can fool that dim-witted demon all you like, but fooling me would take you ten more lifetimes of cultivation and still fail.” With that, still fuming, he kicked the old woman hard in the back. The old crone yelped and toppled to the ground, a barely perceptible flash of panic crossing her face.

“Beating her to death won’t help anything!” Madam Wen leapt up, rushing to the old woman’s side to help her up. “Granny Xu, are you alright?” She frantically began untying the ropes around her, not caring even as her fingernails split, as if the ropes bound not the old woman but her own long-awaited, soon-to-be-fulfilled wish.

“Madam, be at ease. Granny Xu will fulfill her promise to you, no matter what. Don’t worry about me. They can’t do anything to me now — once this marriage-binding completes, Miss Shanhai will no longer have a demon’s body,” the old woman called Granny Xu comforted her in a hushed voice. “Just wait a little longer… a little longer.”

“Madam!” The man in black stepped forward, pulling her up, gripping her hands. “Stop untying it. Stop doing something so pointless.”

“Granny Xu is too old to endure this kind of torment from them — don’t you have a sword? Cut the ropes!” Madam Wen pushed him aside, giving the order.

He hesitated a moment, not raising the sword. He didn’t care whether this old woman was suffering; he only asked Tao Yao beside him, “Can this be resolved without harming madam or the young miss’s lives?”

Tao Yao bent down, lifting the thread lying on the floor with her fingertips, gazing at the intertwined red and black colors along it, saying, “You’re asking too late.”

He froze.

“Whether your young miss lives now is no longer up to me,” Tao Yao sighed. “Where did you people find this old woman?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “She was Tianshui Town’s most famous doctor, specializing in illnesses no one else could cure — treating not just humans but demons too, never failing once. She retired from the world years ago; madam and I spent seven days searching the deep mountains before we found her hermitage.”

Tao Yao glanced sideways at the old woman, teasing, “A fellow practitioner, then. Since she’d already retired, how did you persuade her back into action?”

“We didn’t say much, nor offer any lavish payment,” he answered. “Madam simply asked her to understand a mother’s love for her daughter.”

“And she just agreed?” Tao Yao’s eyes widened.

“She said demons are demons, humans are humans — originally clearly distinct. Even the most powerful demon can only cultivate into human form, never becoming truly human. But, with outside intervention, it wasn’t impossible.” He paused, continuing. “Madam and she spoke very compatibly — every word she said struck madam’s heart. Finally, she said she valued fate, and since fate had brought her and madam together, she was willing to lend a hand, to free Miss Shanhai from her destiny as a demon.”

Tao Yao flicked the thread in her hand aside, turning back to look at Mo Ya lying on the bed. “This is her method?”

“Little girl, perhaps you’re quite something, enough to make even Madam Wen and Steward Qin wary of you,” the old woman, still seated on the ground, raised her deeply wrinkled face, looking at her with an ambiguous almost-smile. “But you don’t understand this old woman’s abilities. Across this whole world, I might be the only one who could save this girl. Only the purest of souls can dissolve a demon’s body — combined with my crimson thread, Miss Shanhai’s transformation into a human is only a matter of time. If you help us today, you’ll be helping to save a precious human life.”

“Purest of souls…” Tao Yao smiled coldly. “The little monk?”

Granny Xu made no attempt to hide it, saying frankly, “A young boy who’s left the secular world, his six senses purified, his heart clear as a mirror — there’s no soul in this world purer than theirs. I used the marriage-binding technique to link Miss Shanhai’s heart-pulse with the little monk’s. Once the little monk’s soul enters Miss Shanhai’s body, it serves to ‘cleanse’ her — once her demon soul is washed clean, she becomes truly human. Of course, one little monk’s soul isn’t enough. This past year, to fulfill madam’s wish, Steward Qin has worked tirelessly to find enough little monks. Necessary sacrifices can’t be avoided — everyone’s been working hard for Miss Shanhai’s happiness.”

“Cleanse…” Tao Yao seemed to be listening to a joke. “So my Mo Ya really did have bad luck — caught your eye the moment he arrived here.” She turned to look at Madam Wen. “You truly believe a pile of little monks’ lives can turn your daughter into a human?”

“All I know is, after a year of effort, the demonic aura on Shanhai has grown weaker and weaker.” Madam Wen said, then suddenly dropped to her knees, forehead striking the ground hard. “Do whatever you want to me, I accept it all — I only beg you to grant Shanhai this. All our misfortune, mine and my daughter’s, stems from the fact that we’re demons. I want to properly present Shanhai before her father, I want that man — a human — to see with his own eyes that what he abandoned wasn’t some lowly demon, but a living, breathing person. I want him to hold Shanhai properly in his arms, I want him to understand just how great a mistake he made.”

“Madam…” Steward Qin’s voice caught slightly; inexplicably, he knelt down before her too.

Young Master Liu, sitting at the bedside, reached out to check Mo Ya’s breath, saying quietly, “Tao Yao, Mo Ya’s breathing is getting weaker.”

Hearing this, Tao Yao showed no sign of worry. She crouched down, holding Madam Wen’s shoulders, making her look up.

“It’s true that the demonic aura on Wen Shanhai has weakened,” Tao Yao said, looking seriously at this tearful female demon. “But that doesn’t mean she’s about to become human.”

Madam Wen startled. “What do you mean?”

Tao Yao sighed, glancing at Granny Xu. “You people really should trust quacks less and read more books. With a heart this vicious, ordinary demons like you simply aren’t her match.”

“What exactly are you saying?” Steward Qin looked at her uneasily.

Tao Yao sniffed, saying, “Your Miss Shanhai is dying.”

Plunk! A pebble dropped into the river, splashing up bright droplets of water.

The evening glow burned in deep and shallow shades of red along the horizon, the light falling on the water refracting into enchanting colors.

Wen Shanhai sat beneath a willow tree, picking up another pebble to toss into the river.

Mo Ya sat beside her, gazing blankly at the opposite bank.

“What are you staring at so intently?” She waved a hand in front of his face.

He pointed at the opposite shore. “There — is that a temple?”

Wen Shanhai followed his finger, her eyes lighting up. “Seems like it. Huh, since when has there been a temple there? Could it… be Yundu Temple?”

“Your father’s there?” he asked.

“I don’t know what he looks like. My mother never talks about it.” She smiled faintly.

“It really looks like it,” Mo Ya said, gazing at the temple appearing and disappearing in the haze, his expression somewhat wistful.

“Looks like what?” she asked curiously.

Mo Ya’s lips moved a few times before he murmured, “Like… like Golden Buddha Temple.”

“What’s Golden Buddha Temple?”

“Where I grew up.” Mo Ya dug up the earliest fragment from his memory. “I never had parents — grew up at Golden Buddha Temple from childhood. That’s where my master was, my senior and junior brothers, and an abbot who never smiled. Master taught me to meditate and chant sutras, my senior brother taught me how to draw water from the well with a bucket, and every day my junior brother and I would go wash clothes by the stream together. Once I fell into the water, and my junior brother worked so hard to pull me out, but my shoe floated away. On summer nights, my third senior brother loved taking us to the hills behind the temple to watch the glowing insects, though we couldn’t catch crickets — Master would scold us, saying we mustn’t harm living creatures. At mealtimes, my senior brothers would give the tenderest vegetable hearts to us younger ones. My eldest senior brother’s cooking was really delicious.”

Wen Shanhai smiled. “Sounds like you had a happy time there.”

Mo Ya nodded. “Very happy.”

“Are you still living at Golden Buddha Temple now?” she asked casually.

Mo Ya’s eyes dimmed. “Not anymore. There’s no Golden Buddha Temple left in this world.”

She said, startled, “What happened?”

“I don’t know either,” Mo Ya said with a bitter smile. “When I woke up, everything before my eyes was pitch black, and all I could smell was scorched wood and thick blood. Not until someone pulled the corpses off me did I finally see that morning’s sunlight.” His gaze grew somewhat distant. “A hand reached out to me, and someone asked, ‘You’re not dead yet, are you?'”

She listened anxiously. “How could this happen? Why were there corpses?”

“My mind went completely blank. Instinctively, I reached out and grabbed the hand that could pull me free,” he continued, almost to himself. “Tao Yao pulled me out of the pile of corpses, and the first thing she did was throw me into the river, saying I was covered in blood, too filthy. Golden Buddha Temple was right behind me, already burned to ruins. My master, my senior and junior brothers — all of them had become corpses beneath the rubble. Except for me, no one at Golden Buddha Temple survived.”

She covered her mouth in shock, utterly unable to connect such a tragic event with this ordinary-seeming little monk.

“Tao Yao took me in,” he said, his thoughts gradually gathering back together, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve lived with her in the Peach Court ever since. Her temper’s quite strange — moody, unpredictable.”

Wen Shanhai looked a bit confused. “Tao Yao? The Peach Court? Is that a town?”

“The Peach Court is another world entirely — existing both within the human world and apart from it,” Mo Ya said slowly. “Above the human realm are the Celestial Court, Mount Kunlun, all places of immortal lords and divine spirits, jointly governing heaven, earth, and the human world. But the Peach Court is unlike anywhere else — it exists quietly, unobtrusively. It doesn’t concern itself with the affairs of immortals, nor with human affairs. For countless ages, it’s only ever governed one thing — demons. All demons under heaven fall under the Peach Court’s jurisdiction. Ever since leaving Golden Buddha Temple, I’ve lived there with Tao Yao.”

“The Peach Court…” She looked at Mo Ya. “So who exactly is this Tao Yao you speak of?”

“She’s a doctor at the Peach Court — treats demons exclusively,” he said with a smile. “She’s also the one who feeds and clothes me — without her, I’d probably have died long ago. Though she bullies me constantly, always calling me useless, never holding back a single unkind word.”

She considered this, asking, “And this is the companion you mentioned?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“She scolds and bullies you like that, and you still won’t leave?” She didn’t understand. “If it were me, if someone called me useless, I couldn’t stay friends with them.”

Mo Ya smiled, shaking his head. “I’m used to it.” He gazed absently at the rippling water’s surface, then added, “She’s always alone, but pretends to be so lively. If I’m around, maybe she won’t be so lonely.”

“I don’t understand you,” she pouted. “Getting scolded and still willing to stay.”

“I have to go back to her side. You’re the same — you still need to go home.” He stood, glancing at the darkening sky. “You’re still so young. You’ll meet someone else.”

She smiled at him. “You really don’t seem like a little monk at all.”

“I’m not little,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t mind telling you — after Tao Yao took me in, my body never changed at all. So all these years later, I still look exactly as I did back then. Actually, I’m much older than you, so there’s no way I could call you sister.”

“You…” She looked at him in astonishment. “Is that true?”

“Monks don’t lie,” he said earnestly. “Let’s go — though I don’t know exactly where we are right now, we still need to find a way out.”

“This place…” Wen Shanhai slowly stood, frowning. “I know it. I definitely know it… but I can’t remember. I’ve been here a long time, always alone… then a bunch of little monks came, similar to you, each of them terribly afraid of me, afraid of everything here… they ran around everywhere, and then…” Her brow furrowed even deeper. “Then they got eaten.”

Mo Ya listened in confusion, and seeing her expression grow increasingly pained, quickly grabbed her arm. “Don’t rush. Think slowly. If you really can’t remember, don’t force it — we’ll find a way out together.”

“No… I know it!” She threw off his hand, crouching down, striking her own head hard, babbling incoherently. “You all want me to disappear… someone’s coming in, there’s a monster… you all want me to disappear…”

The sky suddenly turned pitch dark, a fierce wind sweeping in, the once-calm river surface churning violently, fallen leaves whirling wildly along the bank.

“Shanhai! Stop thinking about those strange things!” Sensing something was terribly wrong, Mo Ya shouted loudly. “Think about the dough figure you were just holding, and the dried fruit you ate! Think about us walking under the sun together!”

Wen Shanhai seemed unable to hear him, still crouched there, shaking her head in pain, repeating over and over, “You all want me to disappear… I’ll disappear…”

“No! You won’t disappear!” Mo Ya gripped her shoulders hard. “You’ll be alright, we’ll safely get back to wherever we want to go!”

Suddenly, a bone-chilling sound of footsteps came from behind them.

Each step sent a tremor through heaven and earth.

Mo Ya turned around anxiously — a massive humanoid shadow, faceless, wreathed in black mist, its claws bared, charging toward them.

Was this the monster Wen Shanhai had spoken of? It was enormous — definitely unbeatable. Would chanting sutras help? Never mind, better to just run…

“Get up quickly!” He didn’t know where the strength came from, dragging Wen Shanhai up and running.

But their speed was no match for their pursuer.

Mo Ya suddenly stumbled, feeling as if something had glued his feet to the ground. Turning back, he saw a coil of black mist wrapped around him like a rope, the monster right there, mere steps away, this tongue-like black mist emerging from its mouth.

In an instant, Mo Ya was hauled up into midair.

“Mo Ya!” Wen Shanhai, snapping back to awareness, shouted, gripping his hand hard. “No! Don’t let go!”

Both of them hung suspended in midair.

“Please, don’t let it eat you,” Wen Shanhai said, tears streaming down. “My mother wants me to be human. I don’t want this. I don’t think there’s anything shameful about being a demon! I’m not afraid of watching others die — that would only make me cherish the time I have with them more. I’m not afraid of others’ disdain — there will always be someone who doesn’t scorn me. I’m only afraid of not even being able to be myself anymore! I don’t want to disappear, I don’t want this monster taking over my body, I don’t want to forget everything I’ve had.”

Mo Ya froze for a moment, then felt his hand slip — he watched as Wen Shanhai fell back to the ground.

“Shanhai!” he shouted, turning back just in time to see a bottomless, gaping maw right before him — no tongue, no teeth inside, only whirling vortex after vortex, an overwhelming stench of utter ruin churning within.

Was this life going to end here?

Would Tao Yao be alone again?

Would Young Master Liu’s wish go unfulfilled too?

And Gungun — would it become a stray fox, eventually caught and eaten by someone?

Amitabha.

He shut his eyes tightly.

His body seemed to spin rapidly, unable to tell if it was hot or cold, sharp jolts of pain shooting out from his mind, quickly spreading through his entire body.

Amid the chaotic black mist, he curled into himself, sinking continuously, all images and sounds cutting off in that instant.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes, a flash of green light flickering across his pupils.

The light in the darkness grew stronger and stronger, accompanied by a tremendous roar — the sky, the marketplace, the monster, even Wen Shanhai, the entire world was ground to pieces…

Granny Xu suddenly collapsed to the ground, convulsing like a rat that had swallowed poison, her dull, gray eyes instantly bloodshot.

The thread growing from her finger shattered at that same moment, falling to the ground as ash.

Madam Wen was the first to panic, rushing to support her, calling out repeatedly. “Granny Xu, what’s wrong? Speak to me!”

Steward Qin, though startled, remained composed, standing behind Madam Wen, ready to catch her should she collapse.

“Tao Yao, come look at this.” Young Master Liu, staring at the two figures on the bed, beckoned to Tao Yao.

Tao Yao stepped forward to look — tears trickled from the corner of Wen Shanhai’s eye, but there was still no sign of her waking.

“How could this be?” Young Master Liu looked at her. “You’re not doing anything?”

“I can’t,” Tao Yao admitted frankly. “Just wait. Something should be happening.”

The moment she finished speaking, Mo Ya sat bolt upright, shouting loudly, “Shanhai!”

Young Master Liu nearly toppled off the bedside in fright; Tao Yao, unshaken, grabbed his ear and scolded, “Waking up is one thing, no need to screech like that!”

“Ah, ah, it hurts!” Mo Ya clutched his ear, wincing at them, then suddenly froze for a moment before leaping off the bed, throwing his arms around Young Master Liu, wailing through tears and snot, “It’s really Young Master Liu, isn’t it? It’s you all! You came! You didn’t sell me off!”

“I did sell you off, actually. It’s this person you’re hugging who insisted on getting you back,” Tao Yao said matter-of-factly.

Mo Ya sobbed, “Young Master Liu, from now on I’ll chant ten blessing sutras for you every day.”

Young Master Liu frowned, peeling him off. “I simply couldn’t stand someone else touching my food source, and even less could I stand you smearing snot on my clothes!”

“Let me hug you a bit more, I’m too overwhelmed,” Mo Ya, having been shoved aside, frantically tore off the wedding robe still on his body, then relentlessly threw himself back at Young Master Liu, insisting on hugging him and sobbing loudly no matter what.

The stark contrast of emotions in the room — the joy of narrowly escaping disaster against the shock of sudden death.

Granny Xu was dead, blood trickling from her nose and ears, her withered body frozen in a ghastly pose.

Madam Wen screamed Granny Xu’s name in an almost tearing shriek; Steward Qin held her tightly, preventing her from any further futile actions.

Hearing Madam Wen’s heart-wrenching cries, Mo Ya suddenly let go of Young Master Liu, drawing a sharp breath as if waking from a dream, rushing to the bedside, anxiously embracing the motionless Wen Shanhai, shaking her while shouting, “Shanhai! Shanhai, wake up! It’s alright now! Open your eyes and look at me!”

Nothing happened; Wen Shanhai’s eyelids didn’t so much as flutter.

Tao Yao stepped forward, checking her forehead and pulse, lifting an eyelid to look, then said flatly, “Stop shaking her. She’s dead.”

Mo Ya froze, turning stiffly to look at her.

“Looking at me won’t help,” Tao Yao said, looking at Wen Shanhai. “Good thing she has human blood in her, or she couldn’t even have kept an intact corpse.”

These light words, reaching Madam Wen’s ears amid her hysteria, suddenly silenced her, and she looked toward the wedding bed in bewilderment. “Steward Qin, what is she saying?”

Steward Qin said in a low voice, “She’s saying Miss Shanhai is dead.”

“Impossible…” she murmured, then suddenly broke free of Steward Qin like a madwoman, rushing to the bedside to scoop up her daughter. “Shanhai! Look at mother! Mother’s here, mother promised once you’re better we’d go see your father, haven’t you always wanted to meet him?!”

The only answer was Wen Shanhai’s gradually cooling skin.

She held her daughter tightly, as if trying to give her all her own warmth, tears bursting forth. “Shanhai, mother promises you, everything will be fine. Just open your eyes! Shanhai!”

“Madam…” Steward Qin’s fist clenched, creaking. “Miss Shanhai has already passed.”

“Nonsense!” Madam Wen suddenly screamed. “Get away from me!”

The word “away” had barely left her mouth when her own soul seemed to drift far away with it, breath catching in her chest, the world spinning, unable to support herself any longer.

All hope and longing shattered, each fragment becoming a blade cutting into her heart, drawing blood with every cut.

Steward Qin held the fainted Madam Wen, sitting on the floor without a word, stiller than a statue.

Life and death had come too quickly.

Tao Yao looked at Steward Qin, saying, “Even I, Tao Yao, wouldn’t dare claim I could turn a demon into a human. You people were far too careless.”

She glanced at Granny Xu’s corpse, adding, “That old fraud truly disgraced the name of ‘doctor.’ The crimson thread she spoke of was never any miraculous magical implement — just an evil thing forged from poisonous insects and gu-sorcery. It’s not thread at all, but a worm — one grown from the practitioner’s own body, a demonic insect capable of devouring souls. What she performed wasn’t any marriage-binding technique at all, but a parasitic sorcery of usurpation.”

Steward Qin slowly raised his head. “Usurpation?”

“I don’t think that old fraud ever intended to help you from the start,” Tao Yao said, pursing her lips. “What she wanted was your Miss Shanhai’s body. When one grows old, one fears death, more or less. Even someone as ‘skilled’ as Granny Xu couldn’t resist time and death — who wouldn’t want to reclaim youth, beauty, and boundless life? You treated her as your savior, laying bare your entire situation to her — that probably suited her purposes perfectly. Such a fine body, half human, half demon, eternally youthful — with just a little manipulation, she could claim it for her own. Why wouldn’t she jump at the chance?”

Steward Qin was stunned. “You… you’re saying she was never actually cleansing Miss Shanhai’s demon soul at all?”

“You think a soul is like dirty laundry, washed clean whenever you please?” She rolled her eyes at him. “A soul may seem intangible, but it’s actually one of the most resilient things in this world. To place your own soul into a new body, the precondition is causing that body to lose its owner without damaging the body itself. I’m not the first to encounter something trying to steal another’s body — the tricks used are all more or less the same.

Wen Shanhai, being half human and half demon, would have been too difficult for a mere mortal like that old fraud to devour her soul directly. So she fabricated this whole pretext, tricking you into capturing little monks — first linking the little monks’ souls with Wen Shanhai’s, using the purity of a young boy’s soul and a monk’s Buddha-nature to cancel out part of the demon soul’s power, while she drove her demonic worm into Wen Shanhai’s body, first devouring the little monk to strengthen the worm’s power, then gradually devouring Wen Shanhai’s weakened soul. This wasn’t something achievable overnight — one little monk’s soul wasn’t nearly enough. Simply put, the old fraud wanted to swallow food too large and tough for her, so she first needed a tool to soften or even dilute that food, then, once stronger, eat the tool itself too, making it easier to consume the rest afterward.” Tao Yao looked at Wen Shanhai on the bed. “What made the old fraud rather clever was dressing up this evil sorcery as a marriage-binding ritual, fooling you half-competent fools who know a bit about magic but not enough. Once Wen Shanhai’s soul was fully devoured, the old fraud could take her place. Everything you all did was simply hastening the real Wen Shanhai’s disappearance. Once the soul is gone, can that body still be considered your Shanhai at all?”

Steward Qin was silent for a long while, then said quietly, “That’s not what she told us… how could she do this… madam trusted her so much…”

Hearing this, Mo Ya stared blankly at Tao Yao. “I was with her this whole time. We escaped the room together, then walked and talked in Tianshui Town’s marketplace. She told me every little monk who came to her got eaten. Each time one was eaten, part of her body got devoured by the monster too. A huge black monster found us, and I fell into its mouth…”

“Your soul was inside Wen Shanhai’s body the entire time. Everything you saw came from Wen Shanhai’s own consciousness — her mind constantly shifting, and the world it created shifted with it. The demonic worm was lurking there too, possibly appearing in the monster form you described, or some other form — eating you first, then gathering enough strength to devour her body afterward,” Tao Yao said calmly. “If the little monk they’d captured this time hadn’t been you, that old fraud might well have succeeded.”

“No, no, none of that matters right now.” Mo Ya grabbed Tao Yao’s arm. “Can you bring Shanhai back? How could she just die like this?”

“No,” Tao Yao said bluntly. “There’s no point explaining further, you wouldn’t understand anyway. Regardless, the moment the old fraud’s sorcery was forcibly destroyed, Wen Shanhai was already dead. Unless time could flow backward and everything could start over, she’ll never come back to life. But I’m just a doctor — I don’t have that kind of power.”

Mo Ya’s hands fell to his sides, letting out a long sigh. “She told me she didn’t think there was anything shameful about being a demon… Did any of you ever once ask her what kind of life she herself wanted?”

Young Master Liu frowned, surveying the room. “What a complete mess.”

Then, a long silence.

Steward Qin lifted the still-unconscious Madam Wen, laying her on the bed beside Wen Shanhai, then carefully tucked the blanket around them both.

Having done this, he sat on the edge of the bed, turning to look at Tao Yao and the others, an inexplicable sense of release in his voice. “I’ve known madam for a very long time.”

In a graveyard at the height of summer, will-o’-the-wisps burned prettier than fireflies.

That was what Jingzhe said, lying comfortably beneath the thatched shelter, patting her head. “Isn’t that right?!”

Faint blue will-o’-the-wisps danced not far away; she sat huddled beside him, trembling.

She truly had no mood to appreciate “beautiful scenery” — as a demon who had nearly been reduced to ash and dust just an hour before, she was still badly shaken.

An hour ago, she’d been bound to a wooden stake covered in talismans, a group of men and women standing before her, laughing — someone holding a peachwood sword, another holding a demon-revealing mirror, another wielding a sharp blade.

“One net caught this thing, and I haven’t even cast a spell on it yet. Ao Ji really disgraces all demons.”

“Not the slightest sense of accomplishment. Oh well, let’s count it — that’s ninety-eight now, right?”

“Right. Old Tu and Old Jiang and their crowd are done for — how could their little sect ever compete with us.”

“But they’re not weak either — didn’t they burn three cat demons alive at the North Training Ground just a few days ago? Oh, that smell was intoxicating.”

“I think they skinned the cats first before lighting the fire. Cat demons really are tough — even skinless, still alive, screaming so miserably.”

“Enough of that — how do we handle this one?”

“Let’s dig out her eyes first. This Ao Ji thing, an ill omen that peeps at others’ death dates — disgusting.”

“Sure, eyes first.”

Talismans wrapped around her body like fire, leaving her unable to move, unable even to utter a single word.

What had she done? For as long as she could remember, she’d lived quietly in this remote graveyard, doing nothing beyond foraging for food, never given any opportunity to provoke them. This time, she’d only sneaked into the market to see the lantern festival — why capture her, why gouge out her eyes?

A sharp, gleaming knife swayed in a young woman’s hand, her face plain, and in her eyes, besides disdain and contempt, a subtle jealousy too.

Her body trembled, the blade drawing closer and closer. Why did humans fear demons so — she truly couldn’t understand. Not every demon could eat people; someone like her couldn’t even fly or vanish into the earth, had to forage furtively just to eat. She knew she’d die eventually, but never imagined it would be so senseless.

“Enough. This Ao Ji is mine.”

Someone spoke; the knife in the girl’s hand stopped just short of her.

Jingzhe strolled out lazily, a bottle of wine in hand, his hair still as disheveled as ever, his clothes still tattered, the fist-sized heart-guard mirror hanging at his chest swaying as if drunk too.

Everyone’s expressions shifted slightly, exchanging glances.

“This is our catch — naturally we’ll decide what to do with it,” the young man leading them said, mustering his courage. “Jingzhe, this is none of your business.”

He took a swig of wine, saying, “Whatever competition you all have going, comparing who’s killed more demons — that’s your boring business, none of mine. But I won’t allow you to kill her.”

The young man sneered. “Jingzhe, you’re a sorcerer too. Killing demons is a sorcerer’s duty. Are you making trouble for us today because you’ve taken some kind of fancy to this demon?”

He took another sip, walking toward her unhurriedly as he spoke. “Either way, none of you can beat me. I’m taking her, and I need to get back to rest.”

The young man’s face fell; he chased after him, drawing the sword at his waist and placing it against Jingzhe’s neck.

He stopped, glancing sideways at the blade a hair’s breadth away.

“None of us are your match — not even every sorcerer in all of Xiangyang City together, are we?” the young man said, embarrassment turning to fury. “If you dare save a demon today, I guarantee tomorrow you’ll be the enemy of every sorcerer, of the entire city of Xiangyang!”

“That sounds terrifying,” he laughed. “So, what reason would satisfy you all enough not to kill her?”

“Heh, unless she’s your wife, we won’t spare her,” the knife-wielding girl sneered.

Everyone burst into malicious laughter.

“Oh.” He nodded, using a finger to push aside the young man’s sword, walking unhurriedly to stand before her. A flick of his finger, and the ropes snapped into several pieces; she fell limply, caught securely in his arms.

Turning, he suddenly pulled her, still dazed, to kneel with him, facing the half-crescent moon in the sky. “Heaven and earth as witness, I, Jingzhe, take this Ao Ji as my wife — to protect her safety, to guard her life and death.”

Then he solemnly guided her, still stunned, through three bows.

“There. From now on, you’re my wife.” He pulled her up, plucking a fallen leaf from her hair, straightening her disheveled locks. “Lay a hand on her again, and I truly won’t be pleased.”

Everyone stood dumbfounded.

“Absolutely insane!”

“We’re telling our masters about this!”

“We have to teach this guy a lesson!”

Cursing as they went, they fled swiftly.

Jingzhe was truly mad. This man possessed a natural gift for slaying demons — creatures others needed talismans, rituals, and painstakingly set barriers to deal with, exhausting themselves in the process, he could handle bare-handed. No demonic magic worked against him at all; his very existence was demons’ greatest taboo. They feared his fists, even feared his very presence — perhaps he truly was what they called their nemesis. In this world, there was no demon he couldn’t defeat, only demons he chose not to bother with. That formidable, formidable to the point of seeming unreal.

“I… I didn’t provoke them,” she said, lowering her head, mumbling. “Thank you.”

Before today, their relationship had essentially been that of neighbors?!

She lived at the east end of the graveyard, he at the west end — if she remembered correctly, this arrangement had lasted at least ten years.

At first, she’d been afraid. This man’s presence was like a blade — cold and sharp — she’d never dared approach him at all. She’d originally had another neighbor too, an old rat spirit; the moment he arrived, the rat spirit moved away that very night, telling her as it left that this man was the most formidable sorcerer in all of Xiangyang City — once a demon fell into his hands, unless he showed great mercy, there was no chance of survival. He belonged to no sect, worked alone, and was called Jingzhe.

Should she move too? But where would she go? She’d lived here so long, knew this place better than anywhere, couldn’t bear to leave.

She’d hidden far behind the grave mounds, observing him for several days.

He always left early and returned late, immediately getting to work upon coming home, building a thatched shelter with his own hands, laying dried grass inside, then setting several jars of wine within.

Why would a perfectly fine person choose to live here of all places — she wondered about it every day.

He loved drinking, as easily as drinking water — once he’d had enough, he’d lie down and fall asleep, snoring loudly before long. Upon waking, he’d casually wipe his face, then wipe that mirror-like object hanging at his chest with a scrap of cloth, muttering a few words as if speaking to it.

Though he seemed a bit odd, he wasn’t nearly as fierce as they’d described. She gradually let her guard down — perhaps he simply hadn’t noticed her at all? Maybe she wouldn’t move after all — she’d always kept to herself; as long as she didn’t provoke him, he probably wouldn’t do anything to her.

She couldn’t say which day it was, but that particular night, the moon was astonishingly large, the air sweet with osmanthus.

He was still sitting in his shelter drinking, and she, as usual, hid in the shadows watching him. The longer she watched, the more bored she grew, and finally she just sat down — a night with such a huge moon, she felt she’d never seen its like before.

Suddenly, someone blocked the moonlight above her head.

He held up his wine jar, staring at her. “Do you drink?”

“Ahh!” She scrambled away in terror, but missed her footing, tumbling to the ground with a thud, mouth full of mud.

She sat up in a panic, spitting out mud while begging for mercy. “Please don’t kill me, I’m just an Ao Ji, I’ve lived here longer than you, if you can’t stand me here I’ll move away right now. I can’t fly, can’t fight, I’m even afraid of pain, I…”

A large hand landed on her head, ruffling her disheveled hair. “I just asked if you drink.”

She flinched. What? What had he said?

She looked up nervously — in the moonlight, this young man looked at her strangely, no trace in his eyes or expression of any intent to harm her.

“I… I’ve never had wine,” she said quietly.

“Come, come, join me for a drink.” He pulled her up without waiting for a response, bringing her under his shelter.

So spicy! Was this what wine tasted like?

She coughed uncontrollably.

He watched her with amusement. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Not good,” she shook her head, fanning her tongue hard.

He laughed heartily, watching her flustered state, saying, “But you’re the only one willing to drink with me.”

“Don’t your friends drink?” she asked.

“I only have one friend,” he said with a smile, then plucked the mirror at his chest, shaking it. “But it doesn’t even have a mouth.”

“You’re lying to me,” she said, blinking her dark, bright eyes. “How could a human have no friends.”

He only smiled, not answering, then fell asleep the moment he finished his wine, seeming to entirely forget a demon still sat beside him.

She let out a breath of relief — it seemed she truly didn’t need to move after all. This man wasn’t nearly as frightening as described.

The days that followed passed peacefully enough. Each day when he returned home, he’d either drink or sleep, sometimes pulling her over for a couple of cups, sometimes gazing blankly at the night sky alone.

The one relatively eventful incident was when a cunning fox once came to the graveyard — not just cunning, but fierce too, taking a fancy to her sleeping burrow and forcibly driving her out to sleep comfortably inside herself. She couldn’t out-argue it, couldn’t out-fight it, so she had no choice but to sleep outside the burrow that night. Just before dawn, it began pouring rain; she thought of taking shelter in his hut, but though he hadn’t returned that night, she dismissed the idea anyway — after all, this was his territory. In the end, she braved the rain to find a suitably large rock, returning to the burrow’s entrance, thinking she’d smash the fox’s skull with it once it emerged!

Dawn broke, the rain stopped, but things turned out completely opposite to what she’d expected — not only did the usurping fox’s head remain unbroken by her stone, she got beaten by it instead, mocked as the most useless demon of all, good for nothing.

After the beating, the fox strutted off to forage, leaving her huddled behind the grave mounds, rubbing her reddened face in aggrieved silence — even more painful was the shattered porcelain vial, which had contained the food she’d worked so hard to obtain.

Regarding the legend of the Ao Ji, most believed they fed on the dead, able to see people’s death dates too. But in truth, she didn’t actually eat the dead — an Ao Ji’s food was the final breath a dying person exhaled. She only needed to look to see how much lifespan a human had left; her usual furtive trips into crowded areas weren’t for entertainment, but simply to check who was about to die, then remember their address, arriving right on time, concealing herself, using this porcelain vial to collect the dying person’s final breath — task complete, one breath enough to sustain her for a long while.

She’d run into trouble before, too — her concealment technique was simply too weak; once, before she could even catch that final breath, she’d become visible, terrifying the old and young keeping vigil by the sickbed half to death. The son had grabbed a kitchen cleaver and come straight at her, sending her fleeing in terror, too frightened to return to the city for a long while after.

This was her life, unchanged for all these years.

There’d still been half a breath’s worth left in that vial — now gone, thanks to the fox, meaning her next meal was at least a month away. She dejectedly gathered up the broken pieces on the ground.

That evening, he returned with wine, frowning at her disheveled, pitiful state.

He dragged the fox out of the burrow — it had no chance to resist. He merely frowned, and flames spread from his right hand gripping the fox’s neck, reducing it to a pile of charcoal within moments.

She covered her mouth, too frightened to make a sound.

Now she believed what the old rat spirit had said about him — killing a demon was as easy for him as swatting a fly.

He clapped his hands, looking at her injuries, saying, “I have no friends because I’m too strong. You have no friends because you’re too weak.”

Those words, she’d never been able to forget, even now.

Today, he’d helped her again.

Beneath the thatched shelter, she said quietly, “Jingzhe, if I hadn’t met you, I’d probably be dead by now. If not by some demon’s hand, then by hands like today’s.”

“I’ll die too, eventually,” he said with a smile.

She froze.

He turned back. “Can’t you see when people will die? Look at mine.”

“No!” She recoiled sharply, shaking her head hard. “I won’t look!”

Ten years of neighborly living, peaceful years passing. She gradually learned to drink, dared to joke with him, to talk about everything under the sun — even snowy winter nights no longer felt so lonely. Yet she’d overlooked one crucial thing — he was human, with at most a hundred years to live.

She wouldn’t look. Absolutely would not look at how much time he had left.

Seeing her unusually agitated state, he laughed, shaking his head, standing up and taking her hand. “Why don’t you come home with me? You’re my wife now — I should introduce you to my parents.”

Wife? Wasn’t that just a joke he’d made to those others earlier?

Yet, he truly did bring her back into the city, to a long-uninhabited residence, where he lit incense before a pair of ancestral tablets and bowed, saying, “Father, mother, your son has married. I’ve brought your daughter-in-law to pay her respects.”

Only then did she realize he might not have been joking at all.

“Ten years ago, my parents were poisoned to death,” he said, carefully wiping the dust from the tablets with his sleeve. “Someone poisoned our family well — and that day, of all days, I’d left home early on business. Jealousy is a more terrifying demon than any real one. I took the culprit’s life — a well-known sorcerer in the city. Killing demons is fine, but killing a person is against the law. The authorities investigated for a while, found nothing, and I’d thought about turning myself in, but the idea of staying in a jail cell didn’t appeal to me, so I let it go. I didn’t want to stay in my old home either, so I simply became your neighbor instead.”

She widened her eyes, biting her lip.

“When I was born, a monk cast my fortune, saying I ‘carry a fierce, deadly fate, one that ghosts and spirits dare not approach’ — that I shouldn’t stay by my parents’ side, that the sooner I left home to become a monk, the better, or great disaster might befall me. He also said I…” He suddenly stopped, turning to smile at her. “My parents couldn’t bear to part with me. And in the end, what that monk said came true anyway.”

She didn’t know what to say, remaining silent throughout.

“My parents’ greatest wish was to see me marry and have children,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Will you be my wife? If you’re unwilling, I won’t force it.”

She trembled in fright, pointing at herself. “I’m an Ao Ji, not one of you humans. How could someone like you possibly want me as a wife?!”

He smiled. “Because you’re the only one I’m close to.”

She nearly choked on her own saliva.

But, more alarmingly, she discovered she didn’t want to refuse him at all.

Becoming a human’s wife, having a husband, having someone to depend on from now on — what an unimaginably wonderful thing. Besides, she was only close to him too — he was the only one who’d never once bullied her.

A demon-slaying sorcerer marrying a demon as his wife — seemingly utterly absurd, yet somehow it made perfect sense.

He built a small house near the graveyard for the two of them; like every married couple under heaven, he went out during the day to work and earn money, bringing back fabric and vermilion hairpins with his earnings. She, in turn, learned to act like a human woman, washing and mending his clothes, busying herself in the kitchen following recipes. Their days passed peacefully amid cooking smoke and companionship.

The second year, they had a daughter.

He named her Shanhai.

She teased him for giving their daughter a boy’s name.

He said, let the mountains and rivers roam free, the sea of suffering has its shore.

She didn’t quite understand the meaning of these words, but since he liked it, Shanhai it would be. Watching their child’s rosy little face, all her worries dissolved into nothing — so humans and demons truly could have children together. The feeling was both unsettling and blissful.

That day, holding their daughter, watching snowflakes drift past the window, he said absently, “If this life could always be this at ease, then even the greatest suffering wouldn’t be suffering at all.”

She leaned against his shoulder, smiling. “If only we’d married the moment we first met, we’d have had ten more years as husband and wife.”

He looked down at her, his expression suddenly growing complicated.

What she never expected was that this early-winter afternoon would be the last time their family of three would ever be together.

Kneeling in the icy snow outside Yundu Temple, she was still wondering what she’d done wrong, why he’d simply left, become a monk without warning.

She truly hadn’t understood this man well enough — able to marry her without a second thought, and just as capable of abandoning her without a second thought. If he didn’t want her anymore, fine, but their daughter was still so young — how could he abandon her too?!

Her calm gave way to frenzy; she rushed madly toward the temple, only to be repelled by the barrier. Even as she struck her head, injured her hands, Yundu Temple’s gates remained firmly closed against her.

For seven days and seven nights, she knelt outside Yundu Temple, holding their daughter, calling his name over and over.

On the morning of the eighth day, a monk emerged, handing her a piece of paper. On it, in his handwriting, were four lines —

Human and demon walk different paths, our bond ends here. Let the mountains and rivers roam free, the sea of suffering has its shore.

She nearly wore the paper through with staring, until finally her eyes could see nothing but the four characters “human and demon walk different paths”… human and demon walk different paths… The ultimate reason he’d left was, after all, simply because she was a demon.

She forced herself to stand, silently gazing at the temple that separated everything, the infant in her arms wailing. Gritting her teeth, she said, “Your daughter will never be a demon.”

With that, she turned and staggered away.

A faint black shadow drifted along the courtyard walls of Yundu Temple.

In the incense-wreathed monk’s chamber, he lay on the bed, his face ashen gray.

The elderly abbot sat beside him, eyes closed, fingering prayer beads.

He slowly spoke. “Old monk, if I’d come to you sooner, would the people around me have fared better?”

“Fate has its course. Whether you came or not, what must pass will pass. Don’t dwell on it further,” the abbot said. “You’ve always known you had only thirty years left to live — why entangle yourself with that female demon… sigh. A karmic bond.”

He laughed weakly. “How would I know whether what you, old monk, say is true or false. But now I know you weren’t lying. From now on, don’t go looking at people’s fates anymore, alright? And even if you do, don’t tell them.”

“Your parents once showed me the kindness of feeding me, all those years ago — I only meant well in telling you. Your fate is unusual, this life’s path fraught with hardship. If you’d entered the monastic path sooner, you might at least have departed this world unburdened,” the abbot sighed. “Rest now. Amitabha.”

After the abbot left, he stared at the ceiling, their images still flickering before his eyes.

Suddenly, a black shadow slipped through a crack in the wall, spinning through the air before dropping into the heart-guard mirror hanging at his chest.

“She’s left, holding the child,” a voice came from within the mirror. “Must you really do this? Actually, I could—”

“Zhao Hai, you’ve been with me twenty years now, haven’t you?” He cut it off.

“Twenty-two years,” the mirror said. “You saved me from a clam spirit’s mouth when you were eight.”

He took a deep breath, saying, “You once told me you could give someone a way to live.”

“One life, one person, one path.”

“Good. That’s good.” He struggled to sit up, unfastening this mirror that had accompanied him for twenty-two years, cradling it in his hands.

It was only about the size of two eggs, its outer ring encircled by mottled black stone, the round surface like jade or crystal, gleaming brilliantly — called a mirror, yet it reflected nothing at all.

He suddenly bit into his finger, drawing blood, and began drawing strange talismans across the mirror’s surface.

“What are you doing?” the mirror cried out.

“From now on, you’ll watch over them for me.”

His eyes suddenly turned fierce; he pressed his bleeding finger hard against the mirror’s surface, as if trying to press his very soul into it.

A flash of white light, and the mirror clattered to the ground. As the light faded, a man lay curled on the floor, entirely black, faceless, with only a bright, mirror-like surface where features should be.

He coughed up a mouthful of blood, his face gone paper-white, looking at the man on the floor with a laugh. “If I had a bit more strength left, your human form might have turned out better looking.”

The man slowly climbed up, looking down at his own body, saying nothing.

“News of my death — delay it as long as you can.” He shifted his position, sitting cross-legged.

“Why do this…” The man seemed still unaccustomed to his own body, his speech sluggish too.

“Her weakness will be fatal,” he said, looking out the window. “Hatred and longing can keep her alive.”

“She’ll find out eventually.”

“Yes. But you’ll be there.”

“I…”

“There’s one more thing — deliver it to them.” He beckoned the man closer, whispering something in his ear.

The man abruptly recoiled, repeating urgently, “No, this absolutely cannot be done!”

“I’ll still be with them, in a way,” he said with a smile, closing his eyes. “I lied to the old monk just now — it’s not that I don’t believe what he said, I just wanted to feel, for whatever life I had left, what it was like to be treated gently. She simply appeared at just the right time. I’m a selfish man, so don’t miss me.”

Before the man could speak again, a burst of flame suddenly erupted from his body, golden-red light illuminating the entire room, consuming the serene-faced man at its center…

If time could flow backward, if everything could start over, he’d still not want to become a monk — he’d still choose to be a demon’s neighbor in that graveyard, drinking and talking with her, teaching wrongdoers a lesson on her behalf, then marrying her, raising children together…

The candlelight in the room flickered; Steward Qin slowly removed the mask from his face.

Beneath the mask wasn’t a human face at all, but a gleaming mirror surface, like jade, like crystal, shimmering with light.

Though she’d already guessed most of it, Tao Yao still frowned.

“The fragrance lingering around the Wen household — you must have already known what it was,” Steward Qin said, looking at Tao Yao.

“Soul-lodging incense,” Tao Yao said. “Those of profound cultivation, if they choose to sacrifice themselves for another through self-immolation, can produce soul-lodging incense — also called living incense. It resembles charcoal, and when burned, gives off an unusual fragrance capable of warding off demons and protecting a household.”

“After my master left, I took the soul-lodging incense and left Yundu Temple,” Steward Qin said, resettling the mask on his face. “By the time I returned to the small house, the Ao Ji and the child were already gone. I searched for them for half a year before finding them in a small city hundreds of li from Xiangyang. By then, she’d become the wife of the city’s wealthiest man, Master Wen. Though her appearance hadn’t changed, her temperament had — composed, steady, knowing exactly how to conduct herself. Unfortunately, Master Wen died unexpectedly less than a month into their marriage, leaving her with a vast fortune and the status of a widow. I suspect that’s precisely why she chose him as her husband.” He smiled bitterly. “After that, I lurked day and night within the Wen residence, not daring to approach her or Shanhai carelessly. She was, after all, a lone woman commanding a great fortune — no shortage of people harboring ill intentions toward her. One day, taking Shanhai out, she was accosted by criminals on her way home after dark; I intervened to save her. Deeply grateful and shaken, she said the household lacked a careful, loyal steward — and so I finally gained the chance to be near her and her child. The following year, she said she no longer wished to remain there, wanting to settle somewhere closer to Xiangyang; she sold off her property and brought Shanhai to Tianshui Town.” He sighed. “I think she was unwilling to return to Xiangyang itself, yet still wanted to stay close to Yundu Temple.”

“After settling down, you wrapped the entire residence in soul-lodging incense, keeping demons from approaching her and her child,” Tao Yao glanced at Young Master Liu. “Quite effective indeed — even our Young Master Liu here got weakened to the point of exhaustion by it.”

Young Master Liu glared back at her, saying disdainfully, “The one who deserved to be taken down wasn’t, and that vicious old hag — this useless incense didn’t do much good in the end!” Then, suddenly recalling something, he added, “The day I entered the residence, I saw some ghostly thing in the carriage — palms pressed together, entirely snow-white, floating in midair, then gone in the blink of an eye.”

“You got startled?” Tao Yao smiled. “Soul-lodging incense only affects demons — that old hag was human, unaffected by it.” She sniffed the air. “Living incense is priceless — even a century might not produce a single piece. After all, precious few are willing to throw themselves into fire for another’s sake — even someone of the highest cultivation might not manage such self-sacrifice.”

Steward Qin fell silent for a moment, then said, “He probably still remembered the time she was bullied by that fox demon.”

“But she’ll never know that the man she resents never actually left,” she said, looking at the mother and daughter, one dead and one unconscious. “Your master, too, will never know how it all turned out in the end.”

Steward Qin looked at Madam Wen. “Though her temperament changed, she was never a monster.”

“Treating patients as trade goods, and that’s not a monster?” Young Master Liu demanded.

“She’s an Ao Ji, and so is Shanhai, even if only half. They need to feed,” Steward Qin said. “The reason she bought sick patients was that their lifespans were usually shortest. Have you forgotten she can see the moment of a person’s death? For those with long lives remaining, she never harmed them. For the ones with no family, she’d find them a home to take them in; for those with families, she’d send them back. Only for those whose time was nearly up would she take their breath as food. If even this counts as wrong, then the truly worst offenders are those who sell off their own family members — whether from serious illness or lack of money, abandoning family for such reasons makes them worse than a demon. At the very least, my mistress has always worked hard for Shanhai’s sake. She never wanted Shanhai to carry the burden of being a demon.”

“But your mistress never once asked Shanhai what she herself wanted,” Mo Ya said, somewhat angry. “Isn’t true contentment being at peace even as a demon? Why do you all believe one must be human to be happy? Isn’t walking one’s own chosen path what it means to let the mountains and rivers roam free, the sea of suffering having its shore?! And Shanhai’s father was wrong too! Even if his life was ending, why did he have to use such a painful method to make others ‘stronger’? Couldn’t he have simply stayed by his wife and daughter’s side to the very end? He clearly loved them until his dying breath — why did he have to make it look so noble when really it was just so selfish?!”

Even the word “selfish” had come out — no one had ever seen Mo Ya this worked up over anyone before.

As he spoke, he suddenly sat down on the ground, sobbing. “Shanhai still had so much future ahead of her, and you all took it all away!”

Tao Yao and Young Master Liu exchanged a glance — neither had ever seen the little monk this heartbroken before, truly heartbroken.

Steward Qin walked up to Tao Yao, saying solemnly, “I am a Zhao Hai.”

Tao Yao looked at him. “Born in the deep sea, able to illuminate a way to live. Once transformed into human form, swift as a ghost, skilled at finding paths of escape, impossible to catch. If shattered into powder, whether alive or dead, so long as the physical body remains, consuming it grants a return to origin — a rare demon indeed.”

“So, will you bring Shanhai back?” he asked her.

She considered this, then turned to Young Master Liu. “Take Mo Ya out first.”

Young Master Liu didn’t ask further, going over to pull Mo Ya up and lead him out of the chamber.

Only she and Steward Qin remained in the room.

“I’m rather reluctant to see you go — you’re quite a useful demon, after all. Keeping you around, I could always know which path leads to safety the moment I need to dodge a creditor,” she said, patting his shoulder with feigned solemnity.

“The ultimate purpose of us Zhao Hai is to help someone find their ‘way to live’ — but the true way to live, we can only find for one person, once, in our entire lifetime,” he said earnestly. “If that person is Shanhai, I’m willing.”

“You love her,” Tao Yao said, looking at his unchanging mask.

“I love every one of them,” he admitted. “Jingzhe was my master — he saved me, kept me close to his heart ever since. I traveled with him through wind and rain, felt his loneliness and his joys and sorrows. Even though he never saw me as a friend, only as a tool he could trust, I loved him deeply all the same. The Ao Ji was the gentlest, weakest demon I ever met — seeing her bullied, not just Jingzhe but even I wanted to protect her. Because of her, Jingzhe and I spent ten years never once lonely. As for Shanhai, she was like my own daughter — of course I love her.” He paused, a slight catch in his voice. “Having a family feels so much better than being alone. That’s why I always wanted more time by their side.”

Tao Yao said nothing.

“Oh, that fox — I’ve locked it in a cage in the bedroom,” he suddenly said.

“Why did you take it?”

“Sometimes coming back to an empty room, no one to talk to, it gets rather lonely too.”

“That fox isn’t nearly as understanding as you think — you’d be better off with a dog.”

“No need now. I have to go. Will you take care of the mother and daughter for me?”

“I can’t. If they still can’t understand what true contentment means after all this, then no one can take care of them.”

A sigh.

“I won’t be returning those pearls you gave me.”

“…”

After that, no more sound came from the room.

A moment later, five-colored light suddenly flared up…

Beyond the gauze curtains, the evening sun burned gold-red, the height of summer’s heat still lingering throughout the bedroom.

The illness that had plagued the back-courtyard room had vanished too. Several dying patients were properly relocated elsewhere, doctors summoned to treat them — even if their lives couldn’t be saved, at least they could pass more comfortably. As for the other patients who could still be saved, per Tao Yao’s instructions, all were sent back to Tianxian Restaurant, with orders for the owner couple to care for them well.

At this moment, Madam Wen sat on the bed, cradling a giggling baby girl in her arms, tears falling unbroken onto the child’s soft face.

Gungun stood foolishly at Mo Ya’s feet, Mo Ya stood foolishly before Madam Wen, hesitating a long while before saying quietly, “May I hold her?”

Madam Wen nodded, carefully passing the infant into his arms.

Holding this tiny bundle, Mo Ya laughed and cried at once, overwhelmed. “Shanhai, ah, you’ll grow up again soon. Be a happy girl — never mind demon or human. Uncle Mo Ya will come visit you.”

Madam Wen rose from the bed, saying to Tao Yao, “Thank you all.”

“We didn’t do much,” Tao Yao waved a hand at her. “Thank your Steward Qin instead.”

Madam Wen’s eyes reddened; she nodded.

“Time flows backward, returning to the beginning,” Tao Yao touched the little girl’s face. “Not everyone gets such fortune. Don’t act recklessly again. Demons are demons, humans are humans — humans can live like demons, and demons can live like humans too.”

With that, she rapped Mo Ya on the head. “Let’s go. We’ve delayed long enough — when are we ever going to reach the capital!”

Mo Ya, reluctant to let go, handed the little one back to Madam Wen, pressing his palms together. “Farewell.” Then he scooped up Gungun, hurrying after Tao Yao and Young Master Liu.

The moment they stepped out of the Wen household’s gates, Tao Yao glanced back — a snow-white figure, hands pressed together, floating in the courtyard, vanishing in an instant.

Jingzhe had said he’d still be with them, in a way.

At this point, there seemed no need to argue over who was right or wrong. Let everything begin anew.

She turned, saying to Young Master Liu ahead of her, “What should we eat later?”

“I want a bowl of plain vegetarian noodles.”

“You just played someone’s son-in-law, and you’re still eating vegetarian?”

“Amitabha, Tao Yao, you’re sinning again!”

“Not convinced? Send Gungun to bite me, go on, bite me!”

Epilogue

Evening, by the river in Tianshui Town, willows swaying in the wind.

Mo Ya sat beneath the willow shade, gazing absently at the glittering river surface, while Gungun happily ran back and forth along the bank, playing at catching fish.

Tao Yao and Young Master Liu stood some distance away. Young Master Liu, watching Mo Ya’s back, said, “I don’t know what’s so interesting to look at — just a small river. The other side’s bare too.”

“Maybe he’s reminiscing about something,” Tao Yao shrugged. “Let him be.”

“But Tao Yao,” Young Master Liu suddenly fixed his gaze on her, “there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What is it?” she asked.

Young Master Liu narrowed his long, thin eyes. “Why was Mo Ya able to come through unscathed?”

“He’s just lucky like that,” Tao Yao stuck out her tongue.

“I’m serious.” Young Master Liu grabbed her arm.

“That old fraud trapped Mo Ya’s soul inside Wen Shanhai’s body — you know the caster essentially serves as the conduit. Whatever she sends away can only be brought back through her. If she’d died suddenly in the middle of it, Mo Ya’s soul might never have been able to return. That’s why I didn’t dare kill her outright. But if the caster gets backlashed by her own target, then the caster and every other target entangled with her would be utterly destroyed — and whoever caused that backlash would be restored to their original place amid that complete destruction. Understand?” Tao Yao patted Young Master Liu’s head.

Young Master Liu looked at her in astonishment. “You mean, no matter how many targets are entangled in a spell, if even one of them has the power to backlash, then the caster and all the other trapped targets get destroyed, while only the one who backlashed comes out unscathed?”

Tao Yao nodded.

“So, Mo Ya was the… backlasher in this whole thing?” Young Master Liu’s eyes widened. “Impossible. Mo Ya has that kind of power?”

Tao Yao smiled. “Didn’t you already know Mo Ya carries nine lifetimes of Buddha-affinity? Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so eager to eat him to boost your own cultivation. One Mo Ya alone could probably grant you at least three thousand years of cultivation, right?”

“I know that,” Young Master Liu rolled his eyes at her. “But nine lifetimes of Buddha-affinity just means he’s been a monk for nine lifetimes — it does help our cultivation, sure, but that has nothing to do with backlashing.”

“Mo Ya’s body has always remained a child’s form,” Tao Yao said, looking at Mo Ya in the distance. “That person once said Mo Ya carries nine lifetimes of Buddha-affinity — but beneath that nine lifetimes of Buddha-affinity, there’s probably something else hidden too.”

“What do you mean?” Young Master Liu said.

“This isn’t the first time Mo Ya has narrowly escaped death,” her gaze grew distant. “I don’t know the reason behind it, but I suspect it’s connected to his nine lifetimes of Buddha-affinity.”

Young Master Liu frowned. “So when Mo Ya was taken, you weren’t worried at all? Even seeing him left in a state of uncertain life or death by that old hag, you still weren’t worried? Did you ever consider that this was all just your guess — what if this time he hadn’t come through unscathed…”

She looked into Young Master Liu’s eyes, smiling. “Then I’d just be alone again.”

Young Master Liu glared at her fiercely.

“Everyone has their own fate — when to meet, when to part, no point forcing it,” she kicked a pebble at her feet. “Let’s go. It’s getting dark.”

Young Master Liu suddenly grabbed her wrist.

“What?” She looked at him, puzzled.

“Why did you leave the Peach Court?” He looked directly into her eyes. “I know it wasn’t just to keep Mo Ya company.”

She clicked her tongue, glancing around, then finally, with great reluctance, leaned in to whisper something in Young Master Liu’s ear.

The moment she finished, Young Master Liu’s expression changed instantly, staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost. “The Compendium of a Hundred Demons is missing?”

She quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet, quiet! Who knows if there’s some eavesdropping demon nearby!”

Young Master Liu pulled her hand away, lowering his voice. “You’ve always been the one guarding the Compendium of a Hundred Demons — how could it possibly go missing?!”

“Missing is missing, what do you want me to do about it. Before New Year I went out to gamble at dice, and when I came back, it was gone,” Tao Yao said, dejected. “I searched all through the Peach Court and found no trace of it — nine times out of ten, it’s left the Court entirely.”

“Who could possibly have the ability to take it out of the Peach Court?” Young Master Liu gritted his teeth.

“Who took it doesn’t matter anymore — what matters is I need to find it before that person comes back,” she scratched her head hard. “If that person finds out, I might as well go find a tree to hang myself from.”

Young Master Liu pointed at her. “You… how could you make such a mistake?!”

“Why are you so anxious, what does it have to do with you! If anything happens, I’ll bear it,” Tao Yao rolled her eyes at him.

“My own kind, the serpent demons, are recorded in the Compendium of a Hundred Demons too!” Young Master Liu was so furious he looked ready to cough up blood. “If the serpent demon entry gets erased from the Compendium, the entire serpent demon clan, myself included, would cease to exist! And you have the nerve to say it has nothing to do with me?!”

“Calm down, calm down.” Tao Yao quickly patted his chest. “I am trying to figure something out here.”

“What exactly are you figuring out?”

“Search slowly, there’s bound to be some clue eventually,” she remained remarkably composed. “That person won’t be back so soon anyway — we still have plenty of time.”

“I really want to eat you.” Young Master Liu pounded his own chest hard, trying to calm himself. “Don’t lose your temper, don’t lose your temper. Be a calm, handsome man.”

“Relax a little,” she said with a cheerful smile. “The harder you search for something, the less likely you’ll find it. Stop looking, and maybe it’ll just turn up on its own.”

“Don’t talk to me! I’m furious right now, I’m disappearing!” With that, he vanished in a flash of green light.

Tao Yao shrugged, strolling leisurely toward Mo Ya, calling out as she walked. “Mo Ya, time to go.”

After calling several times, Mo Ya finally snapped out of it, but made no move to get up, lowering his head instead. “Tao Yao…”

“What is it?” She stopped behind him.

“Will Shanhai ever remember me?”

“No,” she said bluntly.

“She always wanted to protect me.” Mo Ya picked up a pebble, tossing it into the river. “Zhao Hai won’t be coming back either, will he?”

“Shattered entirely into powder, fed into Shanhai’s stomach — how could he come back,” she sighed. “Such a shame. Such a rare demon.”

He was silent a moment, then said, “Let’s set off a little later.”

The evening breeze drifted across the river, water murmuring softly. He closed his eyes, sat cross-legged, turning his prayer beads while chanting sutras.

Tao Yao wanted to tell him that chanting a hundred sutras for Zhao Hai wouldn’t do any good — his past and future had both ended the moment he chose to give Wen Shanhai a “way to live.” But she didn’t stop him after all — doing nothing at all still left an uneasy feeling in her heart.

One life, one person, one path — given to the one he loved most, no regret in that either.

By the time the sutras were finished, the sky was already full of stars.

Mo Ya stood up, asking, “Where to now?”

“The capital, of course,” Tao Yao said, immediately lighting up with excitement. “It’ll be far more fun there than any small place we’ve passed through so far!”

Mo Ya nodded, calling Gungun over and cradling it in his arms.

Young Master Liu reappeared beside Tao Yao in a flash, still looking displeased.

Tao Yao nudged his arm. “Don’t be like that. Cheer up — the capital has plenty of good food and plenty of beauties too!”

“Don’t talk to me!” Young Master Liu turned his head away.

“What’s wrong, Young Master Liu?” Mo Ya asked with concern.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why the sour face?”

“A sour face doesn’t wrinkle easily!”

“Oh.”

“Let’s go, let’s go.”

Beneath the gathering dusk along the riverbank, three people and one fox walked on, chattering away.

Right beneath the emperor’s feet, it should be livelier than anywhere they’d been before.

It certainly would be.

Compendium of a Hundred Demons · Part One, End