Prologue

It had been a long time since I’d seen such fine weather. May, like a blossoming flower — the heavens and earth and all living things painted in beautiful colors.

Ao Chi and I wore sunglasses and matching couple’s athletic wear, skulking about in the trees of some urban-rural fringe area on the outskirts of the city.

Not far ahead was a rather large fish pond, the water cool and clear, ripples shimmering across its surface, with several workers busy along its banks.

“Don’t you believe me — I really did see the Dragon King the night before last!” The voice of one of the workers drifted over.

“The Dragon King? Keep dreaming! You drink a little horse piss and you can’t even remember your own name! If there were a Dragon King in our fish pond, then I’ve got seven celestial maidens in my house!” The other workers burst into roaring laughter.

“Why would I lie to you! I was going to relieve myself by the pond, and you know what? I saw a long streak of light in the water, like a giant snake — just one flash, and then it was gone!”

“Get out of here. Drunk as you were, you still dared to take a piss by the pond — lucky you didn’t drown. If there were a Dragon King, he’d be waiting for a drunkard like you to fall in so he could eat you!” Hearing these men joke about the Dragon King, Ao Chi’s face went dark, and he let out a cold snort.

It was rare to have a day away from Bu Ting. This place had nothing much to look at, but the air was at least fresh, and around the fish pond there lingered an indescribable sense of light, ethereal energy. Setting aside the reason we’d come here, I was rather enjoying this unusual outing. Ao Chi, however, had none of my good cheer. Although he had inexplicably recovered his human form, the two dumpling-like dragon horn stumps on top of his head refused to recede, and he’d been forced to hide them under a baseball cap — causing him to complain the whole way that he was overheating. Understandable, really. Even though it was only May, once the sun came out, the heat was blistering and hard to bear.

We waited and waited until the sun sank in the west, the workers dispersed, and not a soul remained in the area. Only then did we walk toward the edge of the fish pond. Chi Pian’er poked her head out of my backpack, looked around, then hopped onto my shoulder and let out a long breath: “I nearly suffocated! Lady Boss, and Lady Boss’s husband — isn’t it time to get moving? If we can’t catch it before dawn, will that demon Daoist really chop Young Master Zhao and Bowl Qiansui into pieces?”

Right. The true purpose of our “outing” today was to catch a “dragon” and bring it back to Bu Ting.

The worker hadn’t been seeing things. There really was a “dragon” in this fish pond.

I stared intently at the surface of the water. Ao Chi rapped me on the head and said, “I’ve told you — don’t call this thing a dragon, not even in your head! We of the East Sea Dragon Clan are the one true lineage of dragons. Those ‘dumplings’ are nothing but monsters — many of them are cancerous tumors that need to be eradicated.”

“And this one too?” I rolled my eyes at him and watched the water’s surface ripple faintly in the evening breeze.

Ao Chi said nothing. With a look of contempt, he turned his head away, rose to his feet, stretched his limbs, and looked down from his vantage point at the quiet artificial lake. “I haven’t gone into water to fight anyone in a long time. But let me be clear upfront — I’m not here because of that demon Daoist’s threats. That dead suit of armor and that dishwashing maniac have nothing to do with me. I simply can’t stand having the reputation of our dragon kind besmirched.”

“Understood — fighting for the glory of dragonkind!” I nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “In you go! Your brothers are waiting for news of your victory!”

“Hm? You’re not coming in with me?” Ao Chi raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know how to swim.” I shrugged. “Besides, I just got my hair permed the day before yesterday. Can’t get it wet.”

“You can’t even drown! And your hair looks exactly the same whether it’s been permed or not!” Ao Chi spun around in frustration.

“Are you sure you don’t need an oxygen tank or something? You’ve only just recovered, and I’m worried—” I offered helpfully.

“Shut up! Given how well we know each other, have I ever been that weak?!” Ao Chi snorted. “No more than a quarter hour — easy as catching a fish in a barrel!”

“Off you go!” I gave him a kick in the backside. If I didn’t send him off now, who knew how long he’d keep dithering.

But a dragon is a dragon. Even being kicked into the water, his entry was breathtaking — a flash like lightning as he sliced beneath the surface, barely raising a splash. Not even an Olympic champion could match that.

“Lady Boss, will there be any problems?” Chi Pian’er still looked worried.

“So worried about Young Master Zhao and the others?” I looked at the little figure on my shoulder and smiled. “You never seemed particularly close to them in ordinary times.”

“What?!” Chi Pian’er hopped and stomped. “If something happens to them, all the odd jobs at Bu Ting will fall to me alone! And you’ll definitely not be raising my wages!”

“Ah, you really do know me well.” I nodded and said nothing more.

Lately, business at Bu Ting had been steady and calm — guests checking in included humans and spirits alike, though no human-spirit hybrids. Ao Chi and I continued our usual bickering, days passing in peaceful uneventfulness. Bowl Qiansui had stubbornly refused to leave, but given how fast and well he washed dishes and how capable he was at household chores, I’d provisionally allowed him to stay on and work at Bu Ting.

But last night, everyone’s life had been thrown into chaos by a Daoist who suddenly appeared — not the one who had a grudge against Bowl Qiansui; no one knew this one. Life had abruptly shifted from slice-of-life to martial arts drama. The Daoist used talismans to trap Young Master Zhao and Bowl Qiansui. Fortunately, Chi Pian’er was nimble enough to escape to my side, sparing her from becoming another hostage.

I could tell this Daoist was no ordinary dabbler. This person had real ability, and knew Ao Chi’s and my background inside and out, not targeting us from the very start. A thousand-year-old tree spirit paired with a dragon of awe-inspiring renown from the Dragon Sea — to face such a combination would require skill upon skill. The Daoist clearly understood this.

“I’ve come to make a deal!” The Daoist spoke with full confidence, not the least bit afraid of us.

“I’m sorry, the only deal available here is lodging.” I detest being threatened. I knew this person couldn’t handle Ao Chi and me, but they could indeed destroy Young Master Zhao and Bowl Qiansui.

“Then I’ll take lodging.” The Daoist sat down, set down the sword, “But I’ll only stay one day. If our deal isn’t concluded before dawn the day after tomorrow, those two will meet a very unpleasant end. And don’t try anything against me — the talismans binding them will only dissolve if I remain alive.”

Remarkably composed.

“Quite the young talent.” I smiled. And not only young, but beautiful to look at.

A long-haired, fashionably dressed young woman — more than enough to overturn any ordinary person’s preconceptions of what a Daoist practitioner should look like. One tends to imagine them as either white-bearded old sages with a transcendent air, or as stiff-faced individuals of either sex wearing high buns and dark robes. If not for the authentic Daoist talismans this one had deployed, I’d have taken her for some unconventional expert who roamed the world with unusual abilities. As for Ao Chi — his gaze lingered a long time on the sword she had brought.

“Guests pay for lodging. That’s only natural.” I extended my hand.

“Aren’t the lives of two monsters enough?” This woman had a shameless streak.

I wanted to wring her neck. But to my surprise, Ao Chi — who is usually the first to lose his temper — acted entirely out of character. He told me not to flare up, sat down, and listened to what she had to say.

This conversation went on all night.

And then, today, we came to this fish pond.

I checked the time while keeping my eyes on the water. Ao Chi had been underwater for ten minutes, with no movement at all.

“Your husband hasn’t drowned, has he?” Chi Pian’er said ominously.

“He’d have to die ten deaths before that could happen to him.” I answered wistfully. “A drowned dragon is as rare as a bird with a fear of heights.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than the surface of the water erupted into motion. In an instant, the depths below detonated like an atomic bomb, sending dozens of meters of water surging upward. A form trailing bursts of foam tore through the surface and broke into the open air…

Part 1

“Floating clouds scatter; the bright moon shines upon those who come. Reunited and fulfilled, tonight we are drunk…”

Bu Dong sat in his usual place — the blue coral chair on Street Seven of the Crystal Palace — swaying his head as he sang his favorite melody, strings of water bubbles rising rhythmically around him.

He had long forgotten which stretch of the Yangtze River concealed this underwater world. He only knew that a certain ferry landing nearby had been lively for centuries on end — monks had sailed east from there to foreign lands, young literary souls had been seized by poetic inspiration on its banks, emperors had come to holiday, and women had come to throw themselves in the river. Beyond that, every so many years, the rumble of cannon fire would drift down from the world above the water’s surface. Fortunately, he was very far below that surface — well-fed, well-rested, and without a care.

This Crystal Palace residential district hadn’t always gone by that name. In earlier days, the literate residents had gathered for a meeting and agreed that their home needed a name — otherwise they felt like wandering homeless souls with no sense of belonging. The shrimp soldiers, crab generals, and clam-shell maidens put their heads together and suggested calling it “Dragon Palace” — wouldn’t that sound impressive to outsiders? Perhaps one day they’d all truly become dragons that could summon wind and rain! But there were two dissenting votes: one from Bu Dong, one from Old Chen the turtle.

Bu Dong said: there are no dragons here. Whether you’re a person or a monster, you should be honest.

Old Chen said: my opinion is the same as Bu Dong’s.

Given that Old Chen was the eldest in the community and Bu Dong was the most handsome, everyone agreed with them. “Dragon Palace” was replaced with “Crystal Palace.” Though the river bottom held no grand or magnificent scenery, it shimmered and sparkled, flowers and weeds alike growing here and there — like a crystal, lying quietly in a space unknown to the world above.

As time passed, the Crystal Palace grew and expanded into a full residential community. Its population grew larger and larger, though few stayed permanently. The small fish and shrimp, having seen a bit of the world, eventually packed their bags and left. They said this place was too small — it stifled their professional aspirations. They’d heard that if one could reach the sea, there was a chance to cultivate into a dragon, and if one could reach the East Sea, the possibilities were even greater. So those who wished to leave, left. As for whether they made it to the sea or ended up in a human’s bowl, no one could say.

Bu Dong, true to his name — “unmoving” — stayed put. He never went anywhere. The bewitching clam-shell maidens invited him more than once to travel with them to other places, and each time he refused. He simply enjoyed listening to their animated accounts of the white dragon living deep in the Yellow River, or the remarkably clever eel monsters of the Atlantic who could communicate with beings from other worlds. In short: the more dashing male monsters the well-traveled clam-shell maidens had encountered, the more provincial Bu Dong appeared in comparison. He had no cool affectations, no command of alien tongues, not a single shining quality to speak of. He spent his days in his chair, whiling away the hours like some old man fanning himself in the shade — living out his time in idle ease.

In the early years, some had brought him gifts out of reverence and admiration. The blue coral chair had been a treasure brought back from the outer sea by a lobster beauty who had been rather taken with him — he had accepted the gift with a smile but declined the lobster maiden’s heart, causing her to weep bitterly and depart for a distant shore.

“You really think you’re something, don’t you — you’re nothing but a stinking jiao, put on airs all you want!” the lobster maiden had pointed at his nose and cursed as she left.

“Miss, wishing you a happy marriage and a long life together,” he had replied with a cheerful smile.

The monsters of the Crystal Palace revered Bu Dong for one reason: he was a jiao — the creature closest to a true dragon.

People often speak of “jiao and dragon” in the same breath, but in truth a jiao is a jiao and a dragon is a dragon. Though they resemble one another, there is a chasm between them — the chasm between a commoner and a noble. Even the most unremarkable dragon possesses a divine status rivaling that of the gods; even the most fearsome jiao is still merely one of the monster folk.

And yet, there is a saying: if a jiao can devour a dragon, it becomes the most ferocious of all — a Jie Dragon. A Jie Dragon is an anomaly among dragons, possessing abilities that go far beyond the ordinary power to summon wind and rain. But in practice, jiao who have successfully eaten a dragon are vanishingly rare — it is far more common for a jiao to be eaten by a dragon. Aspiring to become a dragon is no easy thing.

So Bu Dong went nowhere, and never displayed the slightest desire to eat a dragon. He was content to remain in the Crystal Palace, listening to gossip from the maidens, watching Old Chen practice Tai Chi, enduring winters and welcoming springs — placid and unperturbed.

“Red-robed, green-canopied, paired lotus blossoms blooming — side by side, two by two…” Bu Dong hummed, eyes half-closed, fingers tapping lightly against his knee.

Smack! An embroidered shoe struck him in the face.

“Still singing, still singing — sing yourself into your coffin! There’s a fight breaking out right outside our door!” A bewitchingly lovely woman in an exquisitely embroidered qipao, one foot shod and one bare, leapt in front of him in a fury.

This woman was Du Shinian. Centuries ago, she had jumped from a boat at the nearby ferry landing and drowned herself for the sake of love — taking with her a chest brimming with treasures. No one had saved her. Her body had fed the fish, and her spirit had become a water wraith. Quite a few people had come to drag the river bottom afterward, though not for her — only for the treasure chest. Du Shinian’s fragile heart had shattered to pieces. She had tried to end things again, only to discover — tragically — that she had already died once. Fortunately, Bu Dong and Old Chen happened to be out for a stroll and found her. They brought the desolate beauty back to the Crystal Palace. Though a water wraith had joined the community of monsters, no one looked down on her, and she was allowed to settle in without a word of prejudice. Du Shinian felt both grateful and bewildered — even monsters could show such generosity of spirit, while that wretched man Li Jia had despised her for her origins in the pleasure quarters and sold her off for a mere hundred taels of silver. Setting aside Du Shinian’s subsequent emotional journey — within the Crystal Palace, she had smoothly completed her evolution from aggrieved woman to formidable force. She had grown to love travel, ranging across mountains and lakes everywhere she went. The more places she saw, the more she lived like a fiery hot chili pepper. In her own words: she hadn’t died at the hands of that worthless man Li Jia — she had died at the hands of her own short-sightedness. If she could be human again, she would never give up her own life for any person or thing; it simply wasn’t worth it.

“Didn’t we agree you wouldn’t smack people with your shoe.” He picked up the shoe, bent down with characteristic patience, and helped her put it back on. “Fights are a common enough thing — why are you burning like your backside is on fire? Is it the Old Snapping Turtle brothers from Street Two having another falling out?”

“It’s not them! There’s a Daoist! Fighting to the death with that green jiao in the Ten Thousand Souls Cave! They’re about to bring it right to our front door!” She pulled him to his feet. “Hurry and find somewhere to hide — neither of them is someone you’d want to tangle with; what if innocent people get caught up in it?”

“A Daoist has come…” Bu Dong was far less alarmed than she was. “I’ll go have a look.”

“You can’t! It’s a fierce fight! That Daoist is absolutely reckless!” Du Shinian grabbed hold of him. “Don’t forget — you’re a jiao too!”

Before the words had fully left her mouth, a tremendous force shook the entire riverbed — once, twice, several times — sending bottom sand swirling upward in churning clouds. Small fish and shrimp darted in fright into the crevices between stones.

Old Chen hurried over at the commotion. He raised his nose and sniffed the water, then wrinkled his snow-white long brows and said: “Someone actually dared to go after that green jiao. Are they tired of living? At least half the bones in its Ten Thousand Souls Cave belong to Daoists.”

“Quite interesting, indeed! I must go and observe.” Bu Dong moved briskly toward the Crystal Palace gates, calling back as he went: “My bet is ten red-bean dumplings that the Daoist wins!”

Du Shinian and Old Chen exchanged a glance. But this one was also a jiao himself…

Part 2

Zuo Zhanyan was not entirely sure whether he was still alive. A metallic taste of blood surged again and again in his throat, and every joint in his body felt as though it had been taken apart — he couldn’t tell whether the sensation was pain or numbness.

“Can he be saved?”

“There are so many wounds, they look like a pedestrian walkway — stitching them up one by one is going to take ages! Hey, where’s my needle? Shinian, help me thread this — my eyes are failing me.”

“What a fine-looking boy! Haven’t seen a Daoist of such high caliber in quite some time. Honestly, he’d do better as a print model than a Daoist — what a waste.”

“Du Shinian, wipe up your drool — if it drops into the wound it’ll get infected. Though I have to say, look at that jade-like complexion, those broad shoulders and long legs…”

“The two of you — get OUT!”

Voices flooded around Zuo Zhanyan’s ears, figures moving in and out of his blurred vision. He couldn’t make them out clearly, but the smell came through sharp and unmistakable.

Monster energy?! Zuo Zhanyan jolted awake, surged upward — and was promptly struck hard on the head by someone, plunging him back into unconsciousness.

When he came to again, he found himself lying quite comfortably in an enormous clamshell lined with soft water-grass. Every wound on his body had been carefully stitched, with gray-blue wet clay applied over each one and held in place by thin, flexible strips of seaweed. The surrounding river water — luminous shades of dark blue and green — moved slowly around him. Fish whose names he didn’t know flicked their rainbow-hued tails, weaving playfully through strings of rising bubbles.

An intensely cold and wintry shaft of light swept across Zuo Zhanyan’s still-hazy vision — Bu Dong stood at the side of the clamshell bed, smoothly drawing out a three-foot sword, clicking his tongue in admiration: “What a priceless Peach Capital Sword. So the young gentleman is an heir of the Zuo Family.”

Zuo Zhanyan was momentarily stunned, then — ignoring his wounds entirely — leapt swiftly from the clamshell. With one hand he seized Bu Dong by the throat, pale lips barely moving: “Monster. Take your filthy hands off it.”

Smack! A shoe sole struck Zuo Zhanyan squarely on the head. Du Shinian stood with one hand on her hip and let loose: “If not for these monsters, you, noble human that you are, would have drowned long ago! Just because he’s a Daoist! Just because he’s a pretty boy! Who do you think you are — a toad with amphibian powers, able to survive on land and in water?!”

“You—” Zuo Zhanyan staggered from the blow, spinning to glare at her.

“You dare glare at me?” Another shoe sole — straight into his face.

“All right, enough — any more and he’ll be flat as a pan.” Old Chen shuffled over, set a small purple sandalwood incense burner on the little clamshell table, and said to Zuo Zhanyan: “This is something I retrieved from outside — it’s yours, isn’t it, young sir? Ah, let’s dispense with the dignity — you can’t kill a small fish right now. Time to change your dressings.”

Zuo Zhanyan snatched his sword back from Bu Dong’s hands, released his grip, and fixed a cold gaze on the three monsters: “If you let me live, not one of you will escape me in the future.”

Daoist and monster — black and white, in opposition, no room for compromise, reputation must be upheld — that was what they had drilled into him from childhood onward.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway. The Crystal Palace is my home, and I’m extremely sedentary.” Bu Dong replied with a cheerful smile. “Old Chen says your injuries are quite serious — you’ll need at least half a month to recover. Settle in comfortably. We fed you a Water-Repelling Pearl, so remember to spit it out when you eventually leave the water, or you’ll die of thirst once you hit dry land.”

As he spoke, his gaze drifted — seemingly by chance — to the back of Zuo Zhanyan’s neck, and he smiled. Zuo Zhanyan frowned, but refused Old Chen’s offer to change his dressings, and asked coldly: “And the green jiao?”

“It got away.” Bu Dong recalled the scene. “You stabbed it once, but missed anything vital. Meanwhile you were covered in wounds — if we’d arrived a moment later, you’d really have been done for.”

Zuo Zhanyan gripped his sword hilt and said nothing.

“You don’t seem particularly concerned that it escaped.” Bu Dong studied his face, smiling. “That’s not at all like a Daoist who throws himself recklessly into vanquishing demons and subduing monsters.”

In a sudden, unexpected motion, Zuo Zhanyan gave his sword a flick, letting half a blade of steel flash free and come to rest at Bu Dong’s throat with lightning speed. He said in a low voice: “You’re also a jiao. Even in human form, I can smell you. Believe me when I say I could cut you down first and then go look for your accomplices.”

“A correction: fellow jiao, not accomplices.” Bu Dong swiveled his eyes. The Peach Capital Sword’s edge was unlike that of ordinary weapons — not cold, but warm. And the higher its temperature, the greater its power. Once, another Peach Capital Sword had rested against his neck just like this, its flame-like heat nearly burning through his flesh. He smiled, reached up, and flicked Zuo Zhanyan’s blade with his finger. “Young man, your sword is too cool. You’d best rest well.”

Du Shinian shot Bu Dong a withering look and spat: “I told you not to save this ungrateful wretch. We’re wicked, evil monsters; he’s a righteous warrior — perfectly justified in having your head.”

“Young man, let’s talk things through calmly! Isn’t dialogue in vogue these days?!” Timid Old Chen, at the sight of a drawn weapon, had already retreated back into his shell at top speed, allowing only half his head to peek out.

“Listen to everyone’s advice — what you need right now is medicine and rest, not threats. You have to get your body healed before you can go about saving others and continuing your role as guardian of the earth!” Bu Dong noticed the sword at his neck growing the faintest bit warmer.

“Saving others…” Zuo Zhanyan’s gaze drifted, as though weighing something. Then he pressed the blade even closer. “You — come with me.”

Du Shinian sensed something amiss and was about to act, when Zuo Zhanyan channeled a strange force from somewhere within himself, tore the black stone pendant from his neck, and flung it into the air — where it transformed into a Bagua diagram wrought from gold-red energy, radiantly sharp. Before Du Shinian could even draw near, she was thrown back by the force of it; even Old Chen, farther away, was struck by the Bagua’s shockwaves and went rolling backward across the ground with yelps of pain. The entire Crystal Palace trembled faintly under the diagram’s power, and the fish, shrimp, crabs, and clams scattered in terror.

After roughly two or three minutes, the Bagua diagram gradually dissolved into the water. Du Shinian and Old Chen — having caught their breath — discovered that Bu Dong, ten-thousand-year homebody monster, had been dragged away from his home of many years through the rather undignified method of kidnapping.

Part 3

It must be said — both the kidnapper and his hostage were deeply unprofessional.

From the moment Zuo Zhanyan abducted Bu Dong onto dry land, he fainted seven times along the way. Each time, Bu Dong used his own spiritual power to revive him, then allowed himself to be taken hostage and continue the journey. The thought of escaping had not crossed his mind once. In fact, by the end, even Zuo Zhanyan felt somewhat embarrassed. Of course, he would never thank a monster — he couldn’t even manage a smile — but he no longer raised his sword in Bu Dong’s direction.

A Daoist paired with a monster is a strange combination, but in ordinary people’s eyes, they were simply two handsome young men: one with short dark hair, cool and capable, his gaze perpetually guarded; the other with shoulder-length hair and a calm expression, his face still that of a graceful young man, though strands of silver-white already threaded through his black hair — and yet he didn’t look old, more like a man who had simply chosen to dye his hair that way.

At first, Zuo Zhanyan’s vitality was too depleted for him to fly or disappear into the ground, and neither of them had a single coin on them. Fortunately, his illusion arts were still barely functional, so he managed to pass off a pack of a common tissue brand as hundred-yuan bills in the eyes of others, which solved the problem of food and also — incidentally — allowed them to rent a small off-road vehicle. They sped along a desolate national highway heading south toward another city.

Bu Dong, who had clearly not been above water in a very long time, was thoroughly unprepared for this vehicle speed. He suffered from motion sickness the entire way, vomited eight times, then lay half-dead, rolling his eyes heavenward with a sigh: “I’ve just realized I have absolutely no aptitude for being a hostage. Once there were seven chances to escape right before me, but I didn’t cherish them, and now that they are gone, I am filled with regret. The most painful thing in life…” He caught the knife-sharp glare Zuo Zhanyan shot him in the rearview mirror and immediately redirected his complaint: “Ah — I mean, I’m asking: exactly where are you taking me? Du Shinian and Old Chen won’t be paying any ransom, and I’m not exactly wealthy myself.”

“If you hadn’t saved me, you wouldn’t have any trouble at all,” Zuo Zhanyan said, making a sudden left turn that nearly sent Bu Dong vomiting again.

“I’ve figured it out — you demented Daoist, you enjoy grabbing motion-sick monsters and putting them in cars to torture them to death!” Bu Dong slapped his thigh in anguish.

Zuo Zhanyan cast him a sidelong glance and decided he had truly encountered the most eccentric specimen among all the monsters he’d ever met.

He would be over a thousand years old this coming Mid-Autumn Festival — though even he wasn’t entirely certain of the number. Fortunately, the small purple sandalwood incense burner was still with him. When they’d moved out in the old days, the things in the Single Page Monastery had been divvied up among his fellow practitioners, everyone taking armloads of objects. He alone had patted his backside, taken his sword, and walked out the door. If not for the fact that the incense burner was small and portable, and that it was the first birthday gift the Old Daoist of Single Page had ever given him, he might not have taken even that.

Each Mid-Autumn Festival, he would drop a small paper ball into the burner. To find out exactly how old he was, you only needed to tip them all out and count. But what was the point? For those who live too long, age becomes meaningless. By any human standard, he was already a walking, talking old relic who refused to die.

For most monsters, the longer he lived, the greater a calamity he became. Zuo Zhanyan of the Single Page Monastery was notorious among his fellow practitioners as a man who threw himself into danger without a second thought. Over the years, the monsters who had died at his hand were beyond counting. He had no hobbies of any kind. His life, beyond dealing with monsters, was dealing with more monsters. Those he rescued from monsters’ clutches praised him as a peerless hero, a man of integrity and righteousness.

There had been too much of this praise — so much it nearly stuffed his ears to overflowing. He had no interest in these compliments; he even found them slightly distasteful. And yet, he felt he needed them desperately.

For a person to pursue what they themselves find distasteful — this is as tragic as falling in love with someone you dislike.

Every time, he carried this strange and contradictory thought as he left those who had offered him their tearful gratitude — without a single word, without the smallest smile.

A thousand years ago, the true Single Page Monastery had ceased to exist. “Moving,” it was called, but it was more like a fracture. Hei Shan and A Huan fought for three days and three nights; A Huan lost. Per their agreement, whoever lost would leave the Single Page Monastery forever. These two were, in a sense, his junior disciples. Hei Shan had even been personally designated as the successor by the Old Daoist of Single Page on his deathbed, set to lead the Monastery going forward. A Huan refused to accept it — she argued that in terms of Daoist arts, Hei Shan was no match for herself; in terms of seniority, there was still the senior brother Zuo Zhanyan. Unfortunately, by the time she raised her objection, the old man was already beyond hearing — he had died in such a confused state that he no longer knew who he was.

A Huan had once urged him to join forces with her and push Hei Shan out. He ignored her, and went silently off to hunt and kill a nine-headed worm demon that had been spreading destruction far and wide.

By the time he returned, A Huan — having lost — had already packed her belongings. With a group of devoted followers loyal to her, she walked out through the gates of the Single Page Monastery.

She was going out; he was coming in. As their shoulders nearly passed, A Huan said: “The old man raised you, and in the end still could not contain you.”

He stepped inside. In his demon-catching pouch, the nine-headed worm demon’s corpse had already dissolved into foul water. Not long before, the parents of the child it had devoured had knelt before him weeping, saying they would return as cattle or horses in their next life just to repay his great kindness in avenging their child. He had thought: that is enough.

Without any reply to A Huan, he turned and shut the door behind him.

From that day on, the power of the Single Page Monastery had split in two. No one knew where A Huan had taken her followers. Hei Shan said the woman had a vicious and treacherous heart; fearing she might return one day to settle scores, he decided to relocate as a precaution. The careful Hei Shan moved the Single Page Monastery to five different locations during his lifetime, and with each move the numbers dwindled further.

Hei Shan was evidently not a good leader — he could tolerate no one who might surpass him. The more gifted junior disciples were all driven away through one means or another. By the time he died, fewer than ten people remained in the Single Page Monastery.

“Senior Brother, do you want my seat?” In his final hours, Hei Shan’s cloudy eyes fixed on Zuo Zhanyan, who stood at his bedside. “But the old man told me privately, behind your back — that no matter how times change, Zuo Zhanyan is never to inherit the Single Page Monastery. ‘If he abides by the rules and accumulates virtue in fighting evil, he may remain. If he makes a single error, let all rise to punish him, without sentiment.’ This order is to be passed down through every generation.” Hei Shan burst into laughter, raised his withered, bony finger, and pointed at him: “Zuo Zhanyan, your secret…” The words stopped unfinished, and his hand dropped.

Zuo Zhanyan closed his eyes for him, then went back out to catch his monsters.

Perhaps the Single Page Monastery was not fated to be destroyed — the successors that followed were all stronger than Hei Shan. From youthful promise all the way to white-haired old age, and on to the present: the Monastery had weathered upheaval and transformation, and now was a name that rang out proudly in the circles of the craft. Its disciples had grown in number, concealed among ordinary people under different identities, continuing the work of subduing demons and monsters. But in recent years, the Single Page Monastery had begun declining again — because arts practitioners and factions were multiplying everywhere. Some were barely competent, while others were genuinely formidable. Each side relied on their own abilities; though outwardly all pointed their swords at demons and evil spirits, behind closed doors they jockeyed endlessly against one another. In this day and age, past reputation alone bought nothing — this was an era where strategy and strength counted for everything. Monsters, too, had grown smarter and stronger, no longer so easily cut down by arts practitioners. All of this left old institutions like the Single Page Monastery in an awkward position. The disciples they attracted nowadays were mostly of mediocre talent, unwilling to endure the hardship of training, and a good number switched careers halfway through.

The new successor was a young woman named Shen Qiangwei — reportedly a doctoral graduate who had returned from a prestigious overseas university. The combination of doctoral scholar and Daoist practitioner might seem odd, but Shen Qiangwei’s desire to revive the Single Page Monastery burned more fiercely than anyone else’s.

Yet no matter how the Single Page Monastery changed, Zuo Zhanyan remained as he always had. Each new successor remained politely respectful toward him, still calling him “Senior Brother” — though sometimes what passes for politeness is merely a way of keeping others at arm’s length.

The look Shen Qiangwei gave him was very similar to the look Hei Shan had turned on him in his final moments.

“Watch out!” Bu Dong shouted.

Lost in his memories, Zuo Zhanyan jerked the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding a large yellow ox that had suddenly bolted from the roadside.

“I need you to do something for me,” Zuo Zhanyan said.

“If you said ‘please help me with a favor,’ I might agree.” Bu Dong smiled. Zuo Zhanyan said nothing — and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

Part 4

Early summer is the finest season in this riverside city, where the wide, winding river has flowed from north to south for over a thousand years.

On the top floor of the city’s five-star hotel, in a luxury suite, one could step out onto the balcony and take in the full sweep of the river’s beauty — boats coming and going, lantern-lights dotting the water.

A chair had been placed on the balcony. Someone sat in it, binoculars raised, observing the river bank at dusk.

“How beautiful,” said the person in the chair, speaking in fluent Japanese. “Is everyone assembled?”

Several men and women dressed as tourists stood behind the chair. The lead middle-aged man bowed from the waist and replied in Japanese as well: “President, all of our people are here.”

“Then once we board the ship tomorrow, enjoy the scenery along the way.” The person in the chair lowered the binoculars; the gathering dusk concealed their face entirely. “From now on, China will be our domain.”

“Yes!” Every person in the room bowed in unison.

Looking down from on high, the distant harbor was perfectly still. The boats of various sizes moored there resembled sleepy cats curled on the water — nothing capable of waking them. The sounds of waves and wind merged into one, playing a soft nocturne across the night sky. At this moment, everything looked fine — but only as far as the naked eye could see.

At that same moment, in an ordinary residential complex elsewhere in the city, a young mother was packing her second-grade daughter’s schoolbag while complaining to her husband: “Xiao Kun has ballet every Saturday — well, that’s done for now. What are these schools thinking, organizing a one-day river outing tomorrow? Such a waste of time!”

“I called Teacher Guo for you — he said Xiao Kun’s class was awarded some kind of ‘model class’ recognition, so the school organized this activity especially for them. Kids should be allowed to play when it’s time to play — missing one ballet lesson isn’t a big deal.” The husband continued flipping through his newspaper.

“That’s true, I suppose. Teacher Guo said it’s a meaningful activity — they even want each child to write a travel journal when they get back.” The most excited of all was the daughter, skipping through the rooms and cheering: “Yes! We get to ride a big boat instead of going to ballet tomorrow!”

The next day, a group of elementary school children in matching uniforms assembled in the square in front of the harbor, chattering and calling to each other without pause, following a young female teacher as they walked merrily forward.

Their destination was a mid-sized tourist vessel in the city — the Black Pearl. The ship ran a fixed route, heading south along the river, mainly for sightseers enjoying the scenery, turning back at the estuary and returning. The full journey took roughly three hours.

That day, in addition to the forty elementary school children, two tour groups had also boarded the Black Pearl — less than a hundred passengers in total, making the wide cabin feel particularly hollow and echoing. This ship had once been called the Victory, and after being contracted out, it was repurposed for tourist business. Unfortunately, its facilities couldn’t keep up with the competition from other, more luxurious cruise ships, and even renaming it the Black Pearl hadn’t brought it the fame of that other notorious ship’s captain. It limped along, relying on a few small travel agencies to bring in scattered passengers just to stay afloat. Today’s business was already unusually good — originally there had only been one tour group, but a second had been added at the last moment, and this second group was notably generous with their spending, leaving the operator muttering his good luck.

To the sound of the ship’s horn, the Black Pearl parted the water and slowly pulled away from the dock.

The most excited passengers were, of course, the schoolchildren. Every one of them claimed a window seat and waved and shouted with innocent delight at the blue sky and white clouds outside.

The farther they drifted from the harbor, the more serious the young female teacher’s expression became. She kept reminding students to stay safe, and as she glanced at the men and women of the tour group seated in the rear of the cabin, the pleasant smile gradually faded from her face. She rose, went to the restroom, and pulled out her phone.

“Xiao Wu, why are there other people on the ship? Didn’t I tell you to charter the whole vessel?”

“I’m not sure either. I really did pay them not to let anyone else board! They must have seen more money and taken it anyway — I’ll settle accounts with them afterward!”

“Never mind that for now. Just have everyone keep a close watch on these people — don’t let them disrupt our plans.”

“Understood, Boss.”

Time flowed like the river — and quickly passed.

That night, several things happened in the city.

First: the parents of an entire elementary school class filed a collective report to the authorities, saying the children who had gone on an outing with their homeroom teacher had still not returned, and all contact with them had been lost.

Second: the school’s principal firmly denied having approved such an activity, believing it to have been entirely the homeroom teacher’s personal decision.

Third: given the gravity of the situation, police went that night to the homeroom teacher’s home to investigate, only to find the female teacher surnamed Guo unconscious in her own bedroom. Upon being revived, Teacher Guo said that three days prior, a delivery person had come with a package. When she opened the door to receive it, she had smelled a strange fragrance, and then lost consciousness until now — she had no idea what had happened in between. The parents did not believe her, saying they had personally seen her lead the children away from the harbor that morning, and the scene grew chaotic and confrontational.

Fourth: the Black Pearl had vanished.

Part 5

On the ink-black surface of the sea, the Black Pearl drifted slowly, all engines switched off — an enormous iron hull adrift like a purposeless ghost, carried by the current. The boundary between the night sky and the sea was impossible to discern. The ship’s searchlights, the only source of light, illuminated a very limited circle around them. White mist — now thin, now thick — threaded through the darkness, lending the scene an eerie quality, as though one had departed the world of the living. Waves slapped the hull in rhythmic rushes. Beyond that sound, there was nothing — no other vessels, nothing but the Black Pearl, alone in a terrifying isolation.

The “Teacher Guo” stood at the ship’s prow, her long hair and skirts streaming backward against the wind. One hand gripped a porcelain vial; the other tore away the human-skin mask from her face.

“Boss, everything’s set.” Xiao Wu, dressed in gray, stood behind her. “The children are knocked out, and so are the tour group passengers — they’re all asleep. Damn it, that whole group was Japanese, jabbering away in that bird-language all day — at least it’s quiet now.”

“Move them toward the center of the cabin, away from the windows. Have Da Fei and Hong Hong keep a close watch — especially on the children, don’t let anything go wrong.” Shen Qiangwei tossed the human-skin mask into the sea. She looked at the porcelain vial in her hand, and the corner of her mouth curved upward. “Who is the true orthodox lineage of arts practitioners — after tonight, the answer will be clear.”

“That’s right! It’s long past time to show those people who look down on our Single Page Monastery that they need to wake up! By history, by background, by strength — which of them can compare? The most arrogant of the lot is that pack of Bai Family brats, actually saying our Single Page Monastery is ‘past its prime’ — what a nerve! Let them all see the true power of our Single Page Monastery, and shut every one of their mouths!” Xiao Wu fumed.

Shen Qiangwei smiled, gazing at the unfathomable depths of the water beneath her feet. She set the porcelain vial in the flat of her palm, murmured several lines of incantation, then flung the vial forward into the air — where it spun through the darkness, and then stopped, suspended in midair.

“Emerge!” She pressed a finger to her lips and let out a sharp command. The porcelain vial instantly shattered into four or five pieces, and the crimson blood held within scattered into the air in a dense, fine rain of red droplets, every last one falling into the sea below.

Shen Qiangwei lowered her hand with satisfaction, then sat cross-legged at the prow and closed her eyes to rest.

About an hour later, everyone still awake on the ship suddenly felt an abnormal vibration — starting weak and growing strong, rising from beneath the hull.

The vessel, which had been steady, began rocking violently from side to side. Far below the water, enormous black shapes closed in from all directions, converging on the isolated and defenseless Black Pearl. The smell of something raw and rank thickened in the air until it was nauseating; Xiao Wu held his breath and endured it with great difficulty.

Then the silent sea seemed to explode open. An immense wall of water erupted upward — dozens of meters high. Rising with it was a creature like a giant serpent, its blood-red eyes larger than car headlights, its gaping mouth exhaling a fetid black vapor. Two rows of silver fangs gleamed in the darkness, jagged and fearsome as a saw blade. And this was not the only such thing — the surging walls of water multiplied, joining together until they formed a single towering tidal surge.

Shen Qiangwei’s expression shifted slightly.

Xiao Wu’s jaw dropped. He stammered: “H-how are they so big?!”

“Move!” Shen Qiangwei cried out, leaping to her feet and drawing her sword with the speed of lightning.

On the other side of the ship, some twenty Single Page Monastery disciples disguised as tourists executed the plan: they activated their flying arts, launched into the air, and began chanting their incantations. From the air they unfurled the Monastery’s greatest treasure — the Purple Aureate Star-Quenched Net, used specifically to bind monsters. Seen from a distance, that enormous net with its drifting purple mist and flashing crystalline light resembled a man-made sky full of stars — beautiful and awe-inspiring in equal measure. It bore down on the serpentine creatures below with the swiftness of thunder.

Shen Qiangwei stood sword in hand at the highest point, her cold gaze watching the arrogant, wicked, base monsters being crushed into the water by her net, thrashing and writhing helplessly within. The glittering points of light within the net were no mere decoration — they were six-faceted white gold blades, refined by the secret arts of the Single Page Monastery. Once a monster entered the net, the harder it struggled the tighter the net drew, and these six-faceted blades, imbued with incantations, would sink like fangs deep into their bodies, weakening their monster energy and stripping away their power to resist.

Watching the scene unfold before her, Shen Qiangwei’s heart gradually settled. Although these jiao, drawn here by the blood of children, looked strange and differed from what she had anticipated, they still did not appear particularly difficult to subdue.

She had placed such a large wager on this — all to make those people who thought too highly of themselves, who looked down on the Single Page Monastery, bow their heads in defeat.

Among all monsters, jiao are unquestionably the most fearsome and cunning. For an arts practitioner who fights monsters, slaying even a single jiao in one’s lifetime is counted a supreme honor. And to date, no faction of arts practitioners had ever eliminated so many jiao in a single night. This was partly because jiao normally lurk in deep water, prefer solitary existence, and are almost impossible to track or pursue. It was also because a jiao’s strength far surpasses that of ordinary monsters — for they are the closest thing to true dragons.

Shen Qiangwei watched the net draw tighter and tighter, watched those seven or eight struggling prizes within it, and smiled.

Inside the cabin, Da Fei and Hong Hong were riveted on the battle outside between their senior brothers and sisters and the jiao. They failed to notice that the Japanese passengers they had assumed were fast asleep had quietly opened their eyes, and a shriveled old woman among them had allowed a peculiar smile to cross her face.

Only the group of children remained — nestled against each other, sleeping soundly and deeply…

Part 6

Deep underwater, Bu Dong gripped Zuo Zhanyan and used his unique ability to part all resistance, swimming at top speed.

The task Zuo Zhanyan had asked of him was simple: serve as his free underwater propulsion system, and push forward as fast as possible.

But Zuo Zhanyan’s injuries had not healed well, and though he had swallowed a Water-Repelling Pearl, this extreme exertion was taking a severe toll on him — his chest felt as though a boulder were crushing him, slowly pressing the life out of him.

“I can slow down a little,” Bu Dong said, glancing at him. His color was not much better than a corpse’s.

Zuo Zhanyan had told Bu Dong there was a task he needed him to help with — yet even now he had not revealed what it was. By the time they had raced to the harbor of that city in their car, it was already nightfall. Every ship that should have returned had come back — all except the Black Pearl. A few police vehicles sat nearby, their lights flashing silently.

He stood at the harbor in silence for half a minute, seeming to make an important decision, then grabbed Bu Dong and jumped into the water, demanding Bu Dong use maximum speed to help him catch the Black Pearl.

Bu Dong had said: I have no idea where the ship is. Zuo Zhanyan had said: wherever the smell of jiao is, that is our direction.

If Shen Qiangwei and her people had succeeded, they should already be on their way back by now — that was what Zuo Zhanyan told himself, yet even now he had seen no sign of any triumphant return.

They swam all the way out of the inland river and into the open sea. Bu Dong’s nostrils caught something strange and familiar — growing stronger by the moment.

“When we were at the harbor, I saw the police,” Bu Dong said suddenly. “I also heard the parents who had followed saying, all the way, that their children had boarded the Black Pearl. The way you rushed after it…” He rolled his eyes with a mischievous grin. “Don’t tell me one of your kids is on that ship? My, my — such a young father.”

“Don’t toy with me. Especially not now.” Zuo Zhanyan said coldly.

“Oh, don’t be so thin-skinned — if someone says a few words and you’re unhappy, that’s really not becoming.” Bu Dong smiled, then abruptly shifted his tone: “Or is it that you want to make amends for something?”

Make amends? Is he truly that good-natured?

Three days ago, in the morning, he was eating noodles in his room that never saw sunlight — his life these days basically ran in reverse: sleeping in the daytime, catching monsters at night. But that morning he’d woken very early — more accurately, he hadn’t slept at all.

The door opened and Shen Qiangwei walked in. “The child died,” she said.

His chopsticks paused, then continued moving.

“Good appetite,” Shen Qiangwei said. She turned to leave, then turned back. “You should go. From now on, you have no connection to the Single Page Monastery. You know the order the Master left behind — ‘let all rise to punish him.’ I don’t want to do that, and I don’t want to put you in my path. The Single Page Monastery is already battered from every side — I can’t afford to hand those who want to take us down an excuse to do so, all because of your mistake.”

He finished his noodles slowly, then lay back down on his bed, took up a mirror, and looked at his own reflection — and kept looking, until the sky went dark.

“Uncle, save me… waaah!”

The night before last, he had driven that centipede spirit to the top floor of an abandoned building. It used the child’s life to bargain for its own — if he didn’t agree, it would throw the child from several dozen meters up and take them both down together. He refused. But he had believed he could still save the child. This wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened by a monster using a hostage; he had always handled such situations well.

His Peach Capital Sword drove forward into the monster. The centipede spirit turned to ash. And the five-year-old child fell from the building.

He lunged to catch the child — but a sudden gust of strange wind stirred up the venomous dust left behind by the centipede spirit, filling his eyes. For one-thousandth of a second, he missed his mark. The child fell from above and struck a pile of hard construction materials.

He sent the child to the hospital, then slipped quietly away, his clothes soaked red with the child’s blood. If you still have a single breath left, please keep living, he stood far from the hospital and said it silently to himself.

Upon returning, Shen Qiangwei saw the blood on him. He did not conceal what had just happened, only asked Shen Qiangwei to send someone to check on the child at the hospital the following day.

Uncle, save me… The child’s terrified face seemed to be frozen in the mirror. He pushed the mirror aside, got up, and as he had always done, took only his sword and his incense burner, and walked out of the Tianfang Building — for the Single Page Monastery long ago ceased to exist in the form of a Daoist temple; now it was hidden in the top floor of this fifty-story building, continuing its mission in secret, outwardly resembling an ordinary household.

As he left, he saw Shen Qiangwei trying on her human-skin mask. She practiced smiling at her own reflection: “Good morning, students!”

“You’re taking too great a gamble,” he said, watching her in the mirror.

“If you have time to talk nonsense at me, you’d do better to find a way to comfort that child’s parents. The phrase ‘heartbroken beyond all comfort’ — I suppose it’s something a person like you, Senior Brother, will never truly understand. Heh. Last time I’ll ever call you Senior Brother. Goodbye, I won’t see you out.” Shen Qiangwei turned back to her mirror, continuing to rehearse how to be “Teacher Guo.”

He said nothing, and walked out the door.

Watching his retreating figure, Shen Qiangwei let out a breath of relief. “Finally, that’s clean,” she said. Her only concern was her grand plan.

Jiao most love to eat human flesh — especially that of small children. With forty children as bait, enough jiao would come to her. When the time came, she would sail the ship to a remote location in another province, draw fresh blood from the children and cast it into the water, then use her incantation arts to spread the children’s uniquely tender “scent” wider and wider through the sea…

If they couldn’t be hunted down one by one, then she would lure them all into her trap.

Many arts practitioners wanted to deal with jiao — but Shen Qiangwei believed no one could match her own boldness. To win big, one had to place a large bet.

Shen Qiangwei felt everything was perfect, and she was fully confident: the children she had “borrowed” would be returned without a scratch.

Only one night was needed. In one night, Shen Qiangwei would make a name for herself — and after that, who would dare look down on the Single Page Monastery?

The strange smell in the seawater grew stronger and stronger. Zuo Zhanyan pressed a hand to his chest, his color growing even more pale.

“Almost there — just hold on a bit longer.” Bu Dong glanced at him. “Would you like me to sing a little tune to ease the tension? My favorite song is ‘Flower-Good-Moon-Round’!”

“No — at that rate I’d probably die faster.” Zuo Zhanyan said sharply.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a powerful explosion sounded from the water’s surface above them. Bu Dong swam rapidly upward, and by the scattered firelight dancing across the sea, they dimly made out the outline of a ship.

Part 7

The situation had spun entirely beyond her control — this was something Shen Qiangwei had never imagined.

The porcelain vial had contained not only the children’s blood, but also talismans meant to weaken monster energy. Even formidable creatures like jiao, once they absorbed human blood imbued with this incantation power, would have their strength diminished. This was Shen Qiangwei’s insurance policy — to maximize her chances of victory.

But the reality was the precise opposite. Not only had the blood failed to weaken the jiao’s power, it appeared to have made them stronger. When she watched these supposedly easy targets suddenly turn the tables and tear apart the supposedly invincible Purple Aureate Star-Quenched Net with ease, she — who had never known defeat, who was always composed — tasted panic for the first time.

Free of restraint, the jiao opened their vast jaws and lunged at the humans who had lured them here. Now it was not only appetite driving them — there was also the fury of having been attacked.

Shen Qiangwei brandished her sword, leading the Single Page Monastery disciples in weaving and darting through the swarm of jiao. The sea had become a battlefield — flames from talisman paper, blood spraying from wounds, soaring walls of water — all closing in tightly around the Black Pearl, the ship’s hull rocking so violently it could capsize at any moment.

Da Fei and Hong Hong, seeing that Shen Qiangwei and the others were losing ground — and that several of their fellow disciples had already been swallowed by jiao — abandoned the children altogether and rushed out to help.

“President, should we intervene? I can see they won’t be able to hold out much longer.” The middle-aged man peeled off his fake white moustache, watching the fighting outside the ship, and addressed the shriveled old woman.

“No. Our purpose in coming this time was only to perform the final cleanup work.” The old woman spoke languidly, then glanced at the children in front of them. “Think about it — if something happens to those children, the Single Page Monastery people, even if they aren’t eaten by the jiao, will probably have to take their own lives in atonement when they return. If you dare take such reckless risks with human lives, you must be prepared to bear every consequence. Even the parents alone, setting aside the other arts practitioners — how will they deal with someone like this, who acts as an executioner without heed for others?”

“What the President means is…” The middle-aged man looked at the innocent children.

“We watch.” The old woman smiled.

Outside, seven jiao in total had come. After a fierce battle, the Single Page Monastery disciples were dead or injured in great numbers, while the jiao had sustained only minor wounds.

Very soon, Shen Qiangwei — exhausted to her limits and gravely wounded — had no choice but to retreat into the cabin. What met her eyes was Xiao Wu — whom she trusted most in ordinary times — emerging from some corner in a panic, scrambling to cower before the old woman, and pleading in terror: “President Chiba, please, I beg you to save us! Those jiao have gone mad! They’ll eat everyone!”

The old woman patted his head as one might pet a loyal dog, and replied in fluent Chinese: “You are our most valuable contributor — you won’t be eaten.”

“Xiao Wu, what do you think you’re doing?!” Shen Qiangwei pressed her hand to the wound on her arm and asked in shock.

“He is a clever person who knows how to look out for himself.” The old woman looked at Shen Qiangwei with a smile, her face a mass of wrinkles — like a dried chrysanthemum. “If not for him switching out your porcelain vial, these jiao might already have been your trophies.” Shen Qiangwei felt as though she’d been struck by five bolts of lightning at once.

“We added a secret ingredient to the vial — something that increases a monster’s strength. These jiao weren’t originally this powerful. Heh heh — the ingredient should maintain its effect for about ten hours.” The old woman looked at the time. “Miss Shen had better use that time to think about how to survive. Though let me give you a little reminder: those children probably won’t escape with their lives. If you make it back alive, that may be more trouble for you than dying here. Setting aside the children’s parents — how will your fellow righteous practitioners deal with you, a reckless butcher who placed innocent lives on the line without a second thought?”

“Who are you? Why have you used such a poisonous scheme to trap us?!” Shen Qiangwei, every trace of her usual composure gone, shrieked and lunged at Xiao Wu and the old woman — only to be seized and pinned by the old woman’s subordinates.

“Take her with us. Many people are waiting for her to answer for herself.” The old woman said to the middle-aged man: “Inform Tanaka to come collect us in one hour. This show is nearly over.”

“President Chiba, you promised me! I joined the Chiba Society and did this whole thing for you — and in return you would support me as the head of the Single Page Monastery!” Xiao Wu clutched the old woman’s legs, snot and tears streaming down his face.

“Of course — you’re the eyewitness to everything. I’ll naturally bring you along, as long as you behave and do as we agreed.” The old woman rose to her feet. Facing the monsters outside the ship, she showed not the faintest trace of fear. Her subordinates around her were equally composed — as though they knew with certainty that the jiao could not harm them.

Before the words had fully faded, a figure flashed into the cabin like a bolt of electricity — moving at inhuman speed with inhuman agility. One sword thrust wounded the two men restraining Shen Qiangwei, and he pulled her to the side.

“My, my — and who might this be?” The old woman regarded the dripping-wet Zuo Zhanyan with curiosity.

“S-Senior… Senior Brother?!” Shen Qiangwei stared at this man — the one she had never truly acknowledged, the one she had personally driven away — in shock and burning shame.

“Zuo Zhanyan, of the Single Page Monastery.” He answered calmly.

“You are also of the Single Page Monastery? Your name doesn’t seem to appear in their records.” The old woman smiled, then her expression abruptly darkened. “But it makes no difference how many more come.”

At that moment, there came a tremendous crash — several jiao outside slammed their massive tails hard against the hull. The glass of the cabin shattered instantly. Then this ship of steel and iron, in the face of these jiao, split into two utterly helpless pieces. Everyone inside was flung into the water, and the sleeping children sank one by one like sandbags below the surface.

Catching sight of the prey they most craved, the jiao surged hungrily toward the children. The fastest of them had already opened its enormous mouth before one child’s face — in another instant it would have swallowed the child whole.

At the last possible second, an enormous white shape streaked in like lightning — a great white jiao tail slammed into the gluttonous creature, then swept around and flung it away into the distance. Before the remaining jiao could register what had happened, this uninvited intruder did the same to each of them in turn, hurling them far from the children.

Everyone still conscious was stunned — they saw clearly: an immense white jiao, its body at least five times the size of any of the others. Every white scale across its body shimmered with a strange radiance, shifting through five colors in constant variation. Though its head bore no magnificent sweeping horns like a true dragon’s, at a first glance it was nearly indistinguishable from the legendary divine dragon itself. The vigorous, overpowering energy that radiated from every inch of it was nothing like that of those creatures who had bared their ferocity merely in pursuit of a meal.

“This…” The old woman pressed her hand to her mouth, and a string of water bubbles escaped.

First shock, then panic — everyone scrambled for the surface at once. The jiao did not seem willing to relinquish their food; they suddenly joined forces and together launched an assault on the white jiao. Zuo Zhanyan, sustained by the power of his Water-Repelling Pearl, remained underwater, grabbing two children — one in each hand — and moving to pull them upward.

One of the seven jiao saw him trying to take the children and broke from the fighting circle, attacking Zuo Zhanyan in a fury. Forced to release the children, Zuo Zhanyan raised his sword to meet the enemy.

The white jiao was large, but fending off seven jiao simultaneously — each of them artificially strengthened — left it momentarily overwhelmed. One jiao spotted an opening and suddenly abandoned its companions, charging toward the children. It picked a chubby boy at random and bit down. Only to get a mouthful of seawater, which set its teeth jangling.

When it looked up again in confusion, all forty children had been enclosed — without exception — in an enormous air bubble. An enormous old turtle and a figure resembling a water wraith were dragging that bubble away at top speed.

The jiao who had lost its meal roared in fury and moved to give chase — but before it could take a step, a whirlpool caught it and sent it spinning, dropping it straight into the white jiao’s open mouth. The white jiao shook its head and bit down hard, and the creature inside was split cleanly in two, sliding down into its belly.

These jiao had come in eager anticipation of a meal — and yet, in the end, it was they who had become someone else’s food.

The white jiao seemed to have poured out every last ounce of its strength. In one continuous surge of effort, it swallowed all seven defeated opponents, bones and all, without so much as spitting.

Zuo Zhanyan held his sword and stared at it, stunned.

“I ate too much — I’m a bit full. Going up to get some exercise.” The white jiao suddenly spoke, bared its great teeth in a grin at him, then launched itself toward the surface.

Part 8

On the surface of the sea, the old woman and her subordinates were swimming as hard as they could, Xiao Wu close on their heels, terrified of being left behind. Shen Qiangwei endured her pain, drifting up and down in the water, trying to push forward — but her strength failed her.

A speedboat came from ahead. The old woman sighed in relief.

But before it could draw near, the speedboat suddenly left the water’s surface, smashed apart by a white jiao tail.

The old woman jolted — then erupted in fury. The white jiao surfaced, raising half its body out of the sea, and regarded these people with an expression that was almost amused.

Those people screamed and fled, flailing in the water like dumplings tumbling into a pot. Only the old woman managed to hold herself steady, locking eyes with the white jiao.

“You are not arts practitioners from China. What business do you have making trouble in a place that is not yours?” The white jiao spoke.

The old woman had seen enough of the world to summon her composure — she forced herself to tilt her chin up and called out: “We were only here out of good will, to help clean up your house!”

“Our own affairs, we settle behind closed doors ourselves — we need no outside help.” The white jiao suddenly dipped its belly low, pressing its face close to the old woman’s. “The arts you use were passed down from China — yet you don’t drink from the source that gave you life. Instead you constantly scheme to stir up trouble, always coveting what belongs to others. That is extremely tiresome!”

“Hah — and what kind of people do China’s arts practitioners amount to? You saw it yourself just now, didn’t you? But I’ll tell you this: one of the founders of our Chiba School was the Chinese master A Huan. Her dying wish was to sweep away every one of you useless people! This world should be led by the truly strong!” The old woman trembled from head to toe, but refused to bow her head.

The white jiao blinked, then laughed heartily, and bent low to murmur into her ear: “Those who cannot accommodate others have no right to claim strength.”

“What did you say?” The old woman’s eyes went wide.

“Don’t worry about it if you can’t understand — I can’t be bothered to play music to a cow.”

The white jiao then dove back into the water. When it surfaced again, both Zuo Zhanyan and Shen Qiangwei were riding on its back. It turned its head toward Zuo Zhanyan: “Split your Water-Repelling Pearl and give half to this girl — otherwise she won’t make it back without drowning.”

Shen Qiangwei had been soaking in seawater far too long, her wounds steadily bleeding, and she was drifting in and out of consciousness, murmuring faintly: “Those children… save… save them…”

Zuo Zhanyan’s expression was complicated as he looked at Shen Qiangwei. He reached into his mouth, retrieved a thumb-sized jade-blue pearl, broke it in half, and placed one half between her lips.

“Hold on tight.”

The white jiao glanced at Zuo Zhanyan and was about to plunge back into the water — when Xiao Wu blocked its path, begging desperately: “Please! Take me with you! Those Japanese people forced me into it! If I didn’t do what they said, they were going to chop off my hands and feet! Boss, I was wrong! I don’t want to stay here — I’ve heard this area of sea has man-eating sharks! With all the blood spilled here, it’s going to draw them in!”

The white jiao smiled and shook its head. “Since ancient times, I have never feared a foreign enemy. What I detest most is a traitor from within. Float around here for a while.”

Then it addressed the Chiba School followers loudly: “Ladies and gentlemen — I must be on my way. Though your bodies have been rubbed with the dragon blood that jiao find most repellent, and those creatures cannot touch you — I believe sharks don’t share that aversion to dragon blood.”

Still laughing, the white jiao arched its body and dove below the surface of the sea, and did not come back up.

“Monster! Monster! The Chiba School will not let this go!” The old woman hammered the sea in furious rage, then screamed at her subordinates: “Find a way to shore — now!”

“P-P-President…” One of them, stuttering, pointed ahead, their face contorting in horror.

The sky had begun to lighten. In the cold dawn, several sharp triangular shapes cut through the surface of the water, closing in fast on the group stranded in the sea…

Part 9

Inside the Crystal Palace, Du Shinian jabbed Bu Dong on the head and berated him: “You reckless, thoughtless thing — I told you not to bring that Daoist back, and you wouldn’t listen. Look at the mountain of trouble it caused! If I and Old Chen hadn’t refused to abandon you, and come after you all the way out to the sea through every hardship imaginable, not one of those children would have survived!”

“Heh heh — that’s exactly why I’m so lucky to have you.” Bu Dong apologized with a wide smile, gesturing to his blue coral chair. “I know you’ve always liked this chair — I’m giving it to you. From now on, you can sit in it and play your pipa.”

Du Shinian startled: “Well now — since when did you become so generous?”

Bu Dong smiled, said nothing, then suddenly stepped forward and pulled Du Shinian into his arms, holding her firmly. He said: “All these years, having you sing and play music in the Crystal Palace has brought such joy. If one day you have the chance to be reborn as a human, remember — don’t throw yourself in the river for any worthless man ever again. Be able to hold happiness, and hold sorrow too. Only then will flowers bloom fair and the moon be full.”

Du Shinian stood motionless in his embrace, head full of question marks. That piece — Flowers Bloom Fair, Moon is Full — was something she had heard a female singer on the shore perform many years ago, and she had come back and sung it for them. Bu Dong loved it beyond all reason, saying the song was wonderful, that listening to it made one’s heart peaceful and content. He had even pestered her to teach him to sing it, and they had been singing it together for many years since. Strange — what was wrong with this fellow today?

Nearby, the children floated comfortably inside the large air bubble Old Chen had fashioned for them, breathing steadily, still sleeping soundly.

Bu Dong released Du Shinian, then said to Old Chen: “I’ll take them to shore. In a few more hours they’ll probably be waking up.”

“Oh — all right.” Old Chen’s expression was a little off. He handed one end of the bubble to Bu Dong, yet couldn’t bring himself to let go of it either, and the two engaged in an odd standoff.

“Old Chen, I need to leave!” He caught Old Chen’s eye. “We’ve known each other for a thousand years, living side by side every single day — surely you can let me go now! Release!”

Old Chen pursed his lips, and finally let go. The man who so rarely lost his temper said loudly: “Go on then, go!” He then turned his back and silently wiped his eyes. A faint air of sorrow settled over the Crystal Palace.

From the moment the white jiao had brought him back to the Crystal Palace to the moment he watched it transform into Bu Dong, Zuo Zhanyan had not said a word — his puzzled gaze never leaving Bu Dong.

“This girl I’ll leave to your care. Send her ashore once her wounds have healed enough.” Bu Dong glanced at Shen Qiangwei, who lay in the large clamshell. By now she had regained some consciousness; Old Chen’s private medicinal preparation was applied to her wounds.

Du Shinian let out a disdainful sniff. As it goes — what monster would ever feel warmly toward a Daoist? These people always waved the banner of righteousness and killed monsters on sight, with no regard for whether they were good or evil.

“No — I want to go back.” Shen Qiangwei was clearly quite uncomfortable here. For one whose calling was to slay monsters to have been rescued by monsters — it was a debt she had no desire to carry.

“Feeling very unsettled, aren’t you?” Bu Dong watched her face and smiled. “No need to be. The creatures before you are the ones you once found most intolerable. Now you have plenty of time to think: was your inability to tolerate them because they truly deserved to die, or was it really the comments and judgments of others about you and the entire Single Page Monastery that you couldn’t tolerate? Once you’ve thought it through, you won’t feel unsettled anymore.”

Shen Qiangwei’s mouth fell slightly open. She had nothing to say.

“I’m off — take care of yourselves.” He waved to everyone, dragged the enormous bubble behind him like a playful child with a balloon, and went away in high spirits.

Part 10

This early-summer evening, the setting sun was like blush on a young woman’s cheeks — faint and yet delicate — scattered across the water’s surface in a particularly lovely way.

The newly built tower was the tallest structure on the riverbank. An enormous neon advertisement billboard stood on the rooftop, and every evening at dusk it lit up — promoting a real estate development called Flowers Bloom Fair, Moon is Full.

Bu Dong sat on the billboard, smiling contentedly down at the river he had lived beside for countless years.

“You’ve been standing there so long — aren’t you tired? Come sit down.” He patted the empty space beside him. Zuo Zhanyan frowned, then sat down next to him.

“You’ve been following me the whole way without saying a word — exhausting, isn’t it? Being alive, one should at least seek to feel light and happy.” Bu Dong clapped him on the shoulder and went on enjoying the wide, beautiful world beneath his feet.

Zuo Zhanyan held back for a long while, then finally spoke: “You are a Wang Jiao.”

Bu Dong’s eyes shifted. He turned his head and looked at Zuo Zhanyan’s serious face, then smiled. “That’s right. I’m a Wang Jiao. Other than Old Chen, you’re the second person to know. Though if your junior sister is sufficiently knowledgeable in her craft, she ought to know by now as well.”

“‘A jiao that devours a dragon becomes a Jie Dragon. A Jie Dragon, entering the world, will be a sovereign — in nature decisive, heavy with hostility, born to bring forth an era of chaos. In death, it reverts to jiao form, but lives on in human form and is called a Wang Jiao. If it manifests its true body once more, it will dissolve into ash, spirit and soul both annihilated.'” Zuo Zhanyan recited word by word what he had read in an ancient text, then fell silent for a long moment. “You know what will happen if you manifest your true body again.”

“A very long time ago, I also sat with someone in a high place like this — facing a setting sun.” Bu Dong didn’t take up the thread of his words; his smile seemed to sink into the last smear of crimson across the sky. “That person was also surnamed Zuo. Her name was Zuo Yan. She was a beautiful woman.”

Though his years were many, his memory was still quite good — especially that distant evening.

That day, the place where they sat was the rooftop of a palace. Below, chaos reigned — human voices, the flash of blades — a disorder like a pot brought to a furious boil.

“Yuwen Huaji and his men have already broken in.” She looked down at what lay beneath them.

“It was only a matter of time.” He was not the least bit worried — and could even still smile. “They could not bear a person stronger than themselves.”

He had eaten a dragon — but truly, if the dragon had not been trying to eat him first, he would never have struck back. He was a most unusual jiao: he did things he enjoyed, without caring what anyone thought of him, living in freedom. Even after becoming a Jie Dragon — transformed into human form, entering the mortal world to become an emperor — his nature had not changed. In these forty-nine years, he had relocated the capital to Luoyang, built the Grand Canal — all to stabilize the four corners of the realm, to bring prosperity and richness to the land, so the people could live in peace and contentment. Yet numerous courtiers had condemned him for it, calling him profligate and a squanderer of the people’s labor. He had launched three campaigns against Goguryeo — only because they had “as subjects shown no respect,” repeatedly harassing his borders, and if national prestige was not upheld, foreign peoples would inevitably grow increasingly presumptuous. Yet he was once again burdened with the label of a man who craved vainglory.

“You wanted to do too many things. Those people couldn’t keep up with you, so they destroyed you.” She sighed. “What a pity that the situation is beyond reversing now. All under heaven can no longer contain you.”

“If I can contain myself, that is enough,” he said with a great laugh. “I didn’t do these things for anyone’s praise or censure — only because I believed they were right. Seeing the land grow more and more prosperous, seeing the common people no longer tormented by flood and drought, seeing foreign enemies no longer daring to provoke us — I am happy. Even if they call me a ruinous tyrant, blacken my name until I’m worth not a single coin — it doesn’t affect my spirits in the slightest.”

“Heh — I really don’t know what to say about you.” She shook her head with a light laugh. “No wonder you live without a care in the world.”

Their relationship should, by rights, have been that of mortal enemies. She was a descendant of Zuo Ci, and bore the mission of slaying demons and monsters through every generation. She knew this emperor was no ordinary person — he was a Jie Dragon, born from a jiao, the very embodiment of evil and savagery. Destroying him was her “duty.” And yet, absurdly, the more she circled around him over nearly ten years, the more familiar she became with him — and the more she felt that what others called “evil” was nothing more than the boldness to disregard idle talk and the courage to act on decisions. This man lived more freely than anyone. He also knew that his actions had cost many lives; he never evaded these failings. He had told her: this life of his was on loan from her, and when the time came, he would personally notify her to collect.

Today, he had summoned her.

“In forty-nine years in this world, I have seen far too much of the power of collective slander — of how many people waste their time and their peace of mind on what others think and say of them, spending every waking moment wondering how to earn a good name. Doing good only when others can see it — and not doing it when they cannot — what a joyless way to live.” He stretched out a lazy arm and turned to look at her face. His fingers brushed the brows she had slightly furrowed. “From the day I first knew you until now, those brows of yours have rarely uncreased. A woman like that — really not very beautiful.”

“Peh!” She struck him a solid blow. “Everyone of the Zuo Family, man or woman, is naturally beautiful.”

As she said it, a tender expression settled on her face. She stroked her own abdomen gently and murmured: “You too will be beautiful.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “This child — their fate in this life will not be easy. Perhaps they will be even less content than their mother. If one day you happen to cross paths, perhaps you could become a friend to them across generations.”

“Ha ha — you’re not afraid I’ll lead them astray?” He laughed, but his expression gradually quieted. “The child’s father — he hasn’t already been…”

“I am of the Zuo Family; he is a monster. We cannot coexist, and if I did not slay him, the Zuo Family’s reputation would not survive.” She pressed her lips tight, her face a pale desolation. “I wished for flowers to bloom fair and the moon to be full — yet the flowers have fallen and the moon is broken.”

He let out a long sigh.

“I have already chosen a name for the child.” Gradually, the crease between her brows eased. “Whether boy or girl, the name is Zhanyan — Unfolded Countenance. And I will carve this name into the Peach Capital Sword.”

“So be it.” He looked at the last sliver of light in the distance, then looked at those below who were searching the palace for him. He smiled, then suddenly drew her sword from its sheath and drove it into his own heart. This man — whom others called a ruinous emperor — slowly fell. A white mist seeped out from his body, and in front of her, it slowly took shape — a young man of striking appearance.

The young man looked himself over, and smiled at her. “With this emperor’s body dead, I become a Wang Jiao. You should decide now — if you want to cut me down, this is your only chance. I said this life is kept in your hands: if you strike now, I will not resist.”

She gripped her sword tight — this same sword that had once rested at his throat and nearly taken his life.

He saw no movement from her, and smiled again: “Haven’t you been waiting for this day all along? Once I leave, finding me again will be nearly impossible.”

“Go.” She turned her back. “I have never been able to think of a reason to cut you down.”

“Then I’ll go — take care of yourself.” He rose into the air with ease, plunged into the nearest river without the slightest hesitation or longing. He had always been a monster who lived in absolute freedom.

In the palace, his former body was found by the rebel army, drunk on blood. To simply let this tyrant die by his own hand seemed too generous — so they fetched a length of white silk and “hanged” the already-dead body once more, then declared triumphantly to all under heaven that the tyrant was slain and the land at peace.

From that day forward, who was tyrant and who was hero — no one could ever say with clarity again.

Part 11

Zuo Zhanyan realized there was something cold on his face. He touched it — nothing but tears.

“When you fought that green jiao to the death, your true goal wasn’t to defeat it — you wanted to die.” Bu Dong suddenly reached out and touched the back of Zuo Zhanyan’s neck. There, hidden beneath his hair and buried in the flesh, lay a faint two-inch thread of dark red — a hidden gill. “Your father was also a jiao. You could have breathed through this hidden gill while underwater. But when you fought the green jiao, you chose to permanently seal it — you plainly had no intention of coming back alive.”

Zuo Zhanyan said nothing for a while, then said: “I owe an innocent child a life.”

“You simply cannot contain yourself.” Bu Dong smiled. “You’re like your mother — like so many people I have known. Always living inside other people’s eyes and other people’s mouths. Do you remember the question I asked Shen Qiangwei as I was leaving?”

Zuo Zhanyan remembered it perfectly. His memory was too good — and this was no blessing; the things he wished to forget, he never could.

He was the child of a human and a monster. His mother was of the most distinguished Zuo lineage among arts practitioners — their ancestor Zuo Ci had possessed extraordinary mastery of the Daoist arts: he had playfully outwitted Cao Cao over a cup of wine, retrieved a dragon’s liver from a thousand li away, and passed down the Peach Capital Sword through every generation for slaying demons and monsters. But his father was a jiao — transformed into a handsome scholar, and he and his mother had fallen instantly for one another.

At ten years old, his mother sent him to the Single Page Monastery. She put her Peach Capital Sword in his hands and told him: as long as you walk steadily as a Daoist who subdues demons, as long as all people call you a righteous hero, as long as you forget the other half of what you are — this world will be able to contain you.

Is that true? he had asked his mother with a child’s innocent earnestness. For those ten years, his mother had concealed his identity before everyone, saying only that he was a distant relative of the Zuo Family. He asked why, and she said: for the sake of the Zuo Family’s reputation over a thousand years. The old Daoist called Single Page was his mother’s old acquaintance, and in the end she entrusted him to this old man’s care. From then on, he was of the Single Page Monastery.

Then he never saw his mother again. The old Daoist Single Page told him that the year after she sent him away, she died dealing with a white tiger spirit.

That could not have been beyond his mother’s abilities. He could not make sense of it.

The old Daoist had said: perhaps she was simply weary. In all those years, she had not known a single day of happiness. Once he had not understood this; now he understood everything — because the road he walked was identical to his mother’s.

The old Daoist Single Page had known his origins, but had still treated him well — teaching him arts, teaching him principles, teaching him to be a hero to the world.

Zhanyan — you are different from others; you know this. There is monster blood in your veins. When an ordinary person makes a mistake, people will forgive them and give them a chance to reform. But you — once you make a single error, people will say your demonic nature has never been purged, and they will certainly come for you. You must become a man more outstanding than all others, and prove through your actions that you stand in absolute opposition to monsters. Only in this way can you live in peace. You have a thousand years of lifespan and an ageless face — how to conduct yourself, think carefully.

The words the old Daoist had spoken to him then — he could still hear them, as though spoken only moments ago.

He had followed them. Was it not what his mother had hoped for as well?

Only when others said he was good did he have the right to exist in this world. He killed monsters — not because monsters themselves were so despicable — only because he wanted the praise of others, to prove he was a good person and not the demon that all were entitled to destroy.

But having killed so many monsters, having saved so many people — why did that heart remain without joy?

The old Daoist Single Page had treated him well — yet in his dying moments he still issued the order “if he makes one error, let all rise to punish him.” That proved A Huan had been right: the old Daoist had never truly “contained” him. In the old Daoist’s eyes, no matter how many praiseworthy things he did, he was still a monster. The successors who followed were the same — they resented his ability, despised his origins, and in their eyes, he was always a monster incompatible with the righteous path.

He was weary too. After that child’s death because of him, the weariness deepened. Shen Qiangwei wanted to gamble those children’s lives — then let her. He was too tired, and didn’t want to care anymore. No matter how much one does, at the core one is still a monster that the “righteous” spit upon. Look at how Hei Shan had looked at him; look at how Shen Qiangwei looked at him — how laughable.

But suicide — that would damage his reputation too badly. After all, in so many people’s eyes he was a “hero.” A hero committing suicide — people would laugh themselves to death. Better to find another way.

That green jiao’s fearsome reputation and power were known to all, yet no one dared easily challenge it — it was practically a Daoist’s nemesis. But he went. And before going into the water, he permanently sealed the hidden gill on the back of his neck — the one only jiao possess.

This way, people would at least believe he gave his life in a righteous battle. Their praise of him would not change.

But heaven played another trick on him. This monster called Bu Dong appeared at the very instant his life was about to end.

“In truth, I never truly imagined I would encounter Zuo Yan’s son.”

Bu Dong smiled, conjured the incense burner as though from thin air. “The world really is absurdly small!”

Zuo Zhanyan saw the object and went still.

“You saved so many people and still felt no happiness — because you never saved people for the sake of saving them. You confused the purpose, so naturally you could not feel its joy.” He placed the incense burner in Zuo Zhanyan’s hands. “Human or monster alike — one who can only hold praise and cannot hold criticism will not be able to live fully. And beyond holding others, one must hold oneself. You are half monster by nature — that is simply fact. What is there to fear? Can a monster not enjoy life? Can a monster not bring joy to others? Why twist your own path because of how others see you?”

Zuo Zhanyan was quiet for a long while, then asked: “You read the paper balls in this burner?”

“Heh heh — that doesn’t count as prying, does it?” Bu Dong gave a sly smile.

Every paper ball contained a record: how many monsters Zuo Zhanyan had eliminated that year, how many people he had saved, how many people had spoken well of him — and each one ended with the same line: “And yet — still no joy.”

“What will you write in your paper ball this year?” Bu Dong asked with a smile. “It should be better than last year — you see, at the final moment, you still went to save those children. And those children will never know who saved them. They won’t even say a word of thanks to you.”

“If not for you picking up the Peach Capital Sword and mentioning that I was of the Zuo Family…”

“Did that get to you? You were probably thinking: this is a disaster — even here I’ve run into someone who knows me. How can I let this monster know I was trying to die?” Bu Dong mimicked his expression in exaggerated fashion. “Well, since I didn’t die, I might as well go save some people! Forty living children, after all!”

“That’s enough.” Zuo Zhanyan cut him off.

Then he drew a long, slow breath, thought for a long time, and with what seemed like great resolve, said to Bu Dong: “Thank you.”

In the night sky, a silver moon slowly rose, casting its reflection across the water — moonlight and rippling waves shimmering against each other in radiance.

“What a perfectly round moon!” Bu Dong’s eyes shone with a beautiful light. “Countless people in this world — your mother among them — spend their whole lives longing for flowers to bloom fair and the moon to be full, for happiness and joy. The reason they cannot have it isn’t that the moon is too far away. Look — the moon is beautiful, but it’s so vast. If you don’t have a heart with enough capacity, what could you ever hold it in?”

Zuo Zhanyan listened quietly, and smiled.

The string that had been pulled taut inside him — wound so tight it was nearly at breaking point — suddenly went slack. What relief, what ease. Never before had he felt so light and unhurried. The smile that came was entirely unbidden.

The advertisement billboard on the tall building beside the river lit up. The characters Flowers Bloom Fair, Moon is Full flashed in five vivid colors. On the billboard sat two men — one a monster, one half-monster.

“Floating clouds scatter; the bright moon shines upon those who come. Reunited and fulfilled, tonight we are drunk…” Bu Dong hummed, swaying his head — just as he had on his blue coral chair.

Zuo Zhanyan kept soft time with the melody, his eyes fixed on the bright moon, the flowing river, the shimmer of city lights — and he watched until the sky turned pale with dawn.

When the first thread of sunlight pierced through the clouds, only Zuo Zhanyan was left on the billboard. In the space where Bu Dong had sat, there remained only a faint scattering of white dust, glimmering softly.

A Wang Jiao, if it manifests its true body once more, dissolves into ash — spirit and soul annihilated.

In the water below, it seemed as though that divine white jiao swam still before his eyes. Yes — that white jiao, who knew how to smile and speak, who seemed to live without a single care.

Zuo Zhanyan’s face held no particular expression — very calm. He opened the incense burner, and found inside it only one paper ball.

He opened it. In a boldly confident hand: “The evening river lies flat and motionless; spring blossoms spread open in full bloom. The drifting waves will take the moon away; the tidal waters bring the stars along home. Hey — I wrote this back in the day! Zuo Zhanyan, I’ve already burned all those resentful paper balls of yours. If you must write something to drop in here every year, from this year onward — just copy out my poem once a year. Farewell, until we next meet, if we meet at all.”

He crumpled the paper ball back up and dropped it into the incense burner.

Beneath his feet, the world began another busy day.

The missing Black Pearl drifted back on its own at dawn. The man steering it said he’d been knocked unconscious shortly after sailing, and when he came to, the ship was in some inexplicable spot out at sea.

The forty children on board had been delivered — no one knew by whom — to the doorstep of a police station, each one still sleeping. When they woke, every single one was confused, unable to answer a single question. The parents who rushed over wept with joy. A great reunion ending for all.

There was also a piece of news: in some stretch of the outer sea, an unidentified creature had been sighted early that morning — suspected to be man-eating sharks, though the relevant authorities had yet to confirm.

By the time the sun had fully emerged, the billboard was empty — not a single person remained.

Part 12

Before dawn, we returned to Bu Ting as planned.

Shen Qiangwei sat on one side, Zuo Zhanyan on the other. Ao Chi and I seemed to have become invisible — feeling rather superfluous, we left the main hall to them and went to the kitchen to cook some noodles. The newly freed Bowl Qiansui and Young Master Zhao hurried into the kitchen as well, not wanting to be near this female Daoist in case she had another outburst.

“I searched for you for a year, and you avoided me at every turn,” Shen Qiangwei spoke first. “I had no choice but to find your worst enemy and have you dragged out.”

I held my bowl of noodles, crouching outside the main hall wall. Behind me crouched Ao Chi with his own bowl, and behind him — Young Master Zhao, Bowl Qiansui, and Chi Pian’er — all of us enthusiastically eavesdropping through the wall.

“I’d already retreated into a fish pond — why did you have to keep looking?” Zuo Zhanyan sighed.

A crash — Shen Qiangwei threw that sword down in front of Zuo Zhanyan and asked: “You left this sword for me. What did you mean by it?”

“The Peach Capital Sword is a fine weapon. I had no more use for it, so naturally I passed it on to someone who did.” Zuo Zhanyan said. “That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t want it!” Shen Qiangwei shot to her feet, snatched the Peach Capital Sword up, her fair face flushed with indignation.

I thought: this is trouble — just as I feared they’d come to blows, Shen Qiangwei suddenly knelt before him. I choked on my noodles.

“Senior Brother.” She held the sword out toward him. “The Single Page Monastery should be in your hands, not mine. I searched for you by every means available for one reason: for this.”

“Lady Boss!” Zuo Zhanyan didn’t respond to her — instead he suddenly called out to me.

I scrambled out: “What, what? If you’re going to fight, take it outside! Anything broken in my inn is three times the price!”

“Please tell her what I am.” He suddenly made this seemingly strange request.

What was he? When the waves in the fish pond finally settled, I had seen clearly: a black jiao.

“Ah — he’s a jiao.” I looked at Shen Qiangwei. “I guarantee it.”

Shen Qiangwei was stunned, and after a long silence said: “Senior Brother, you…”

“Before, I was desperate to be the kind of person you would recognize as human, terrified of anyone calling me a monster.” Zuo Zhanyan said slowly. “But that fellow spoke well — I have always been half-jiao; that is an unchanging fact. From now on, I don’t want to make any more concealments for the sake of that identity. I am a monster, and an incomplete human, and I accept every view of me — including attack.”

He helped the startled Shen Qiangwei to her feet and said: “The truth of the Black Pearl — I will never mention it to anyone. And I hope you will not make the same mistake again. The inheritor of the Single Page Monastery remains you. But — don’t live for what others think. The Monastery’s purpose is not to compete with fellow practitioners over who is greater and who is lesser. Let people say what they will. We only do what we ought to do.” He placed the Peach Capital Sword back in her hands. “Only with the capacity to hold others can one live well.”

Shen Qiangwei was quiet for a long time, then asked: “Senior Brother — have you truly decided to live as a jiao?”

“Yes.” Zuo Zhanyan nodded. “Moving freely through the water, dealing with water demons that harm people, saving those who have fallen in by accident, singing, practicing Tai Chi with old turtles — these things make me very happy.”

Shen Qiangwei listened and smiled bitterly: “I’m afraid I can’t carry the weight of the Single Page Monastery’s future.”

“You can.” He glanced at me and smiled. “The fact that you were willing to walk into Bu Ting for help is already progress. Would the old you have ever asked a monster for aid? You would sooner die than do that — and then worry about what people would say.”

“Brother, that wasn’t asking for help — that was kidnapping and coercion, in case you forgot.” I rolled my eyes.

“I apologize on her behalf.” Zuo Zhanyan bowed to me.

“Just have her pay the lodging bill and we’re even.” I rolled my eyes again. “You — retreating into a fish pond, what kind of behavior is that!”

“That was no ordinary fish pond — it connects to an underground river that leads to the Crystal Palace. Every time she went to the Crystal Palace looking for me, I’d slip through the underground river into the fish pond. Eventually I just moved in permanently, dropping by to visit Old Chen and Du Shinian from time to time.” Zuo Zhanyan shook his head. “The reason I wouldn’t see her was that I had already given up my human identity. If we met again, I feared putting her in a difficult position.”

“A difficult position! Heh — so many people just love to put themselves in difficult positions.” I continued eating my noodles, chewing and talking at the same time. “No matter what place, no matter what era — the more things and people a person cannot hold, the narrower their world becomes. Narrow enough, and it might just crush them. Only wanting to hear good things, unable to take bad ones, envying those stronger, trampling those weaker. So many life-and-death conflicts in this world — aren’t they all caused by exactly this kind of nonsense? And yet there are people who have a taste for it.”

“I won’t make it difficult.” Shen Qiangwei suddenly smiled. “Senior Brother, I have the answers I came to find.”

With that, she turned to leave — and I grabbed her arm: “Money!!”

“I seem to have forgotten my wallet,” Shen Qiangwei said, entirely unapologetic. “But tree spirit — I can make you a promise, in my capacity as inheritor of the Single Page Monastery: for as long as I live, the Single Page Monastery will never cause the slightest trouble for your Bu Ting. Is that promise worth my lodging?”

The nerve of this woman — trying to pay for lodging with a promise! But thinking about it, if these people kept wandering into Bu Ting to cause trouble, even though I don’t fear them, it does affect my business. Fine — given Shen Qiangwei’s sensitive position, I’ll let her off this once.

“You’re the one who said it. From now on, if a single Daoist shows up within a hundred li of Bu Ting, I will be settling accounts with the Single Page Monastery!” I huffed.

“You — are you being reasonable? Every Daoist in the world belongs to the Single Page Monastery? Who knows what enemies you’ve made!” she shot back.

“Ha, you rotten Daoist — the way you talk is so grating! And you’ve yet to answer for kidnapping my helper! I’m not used to communicating with monsters by normal means! Though I kidnapped him, I meant no harm!”

“Asking someone for help and being this vile about it! No wonder people hide from you! You old tigress!”

“You want a fight, do you?”

“Come on then — outside, one on one.”

Inside Bu Ting — besides me and Shen Qiangwei — everyone else had quietly slipped away.

Epilogue

Outside the gates of Bu Ting, Ao Chi called after Zuo Zhanyan, who was preparing to leave.

“Your Zuo Family ancestor, Zuo Ci — that business of retrieving a dragon’s liver from a thousand li away very nearly brought destruction upon your entire clan.” Ao Chi crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“Is that so?” Zuo Zhanyan looked mildly surprised. “No one ever mentioned that to me.”

“He was goaded by someone’s words, and to prove his ability, he went to the West Sea and slew a young dragon.” Ao Chi’s expression was grave. “He assumed this young dragon was a minor figure among the West Sea Dragon Clan — never knowing it was the West Sea Dragon King’s youngest daughter. The West Sea Dragon King was in a rage and would have killed the entire Zuo clan to vent his fury. It was my grandfather who stopped him. He said misfortune should not befall innocent wives and children, so only Zuo Ci himself was brought in — imprisoned permanently in the West Sea until he died of old age. Your Zuo Family has always been the type least favored by our Dragon Clan. Your Peach Capital Sword — I’ve recognized it since I was young.”

“Ah.” Zuo Zhanyan nodded. “Anything else you want to say to me?”

“The reason the East Sea Dragon Clan has flourished until today is not based solely on our divine power. That’s all.” Ao Chi exhaled, then abruptly changed tack: “Also — thank you for not revealing the embarrassing fact that I passed out from lack of oxygen at the bottom of the fish pond.”

“No need to thank me.” Zuo Zhanyan turned his head and waved a hand. “For the East Sea Dragon Clan to keep flourishing with a physique like yours — that’ll be quite a challenge. You’d do well to get some exercise.”

“You…” Ao Chi’s face went scarlet.

Before he could fly into a rage, Zuo Zhanyan’s figure had already vanished into the alley.

I crouched behind the gate, one hand pressed over my mouth, barely containing the urge to explode with laughter. Even when I’d been sparring with Shen Qiangwei and sent her stomping off with a green face, I hadn’t been this gleeful. Ao Chi is really hopeless — he actually did pass out from oxygen deprivation! Another piece of solid embarrassing evidence!

Wait, hold on — why am I so happy about this? What if he really had drowned? I’d be a widow! No, this won’t do. Starting tomorrow, I absolutely must supervise this fellow’s exercise regimen! Five hundred push-ups a day, five hundred sit-ups — no dinner until they’re done! That’s the plan!

Oh — I nearly forgot something. I stood up, walked back to my room, brewed a cup of Fu Sheng tea, then walked back out and raised the teacup high. The jade-green liquid arced through the air, each droplet catching the early summer sunlight and trailing a rainbow of color. This was for Bu Dong — though we would never have the chance to meet.

I rarely sincerely admire anyone. But for this jiao — who ate a dragon, was an emperor, who had achievements and faults alike, who in the end fell in love with singing Flowers Bloom Fair, Moon is Full — I must give a thumbs up. Not only for his act of self-sacrifice to save others; far more than that, I admire a thousand years of carrying a blackened name while remaining entirely at ease.

Someone else in his place would probably have long since devoured — without leaving a bone — every one of those treacherous officials and historians who distorted the truth and fabricated lies.

He lived his whole life in joy and freedom — because he refused, absolutely, to let himself live inside other people’s eyes and other people’s mouths.

This one — he wrote the word “capacity” beautifully.