Chapter Text
Prologue
(Wéi Yīng)
Wèi Yīng was soon to turn nine when the warning talisman burst into flames.
The room his parents had rented for the night, in an inn not far from the border between the provinces of Ānhuī, Jiāngsu, and Zhejiāng, was plunged in darkness when a red-orange light suddenly illuminated the ceiling he was staring at. He should have been asleep – he often fell asleep at Xū – but that night, sleep eluded him. A deep fear gripped him, the fear of missing the signal and being caught by the men in black.
It had been nearly three years now that they had been hiding from those mysterious men. Three years since they had left their home in Yílíng to flee to Mògōu, the village at the foot of Cháyá Mountain, the sacred mountain of his mother's former master. Three years since they had abandoned everything – their family, their friends, their daily life, their freedom, their entire existence – to escape these men dressed in anthracite-coloured hanfus and beizis, their faces hidden beneath masks of the same colour. Three years since he had last seen his childhood friends, Zhàn-dí and Huàn-gē, or heard any news of them – perhaps they had even forgotten him. Three years they had lived secluded in this self-sufficient village he wasn’t allowed to leave, and where he was beginning to feel he was losing his mind.
He should have been asleep. After all, there was no risk of being discovered, his parents had assured him – they had been extra careful and had never revealed their real names. But deep inside, something kept him awake. His gut was telling him that something terrible was about to happen. Despite his pleas, his parents couldn’t ignore the call for help from Zheng-xiānsheng, the head of the village of Huángwéi where they had stopped for the night, and had gone off on a night hunt. They hadn’t told him anything about this mission, and too angry that they hadn’t listened to his fear, Wèi Yīng hadn’t asked for more details. He hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye – let them go hunt if they wanted to that badly! Before closing the door to the room, they had simply said:
“We won’t be long; you won’t even notice the time pass.”
Yet, he had watched the minutes tick by, one after another. Time had seemed to drag on, so much so that to him this last sichen felt like an eternity. To occupy his mind and stop thinking about what might happen, he had started by reading the latest arithmetic treatise his mother had bought him. Then he had prepared some talismans for his father before lying down on the bed. Perhaps they would forgive him for doubting them.
Lying on his sheets, arms behind his head, he had let his thoughts drift to his imminent reunion with Zhàn-dí and Huàn-gē. How excited he was! Zhàn-dí must have grown so much since the last time, perhaps even become a bit less laconic – everyone was compared to him: he needed to talk all the time; his brain never stopped! He had probably started his training and mastered the martial forms of his clan. What a magnificent sight that must be!
Huàn-gē, on the other hand, must have received his sword by now and was probably slicing through the skies with the grace that was so characteristic of him. He would never forget the first time Huàn-gē had shown him a form from the Lán clan: he wasn’t training, he was dancing to the rhythm of the wind's song. Wèi Yīng had cried because it was so beautiful to watch.
Finally, to pass the time – when were his parents coming back? – he imagined Huàn-gē’s coronation ceremony, a ceremony his mother had initially not wanted to attend. Not that she didn’t want to – Huàn-gē was her nephew, and she adored him – but she feared that the men in black, in the service of who-knows-who, might find them.
“It’s been nearly three years, A-Sè, they must think we’re dead,” his father had said, confident. “And we’ll be discreet. Everything will be fine,” his father had promised.
And discreet they had been. They had been travelling by donkey for a week. His parents had brought their swords – despite the months without a night hunt, they were still cultivators; and a cultivator without their sword was like a warrior without honour – they just didn’t wear them at their belts to avoid drawing suspicion. The whole journey, the swords had remained in the Qiankun bag, tied to his belt, which his mother had modified to look like an ordinary pouch. Thus, to everyone, they were simple folk.
This ceremony, which would take place on Huàn-gē’s fifteenth birthday, was of great importance in a cultivator’s life. His mother had explained that during the ceremony, Huàn-gē would receive his courtesy name, the name by which he would henceforth be known in the Jianghu, as well as his sword, a blade forged by Lán-yízhàng himself, containing a powerful spirit that would recognise him as its sole master.
Wèi Yīng was wondering what name his mother might have chosen for Huàn-gē when the talisman burst into flames. He immediately knew what he had to do.
“Promise me you will run and never look back. They mustn’t catch you,” his mother had made him swear.
Without delay, he grabbed the Qiankun bag by his pillow, containing everything he needed to survive for a few days: food, a water flask, clothes, blank talismans, and cinnabar. And most importantly, his mother’s enchanted compass, which always pointed towards the Cloud Recesses.
He jumped out of bed, and without bothering to put on his boots, left the room as a thief caught red-handed might. He ran down the stairs and left the inn, instinctively heading for the woods he knew were nearby – he had seen the signs pointing them out when he had scouted the area upon arriving in the village.
(A child of nine wouldn’t normally pay attention to such details, but he did. He was constantly on high alert, ready to flee and disappear at the slightest gesture from his parents. They had rehearsed this scene so many times in so many different places – a city, a village, a forest, a field – that now he let his instincts guide him.)
He plunged into the pine forest and climbed up a tree to a branch high enough not to be seen, but not too high to see what was happening below. The perfect hiding spot. He rummaged through the bag and took out the compass. It pointed east, towards the village he had just left.
Damn!
Just as he was about to climb down, footsteps sounded nearby. He pressed himself against the trunk, held his breath, and peered below. Who was coming? A yāo? A demon? A spirit? A monster?
He listened carefully. It was none of the four. The footsteps were clearly human. Men, alive. His parents, perhaps? No, his instincts screamed otherwise: It’s the men in black!
He didn’t want to believe it – No, no, it’s not them, it can’t be them! – but a few seconds later, he saw them distinctly. A small group of men, all dressed in black, their short hair tied in a high ponytail, and their faces masked.
It’s them! They’re here, they’ve found us! Where are A-Niáng and A-Diē?
Two more men joined the group. They were dragging the lifeless bodies of his parents, mutilated, covered in cuts of varying depths, and bloodstains spread across his mother’s chest.
No… It’s not possible! Not them! Not now!
Tears blurred his vision.
No, it’s not true! I must wake up… this is a nightmare!
“Go fetch dry wood,” ordered one of them.
“But, boss…”
“Now!”
No, this isn’t true! I have to wake up! Please, I have to wake up…
Frozen in horror, he didn’t dare move an inch and stayed there, watching them desecrate his parents’ bodies. Kicks were thrown, spit was spat, clothes were torn, hair was cut.
“What a genius!” mocked one of them, grabbing his mother by what was left of her hair. “You shouldn’t have defied us, you filthy bitch!”
No, please…
Wood was brought, a crude pyre built, and his parents’ bodies thrown onto it. A fire was lit, sinister laughter echoed, and a harsh reality was accepted.
His parents were dead; they had sacrificed their lives to protect him.
His parents were dead; never again would he hear his mother’s crystal-clear laughter, nor his father’s gentle voice.
His parents were dead, their bodies lying just a few feet away from him, and he had been unable to save them. He had remained frozen on his branch, his hand covering his mouth to keep his sobs from escaping his throat.
They’re dead…
He didn’t know how long he stayed in that tree. Probably several hours, because when his vision finally cleared, smoke was rising from the pyre. Nothing remained of his parents but ashes, which the wind was beginning to scatter. Ashes he couldn’t even retrieve…
His gaze fell on the pile of clothes beside the pyre. Perhaps they were still there?
Trembling with fear and rage, he climbed down the pine tree and searched through his parents’ torn hanfus.
There, he found their jade pendants and his father’s clarity bell. Tears welled up in his eyes once more. If he couldn’t bury them properly, at least he had these to honour their memory.
He bowed deeply before the remains of the pyre, gave the pile of clothes one last look, then ran eastwards, towards the village. The compass had pointed him in that direction. East was where he needed to go. East he would head.
He did everything he could to stay hidden, hugging the walls of the houses and avoiding alleys until he was sure they were deserted. When he reached the inn, he became even more cautious. The village exit wasn’t far now, just a few streets away, but he had to pass in front of the inn. He waited, checking over and over again that the coast was clear.
After making sure one last time that no one was coming down the road, he darted out of his hiding spot. Just at that moment, the inn door creaked open, and the men in black stepped out. He froze, hoping they wouldn’t notice him – he had forgotten it was night, and no child would be wandering the streets so late.
Unfortunately, the clouds that had blocked the moon’s rays dissipated, revealing him, alone in the middle of the village’s main road. The man who seemed to be their leader shouted:
“That’s him! That’s their son! Catch him!”
He immediately began to run, his heart pounding in his chest. Despite his small legs, he managed to keep some distance between himself and his pursuers. He could thank his agility, flexibility, and the strict training his mother had given him. He dashed through another pine forest, the low branches scratching his face, and through a field of sorghum, the spiked grains snagging on his dark blue cotton hanfu. Every breath burned his throat, every stride sent sharp pains through his feet, but he couldn’t afford to stop.
Out of breath and with cheeks streaked with blood, he eventually hid in a dark alley of another village. There, he checked the compass again: it pointed straight ahead.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the memory of the pyre flashing before him, the flames devouring his parents’ bodies. He could still hear their laughter, but now it was mixed with the cruel taunts of the men who had killed them.
A-Die, A-Niáng, I will avenge you, he swore, clutching his parents' pendants tightly.
Footsteps approached his hiding place, and he resumed his flight. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t afford to stop. Not yet. He had to keep running until he reached the next village. Dawn was approaching; when life awoke in the streets, he would have a better chance of losing them. Until then, he had to keep running, even though his chest burned, his face stung, and his feet ached. He had to keep running so they wouldn’t catch him. Only the Immortals knew what those men would do to him.
Torture him to find out the location of Bàoshān Sànrén? As if he would ever reveal it! His mother had made him swear never to utter the words Cháyá or Mògōu, and he was prepared to die to keep that promise.
Capture him to sell him at a slave market? He was born free, and he intended to stay that way. Let them try to shackle his ankles!
Force him to serve their zōngzhŭ ? Did they even have one? He was his own master, and he would never lower himself to obey anyone he didn’t respect. He was young, but he had more honour than these men seemed to possess.
He passed through another village, where the market stalls were beginning to be set up. Soon, he would be able to stop. Soon.
* * *
His escape lasted for days. How many exactly? He couldn’t say; he had stopped counting after the fourth day. He missed his parents terribly, but he didn’t have time to grieve. The few times he had allowed himself to give in to sorrow, the men in black had almost caught him. So he forced himself not to think about his mother and her hugs that made everything better, her kisses that made him feel like the happiest child in the world, or his father and his tender smiles that he loved so much to see on his face, his silent but comforting presence.
The compass always pointed straight ahead. How many hundreds of li had he covered? Was the Cloud Recesses still far away? Sometimes, he had to take detours to hide, either in forests where he perched in the trees or in fields, concealed in a cart. But as his flight continued, he began to recognise the changing landscapes, which grew more familiar. The dialect spoken by the locals sounded like Huàn-gē’s. He hoped he would arrive at Gūsū soon, where he would finally be safe. There, he could rest for more than just a few minutes, sleep without keeping one eye open. He could eat a proper meal, drink more than just a single sip of water.
At first, he had been able to rest when his pursuers did. These men weren’t cultivators, which gave him a certain advantage. While they had to stop to eat, he could practise inedia to survive without food. His jīndān, though still young, was much more powerful than that of other disciples his age.
(At least, that’s what his parents had told him. He had only started cultivating a year before they sought refuge at the foot of Cháyá Mountain. Before that, he was too young, even though his mother claimed she could have trained him much earlier. Apparently, he was a real prodigy. If she said so, he had no choice but to believe her, as he had no other children to compare himself to.)
This allowed him to ration his provisions and his talismans. Every minute or second he didn’t spend eating, tending to his wounds, or keeping warm was precious time gained. But after several days, perhaps eight or ten, he could no longer survive this way. To conserve his strength, he had to stop fasting for days at a time.
When his supplies ran out, he was forced to steal from market stalls. Not much, just some fruit, meat buns, and a bit of water. Although this increased the risk of being caught, it allowed him to slow down the men in black, who were stopped by merchants calling out to them or by the growing suspicion of cultivators from minor clans.
He could have asked for help, but he didn’t trust anyone. Nothing guaranteed they weren’t in league with the men in black, or that his pursuers wouldn’t be able to bribe them. If they had managed to find his parents and set a trap – his parents were a bit out of practice, but they were known to be powerful cultivators, especially his mother; the men in black couldn’t have defeated them otherwise – they were capable of anything. Even corrupting cultivators who were supposed to protect the common folk from evil.
So, on top of hiding from the men in black, he hid from anyone with a sword at their belt. He couldn’t take any risks, not when his goal was perhaps so close.
Night was beginning to fall. His pursuers had scoured the town in search of him but hadn’t found him. He had heard them exchanging orders and information all day, recognising their footsteps, which he could now distinguish from those of others. They knew he hadn’t left the town, so they had stationed men at every exit, ready to capture him.
His hiding spot, though perfect for now, was uncomfortable. He had spent hours crouched between two houses, and his cramped muscles were beginning to ache. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. So, he decided to leave it and cautiously venture into the alley opposite before his pursuers made another round. He crept along the walls, inching closer to the town gates. Quietly, he made sure the coast was clear.
No one in sight. This is it. Now or never.
He bolted like an arrow. He had barely taken ten steps when a shout rang out behind him:
“There he is! Quick, release the dogs!”
Despite the terror that gripped him – dogs, they have dogs! – he kept running.
(When he was younger, around four or five years old, he couldn’t remember exactly, he had tried to pet a stray dog in the Yílíng market. What had he been thinking? The beast had bared its teeth before lunging at him. Terrified, he hadn’t had time to react: it had sunk its sharp teeth into the arm he had instinctively raised to protect his face, tearing a scream of pain from him that alerted his parents a few stalls away. Even though they had chased the dog away quickly and comforted him, Wèi Yīng had developed an extreme cynophobia. So extreme that whenever he heard a bark in the distance, he would run and hide behind his father, mother, or anyone familiar nearby.)
No matter how much he pushed his pace, the dogs – there were two of them – caught up with him. He dodged their powerful jaws and sharp teeth for a while, but one of them eventually grabbed hold of his zhongku leg – he had abandoned his robes quickly, as they were more of a hindrance than anything – and made him fall. He struggled with all his might, kicking blindly – he was too terrified to look them in the face – and pushed them away with the little spiritual energy he had left. One of the dogs yelped – serves you right, filthy mutt! – while the other backed off. He took the opportunity to try and get back up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men in black rushing towards him. No, no, they couldn’t catch him!
Suddenly, his vision was filled with ivory and azure. He was knocked to the ground by a wave of energy sent by a man. He heard the air whistling; a sword had been drawn and was slicing through the air. In which direction, he didn’t know. He was exhausted, starving, thirsty, and above all, terrified. What was going to happen to him?
Screams of pain, both human and animal, shattered the night’s silence, and he was surprised to realise that none of them were his. The man in white wasn’t after him; he seemed to be defending him. Had his frantic escape come to an end? Had he finally found Gūsū?
The fatigue accumulated over the past few days suddenly overwhelmed him. Just before his eyes closed, he caught a glimpse of the man in white’s face: his eyes resembled two suns, and a white ribbon adorned with blue clouds was tied around his forehead.
“Lán-yízhàng?" he murmured before falling unconscious.