Chapter 36

She had been the one to ask for it first, and others had painstakingly drawn it. Given Xun Ruosu’s temperament, another refusal would likely relegate their relationship to mere sisters from then on, no matter how close they grew. And so, Xue Tong pinched one corner of the yellow talisman and slapped it against her own chest.

Wuchang resumed its massive form, cradling the Lotus Lantern protectively amid the soft fur of its abdomen. The Ten Thousand People Pit still echoed with pitiful sobs and a clamor of curses, yet nothing dared come within half a step of it.

The scenes from within the Lotus Lantern cascaded down. Drawing on her experience from the previous two viewings, Xun Ruosu gradually grew accustomed to that disorienting blend of illusion and reality—they were still in the Ten Thousand People Pit, but this version of it was far “younger.” The corpses weren’t piled in chaotic heaps; instead, sturdy young men wearing face masks drove ox carts along wooden rails, unloading the bodies from the carts three or four at a time.

The pit itself wasn’t particularly large. Its bottom was already buried beneath layers of the dead, haphazardly wrapped in ragged clothes or straw mats, then covered with a couple of shovelfuls of earth before being stacked outward or upward. Xun Ruosu swept her gaze across it—at least a thousand corpses lay there, at minimum. Some had already turned to bones, skeletal hands protruding from the dirt and stones.

At the center of the pit, workers had cleared a patch of open ground and were busy with construction. These laborers, too, had their faces covered, bundled up tightly from head to toe. Foul miasma hung in the air from the sheer volume of decaying bodies, carrying a stench that drew snakes, rats, insects, and disease alike. Were it not for the wartime wages, few would risk such dangers.

A massive Bodhisattva Statue dangled from ropes high above, slowly being lowered into the pit under the direction of those below. They’d lower it to a certain depth, then pull the ropes taut. With a faint tremor of the earth beneath their feet, the statue settled into place, and a crowd rushed forward to pack the surrounding earth.

This Bodhisattva Statue was indeed a fierce, wrathful form. Its two primary hands formed the subduing demon mudra and the fearless mudra, while sixteen secondary arms—much smaller than the main ones—extended from where it merged into the ground. Some of these held ritual mudras, others gripped enforcement implements. It resembled a crab in a way, bristling with claws and menace.

Yet the statue was exquisitely carved. Even in its wrathful glare, it exuded a subtle serenity and compassion. Its lotus eyes weren’t half-closed as they were now; when first lowered, they had been fully open—majestic yet not ferocious.

This was a Buddha statue meant to suppress malicious ghosts.

The statue was soon settled firmly in place. The workers gradually departed, and the scene fell quiet, save for a few finishing touches: packing earth, wiping down surfaces. Outside the pit, they erected a simple shrine and raised a stone stele beside it. The stele bore text in clerical script—warnings against trespassing, along with incantations to ward off spirits.

Days passed and night fell within the Lotus Lantern without the need to wait a full twenty-four hours. Before Xun Ruosu could fully process it, the environment had shifted. The wilted weeds that had drooped listlessly now yellowed. The corpses in the pit piled higher and higher. Some arrived still clinging to life, their blood trickling into the low spots and seeping into the soil around the jade statue.

“Why hasn’t it appeared yet?” Each plunge into the lantern brought these irrelevant memories, and they irritated Xue Tong the most. She leaned against the jade statue with her arms crossed. The sunlight around them flickered in and out of shadow. Xun Ruosu had never seen her bathed in light like this. Xue Tong radiated an inauspicious restlessness, her eyes restless as she glanced at Xun Ruosu. “What are you staring at? Something on my face?”

The sunlight within the Lotus Lantern was mere memory, lacking the ultraviolet bite of true daylight. It held no threat for Xue Tong. Even in her sun-protective clothing, she would have been fine—what if she wore nothing at all? Well, that would hardly be harmonious.

Xun Ruosu withdrew her gaze. “I’ve never really looked at you closely before.” A lie, plain and simple.

Xue Tong’s eyebrow arched at that. She pressed her lips together in a smile. “Really? I don’t buy it.”

Xun Ruosu didn’t believe her own words either, but she couldn’t resist poking the bear. “Really. I’ve never looked closely. You’re always lurking in the shadows, and these eyes of mine don’t adjust well to the dark.”

“…”

The lie sounded so plausible that Xue Tong underwent some internal struggle. Abruptly, she straightened and took two steps forward, stepping fully out from beneath the shadow of the Jade Bodhisattva and into the sunlight. “There. See me clearly now?”

Her peach-blossom eyes curved with amusement, their depths shimmering as she fixed Xun Ruosu with an unwavering stare. A tiny mole dotted the spot level with the outer corner of her eye—usually concealed, visible only in sunlight like this.

Her face bore faint smudges of grime from the dust and damp of the abandoned building site. A splatter of blood marred her left cheek near the earlobe—whose, Xun Ruosu couldn’t say. Today wasn’t flawless, but she was vividly, radiantly alive.

Xun Ruosu’s gaze lingered only a moment before she demurely lowered it. “Crystal clear.”

“Good-looking?” Xue Tong pressed.

“…Stunning.” Xun Ruosu couldn’t deny it. Her heart fluttered wildly, caught off guard and impossible to quell.

Only then did Xue Tong seem satisfied. “Good thing you’re not blind.”

The sunlight faded, and rain began to fall. The swaying leaves lent the surroundings an even greater air of desolation. Xun Ruosu’s heartbeat thundered in her ears—until she picked out the clear sound of footsteps amid it all.

The steps were heavy and erratic, pausing now and then for rest. Through the veil of rain, Xun Ruosu spotted Zhang Yingniang: one hand clutching a basket, the other using a tree branch as a cane, inching slowly toward the edge of the Ten Thousand People Pit.

The rain wasn’t heavy, and she carried no umbrella—just a headscarf wrapped around her hair. For her age, her legs were remarkably spry. Though the pit wasn’t at the mountain’s peak, the surrounding terrain was fairly level, without sheer cliffs. They’d even built a path, but scaling it would still tax a young man’s strength.

The pit wasn’t fully sealed yet; the corpses were arranged neatly, leaving a narrow track for the ox carts. Zhang Yingniang peered around the entrance for a while, as if searching for something. Then she pulled another scarf from her sleeve and draped it over the shrine.

She didn’t find what she sought at the entrance, so she ventured a few steps farther in. Her courage was something else—rainy days in these eerie mountains, with wind rattling the treetops like ghostly cackles. Yet her expression remained calm. To her, the gruesome corpses were merely some family’s young daughter, a lost child, a husband still awaited at home…

After a cursory circuit, her poor eyesight failed her in the dim light. With a regretful sigh, she shuffled beneath the jade-carved Bodhisattva Statue to shelter from the rain.

The statue was enormous enough to shield the surrounding grass and flowers—and one elderly woman.

Zhang Yingniang lifted the cloth covering her basket, revealing oiled-paper umbrellas, steamed buns, a water skin, and some pickled vegetables. She seemed prepared to stay awhile. At last, her eye fell on a tender sprout in the dirt… The soil beneath the Bodhisattva had been freshly turned and wasn’t packed down; soft as it was, the light rain seeped in, forming puddles around the sprout. It wouldn’t be long before they drowned it.

Zhang Yingniang muttered to herself, “A Putuo Flower sprout. Such flowers are rare nowadays. For it to grow here is true fortune.”

She opened the paper umbrella she’d carried unused and held it over the sprout. Then she tore off a strip of her headscarf to sop up the puddle.

This memory segment ended swiftly, racing through several more days. Zhang Yingniang’s buns and water lasted, as she ate little in her old age. Staying in the pit required no heavy labor like plowing fields.

She continued her search, unflinchingly rummaging through the corpses. The air was cool but not frigid; some bodies had begun to rot, the stench pungent and vile. Zhang Yingniang paid it no mind, occasionally unfolding a mat to check. If it wasn’t the one she sought, she’d tidy the body back into place.

“What is she looking for?” Xue Tong didn’t understand. “Even if she finds it, what then? The dead stay dead. Does she plan to rebury it elsewhere?”

Xun Ruosu had regained her composure by now. Emotions ran high in these Lotus Lantern visions, leaving one vulnerable to external influences. She chalked up her earlier heartbeat to that influence—and once dismissed as such, she tuned out distractions, eyes on her nose and nose on her heart, letting base desires fade.

But Xue Tong’s voice pierced through. The moment she spoke, Xun Ruosu’s newly steadied heart quivered again.

“She’s not searching for just one or a few bodies,” Xun Ruosu replied, her voice light and ethereal. “Have you ever lost someone in your life?”

Xue Tong whipped around. “Why ask that out of nowhere?”

“If you’ve lost someone and can never find them—never learn their fate—your heart hangs in limbo. You crave news, yet dread the worst. Tormented enough, you come to terms with it: even bad news is better than none, if only for one last glimpse.”

Unaware of Xue Tong’s fleeting unease, Xun Ruosu pressed on. “Zhang Yingniang’s just seeking peace of mind.”

Peace comes when the one who kept you on edge is found.

“…”

After a long silence, Xue Tong’s voice came low and hoarse. “I have.”

Xun Ruosu’s eyes widened slightly. “Did you find them?”

This time, Xue Tong didn’t reply aloud. She pointed to the Putuo Flower on the ground. “This plant is delicate and finicky. Most died out long ago. It resembles the native hyacinth, but its blooms are blue-violet. The flowers look similar, but the inflorescence differs—loosely clustered. Plucking them individually is far easier than with hyacinths.”

“Yet like the hyacinth, in myth, it symbolizes eternal yet fleeting life.”

No wonder that first hyacinth had seemed off—not a bunch, but a solitary bloom, its color muddled. Hyacinths had distinct blues and purples; Xue Tong’s was neither.

It was hard to say how long Zhang Yingniang lingered in the pit. The lantern’s memories weren’t continuous, weaving through storms and sunny spells as time slowed once more.

Zhang Yingniang wiped down the jade Bodhisattva with her headscarf—a ritual she’d kept up, repaying the statue’s shelter. No storm had drenched her since; the sun hadn’t burned.

“Did the statue’s eyes just move?” Xun Ruosu had positioned herself opposite the jade statue, alert to its slightest twitch.