Chapter 14: The Path of Rebirth

Here, the mortal world’s laws fall useless.

Everything happened in a flash of lightning.

On the Path of Rebirth, Yan Rushi, Golden Hairpin in hand, burst from the crowd like a loosed arrow, her gaze a torch fixed on Fang Miaocheng.

In the Ghost Market — on the Path of Rebirth — the living who entered in Soul Departure were meant to hide themselves. Break the rules and be caught red-handed by the Ghost Emissaries, and who knew if the price was death. Yan Rushi had made her peace with dying here; she only hoped…

…that You Fusang and the others would not be dragged into it.

Geng Ying’s jaw dropped. “The Yan one’s something! Too scared to curse, but plenty brave enough to kill!”

And for just that instant — Fang Miaocheng had not sensed the danger, Yan Rushi had not yet struck, and You Fusang had not yet moved—

BOOM!!

A shockwave of air burst from nothing on the Path of Rebirth, catching everything within its radius; then came gongs and drums and such instruments, clanging and clattering, ringing stars into their eyes and numbing their scalps to the marrow.

Yan Rushi crumpled to the ground — and Fang Miaocheng’s figure was nowhere to be found.

And before her, two ghost-shadows appeared. Two Ghost Emissaries, hair not touching their robes, feet not touching the ground, faces without mouth, nose, or eyes — nothing but a white talisman pasted across each.

“Here mortal laws fall useless; here the grudges of the living never dissolve.”

The Ghost Emissaries’ voices were hoarse, like the most ancient of elders, half their bodies already turned to gnarled wood, their twisted limbs crawling with wood-boring worms. They said, unhurried: “Those who break the rules — their souls scatter. No pardon.”

As the last word fell, the nearer Ghost Emissary reached out its hand, its index fingertip stopping at Yan Rushi.

The pressure of a Ghost Emissary was colder than any common death. All her earlier preparations for dying dissolved in this moment. Clutching the Golden Hairpin, Yan Rushi backed away step by step, helplessly, unavoidably panicking.

Her resolve to die — and… the absolute must of not implicating You Fusang…

At the critical moment there was no room to think much; death was already descending, and she remembered only the last point. She had accepted that there was no escaping the Ghost Emissaries within the Ghost Market — and if she truly couldn’t escape, then let her alone bear the punishment.

Resolved, Yan Rushi glanced once at You Fusang from afar, then turned to face the Ghost Emissaries. “I—”

— only to see the talismans ripped from the two Ghost Emissaries’ faces, each taking a blunt blow to the back of the skull. Geng Ying and Qingluan had struck.

“What’s to fear? Just two Ghost Emissaries with loud voices.” You Fusang seized Yan Rushi’s hand. “RUN!”

In the instant of contact, You Fusang swept her up, and the two of them became birds, one black and one white, wheeling out of the crowd. The moment she plunged into moonlight, Yan Rushi was dazed: “I — I thought they were powerful?”

“Powerful or not — you find out by hitting them.” You Fusang asked, “Why didn’t you consult me first?”

“It was just… haste. I didn’t really think.”

“I can see you truly hate her,” You Fusang paused. “This Fang Miaocheng — is she someone Young Sect Master Yan must kill?”

“…Yes.”

“Good.”

Good? What was good about it?

Yan Rushi didn’t understand. Her white-bird form struggled to keep pace with You Fusang’s shape, the wind roaring past her ears as the two birds seemed to ride the long wind and break the waves, circling past the Ghost Emissaries, rising over the layered mazes of the Path of Rebirth, ever upward.

As they plunged together into a drift of colored river lanterns, Yan Rushi caught, very faintly, a sigh: “You could trust me a little more.”

Yan Rushi didn’t catch it. “Venerable Lord — what did you say?”

You Fusang didn’t look back and didn’t answer. The ink-black bird dissolved into a mass of Devil Qi, and from that Devil Qi You Fusang’s white robes emerged, her gray-tinged hair-tips brushing past the white bird’s sharp beak; Yan Rushi smelled the faint Ambergris and sandalwood.

You Fusang glanced at Yan Rushi, still in white-bird form, and raised a surprised brow. “Young Sect Master Yan never studied the Form-Shifting Art — can’t change back?”

Yan Rushi’s mind jammed, and she nearly tumbled off the riverbank.

You Fusang picked her up, keeping her wings clear of the water, and tapped the little bird’s head with one finger. “Young Sect Master Yan’s studies are incomplete, I see.”

You Fusang felt herself pecked — very lightly. The small white bird before her rolled its round, ink-black eyes, as if glaring back. The next instant the white feathers stretched, and from within those snowy wings two hands emerged, one left and one right, gripping You Fusang’s shoulders; the spiritual power of Shapeshifting stirred up a small gust, the water chiming, scattering the river lanterns along the bank.

The white bird had become a person.

Yan Rushi hung against her, round almond eyes locked on You Fusang, half her temple soaked.

The two of them stood deadlocked in the shallows of the riverbank, glaring at each other, the bright lanterns wrinkling the moon in the water.

Her soul felt snared by those stubborn, water-bright almond eyes; You Fusang suddenly itched with want — but from the corner of her eye she caught another pair of silhouettes not far up the bank. No time to think; she frowned, pressed down quickly on Yan Rushi’s back, and in an instant their positions reversed — white robes printed with water stains, spray flung up, You Fusang’s body shielding Yan Rushi.

From that pair of silhouettes, someone paused, then said with disdain, “Don’t look. Just a pair of wild mandarin ducks playing in the water.”

The voice was unfamiliar. A Ghost Emissary? Or Fang Miaocheng? You Fusang couldn’t be sure, eyes lowered, watching Yan Rushi half-submerged in the water, clutching the front of her robes in obvious terror.

Her night blindness had left both eyes unfocused — as if she were gazing at her through a layer of mist.

Neither moved, yet both palms quietly gathered Devil Qi and spiritual power.

“She wants to kill me, you know,” the other on the bank said with a light pout. “Aren’t you the least bit worried for me?”

Fang Miaocheng!

You Fusang clearly felt the grip of the person beside her tighten further. She held her breath, listening, trying to glean a thread of clue from the voices.

“Miaocheng, you know full well she cannot kill you.” The footsteps drew further away, the voice still pleased. “But isn’t it rather interesting? An orphan with no kin in the world, separated by a Blood Feud, and powerless to close it… truly pitiable, isn’t it…”

The two gradually departed.

Yan Rushi’s strength drained away; she sat quietly in the water, as if stunned by the woman’s words. Cruel, yes — but correct, and she had to admit it.

Too powerless — so powerless she had no idea what to do. Tonight’s impulse assassination was a farce, a joke. She had given everything, resolved to die — and Fang Miaocheng had brushed off her sleeves, cooed a few complaints to her sweetheart, and thought no more of it than that.

Hugging her knees in the water, Yan Rushi’s eyes grew damp too. You Fusang sighed softly. “They’re gone. Let’s go too… We must leave the Path of Rebirth before sunrise, or we’ll be trapped here.”

But Yan Rushi looked up at her and asked, entirely without reason: “If I’ve done wrong — will you cast me away?”

You Fusang helped her up. “Probably.” She said it flatly. “But for now, all you need to do is stay close to me.”

Yan Rushi sniffled, exhausted, both eyes red.

The Ghost Market opened at the first quarter past midnight and closed at the hour of the tiger — barely more than an hour. With the stroll across Meng Po Bridge and the uproar on the Path of Rebirth, sunrise was near. Geng Ying still had the leisure to dash off and loot antiques from the market; You Fusang had no appetite for any of it. Turning, she saw Geng Ying come sprinting back triumphant, arms full of antiques, and frowned. “Where’s Qingluan?”

“Sister Qingluan went to look at old texts!” Geng Ying answered. “Venerable Lord, worried she’ll miss the hour? Want me to fetch her?”

“I’m not worried about her. She has more sense than the lot of you.”

The “lot of you,” naturally, included Yan Rushi.

Geng Ying shouldered Yan Rushi: “And you’re something else. Won’t curse a soul, but grabs a hairpin and charges in to kill. Why didn’t you talk it over with us?”

Why didn’t she talk it over with them?

She wasn’t the only one to ask it tonight. But unlike You Fusang’s question, Yan Rushi’s heart bristled at it now. Why talk it over with them? But why would she talk it over with them? The words “talk it over” made them sound like allies in one boat — loving the same world, hating the same person. And the truth? The truth was that righteous and evil could not coexist; that Devil Cultivators loved to kill. Asked that way, it was nothing but bloodlust and a taste for spectacle.

At least, that was Geng Ying.

What did Geng Ying care for the Yan Sect’s calamity, or for the truth — let alone for Yan Qingjue, mocked and cursed by all the world over a charge conjured from nothing? Yan Rushi understood her indifference, knew that watching the fire from across the river was only natural for her. But Yan Rushi cared.

She cared about the truth. She cared about the injustice. She cared about her mother’s life.

And had she not tried to talk with them? In the end, You Fusang would only say “that depends on Young Sect Master Yan’s performance.” What performance? Two words meant to lord over her — was she truly expected to take them at face value? And take it a million steps further, imagine the kindest case: that she talked it over, and they weighed the pros and cons for her, balanced it all carefully — the result would be the same: it cannot be done.

Her killing Fang Miaocheng — cannot be done. Her saving the Yan Sect — cannot be done.

A life traded for a life, light as a feather — all of it, nonsense.

She was too useless, so nothing was worth doing, and nothing could be done.

The three of them regrouped with Qingluan outside the Ghost Market.

Free of that eerie market, back within Pagoda City, the sky had already brightened. Ten thousand flecks of cloud, a thousand miles of dawn-glow — a clear, fine day.

They parted ways before the Pagoda Palace. Qingluan did not move a step; You Fusang wasn’t surprised. She dismissed everyone within earshot, and she and Qingluan sat alone in the small courtyard before the palace. “Something you wish to say?”

“Reporting to the Venerable Lord — it concerns the Ghost Market.” Qingluan said, “The Ghost Market is a place formed by heaven itself; Spiritual Qi, resentful qi, and Ghost Qi gather here in accordance with the order of heaven and earth, the clear and the turbid — some places more, some less. But when I entered the Ghost Market yesterday, I found these currents somewhat strange — as if some force were pulling all that resentment toward a single point…”

In truth, Qingluan’s suspicions about the Ghost Market hadn’t begun yesterday — she’d sensed something off some three to five years ago, but had never thought much of it. First, Ghost Qi and Devil Qi both stemmed from resentment, but were ultimately different, and to be stained with too much of either brought no benefit. Second, the Ghost Market had little to do with them as Devil Cultivators; even if it truly collapsed, the blame could hardly be laid at their door.

But yesterday those strange sensations had been unusually distinct, and these days were hardly peaceful — it was hard not to think further.

You Fusang picked up the thread: “A force like that must be man-made. Acting this way — someone means to control the Ghost Market, yes?”

Qingluan: “That is your subordinate’s guess as well.”

You Fusang’s meaning was pointed: “A guess without a direction is of no use to me…”

“Qianji Tower.” Qingluan earned her name — after lingering only a few quarters of an hour in the Ghost Market, she had actually produced a clear direction. “Venerable Lord, the arrangement of the currents closely resembles the mist barrier outside Qianji Tower — the work of the same hand.”

You Fusang raised a brow.

Qingluan went on: “On the surface it has nothing to do with Pagoda City. But your subordinate has been thinking: perhaps the Yan Sect and Qianji Tower’s plan never ended. In that case, the Young Sect Master Yan at your side may very well still be part of that plan.” She stepped back and bowed low. “Venerable Lord — perhaps she does not know the truth of it herself; perhaps Solitary Mountain is only borrowing a knife to kill, and Young Sect Master Yan is innocent too. But your subordinate still believes that allowing her to remain at your side is a grave danger.”

“Venerable Lord, I know you are mindful of old bonds, that it is hard for you to raise a hand against Young Sect Master Yan. Therefore, I have already charged Geng Ying—”

Qingluan bowed once more, brow and eyes lowered, the very picture of deference.

“— to strike first.”