Chapter 17: 17 Penglai Mountain

◎The dot of cinnabar between her brows outburns the peach blossom◎

Zhuang Xuan had been the sixteenth City Lord of Pagoda City; You Fusang was the seventeenth.

But at their first meeting, You Fusang never imagined she would become entangled with this eccentric devil cultivator City Lord—so much so that even the Little Azure Bird on her shoulder found her grating.

Zhuang Xuan looked at You Fusang.

The bright moon bloomed across Zhuang Xuan’s cool, clear face, her features gentle, investing her plain black robes with the gentlest of airs. She wiped the blood from You Fusang’s face with a handkerchief, passed her palm over the girl’s eyes, and hoisted her onto her back. “Sleep. I’ll carry you out of here.”

“Can’t sleep,” You Fusang said honestly. “Your back is too bumpy.”

Zhuang Xuan choked, exasperated. “You’re too heavy!”

But she still shifted You Fusang into a more comfortable position.

“That heavy?” You Fusang thought of something and said softly, “Junior Sister said only days ago that I was nothing but skin and bones…”

“Junior Sister, Junior Sister, Junior Sister. Always your junior sister. Just how many beloved junior sisters do you have?”

“One.”

Zhuang Xuan found that strange. “Aren’t you the Eldest Senior Sister of the Yan Sect? How do you have only one junior sister?”

“Of the same Teacher-Mother, only one.”

“Oh. So the junior sister your heart acknowledges is her alone.” Zhuang Xuan smiled. “Do you like her?”

“…”

You Fusang went silent.

“Then talk about something else,” Zhuang Xuan pleaded. “If you won’t speak, I’m truly afraid you’ll die on me again. If you pass out once more, all my saving you will have been for nothing.”

You Fusang: “I don’t know what to say.”

“Ah…” Zhuang Xuan racked her brains, thinking and thinking. “Fusang—were you happy at the Yan Sect?”

“…”

You Fusang didn’t want to talk.

Zhuang Xuan carried on to herself, “To be the Yan Sect Master’s first disciple and Eldest Senior Sister on top of it, you must be quite formidable. Your spiritual aptitude looks very fine to me.”

Good aptitude— You Fusang thought. Of course it was good. But what if that aptitude had never come for the sake of cultivation at all?

“But then how did you fall into devilhood?” Zhuang Xuan wondered. “That Yan Sect Master truly turns her face and denies her own—the sword qi in your back was her doing, wasn’t it? A truly ruthless hand—oh dear, oh dear. Then that Junior Sister Yan you keep murmuring about—isn’t she the Yan Sect Master’s own daughter? The Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a proper tale of love and woe—shame and heavy burdens borne.”

You Fusang held her breath, wanting to say don’t fling words around you can’t use, but she knew Zhuang Xuan meant well—trying to keep her mind active so she wouldn’t fail to catch her breath and sink back into unconsciousness.

But she had already reached her limit.

Her deranged meridians had been wrecked by the surging devil qi, then soothed by Zhuang Xuan’s—barely recovered, and not thoroughly. You Fusang remained like a marionette that could not lift its breath; with no movement at all, her joints still creaked, and even furrowing her brow hurt. The wounds were bandaged, but fresh blood still seeped through; her black clothes were soaked, and Zhuang Xuan was covered in her blood as well—drip, drip—falling onto the frost-covered night road.

You Fusang had never seen death so clearly.

Then, suddenly, she felt herself lifted, her head pillowed on someone’s knees. It was Zhuang Xuan, saying softly, “Fusang… I’m sorry…”

Zhuang Xuan had said this to her more than once.

Whenever she said it, Zhuang Xuan always lowered her eyes, as if rain were falling in their depths—the damp, dappled moisture of camellias first opening in a bamboo grove after rain.

Zhuang Xuan looked at her as though gazing at something through her.

But every time, before You Fusang could open her mouth to ask, Zhuang Xuan’s brows would arch and she would break into a smile, back to her usual carefree self. “What are you looking at me for? Could it be you’ve taken a fancy to me?” She feigned distress. “I saved your little life—I’m your mother of rebirth. I’m teaching you the Pagoda Art—call me your Teacher-Mother while you’re at it. Oh dear, oh dear. If you fancy me, that’s a capital crime—defying your betters, betraying your teacher and your ancestors!”

“…You’re sick,” You Fusang said with disgust.

Zhuang Xuan burst out laughing.

The topic drifted away of its own accord.

And so, even now, You Fusang still did not understand: it was Zhuang Xuan who had saved her, who had taken her in—so why did she always apologize to her?

By the time she reached Penglai, the sky had just begun to rain.

Across Penglai, scattered oleanders lingered past spring without wilting, heavy with rainwater on their branches. You Fusang snapped off a branch for a parasol and stood beneath the oleander—the dot of cinnabar between her brows outburning any peach blossom, lush to the point of rot.

And more poisonous than the oleander itself.

Oleandrin merely sent a person into unconscious shock; even when the toxin struck, there were still many chances of survival. But Pagoda devil qi entering the body usually meant death within an instant.

The Little Demon watering flowers before the bamboo glanced at You Fusang—and before her wits caught up, she was still smiling cheerfully, thinking some reclusive peach-blossom elder sister had come out to listen to the rain. The moment she made out those golden pupils, she dropped the watering can and plopped down on her rear. “Y-you-you-you…” She bit her tongue bloody to keep from shouting that three-character nickname “Pagoda Ghost” aloud, scrambling every which way, tearfully shrieking, “Help!! A devil cultivator has broken in!!”

“Silence.” Devil qi closed in faster than lightning; You Fusang’s backhand clamped over the Little Demon’s screaming mouth. “Take me to your Elder Chunmu.”

The Little Demon sobbed a few times, stammering, “This little one—this little one only waters the flowers! How could I ever get in to see the Elder!”

You Fusang smiled. “Then you’re useless.”

With that she raised her hand, as if to kill her and bury the secret. The Little Demon’s legs gave out again; pea-sized tears hung on her cheeks as she wailed, “Don’t kill me! Useful—I’m useful! I can—yes, I can get you in… City Lord You, I’ll take you there myself, that’s all…”

“Should have said so from the start,” You Fusang said, hauling her up by the collar and tossing her forward. “Lead the way.”

Sniffling, the Little Demon led the way.

They traveled Penglai’s long plank walkway. The Little Demon trudged through the rain, catching sidelong glimpses of You Fusang strolling unhurried behind her under her parasol. Looking ahead, the walkway’s end dissolved into the misty cloud-veils of the Penglai Immortal Mountain; the rain threads fell cool and clean, and the demon cultivators’ Elders Pavilion hid behind the mountain fog.

Betraying the location of the Elders Pavilion was a capital offense. The Little Demon racked her brain for ways to fob You Fusang off—or to send warning ahead. But at her very last step on the walkway, You Fusang suddenly caught her arm, watching her with a smile that was not a smile, like snake and scorpion. “Careful, now. Don’t fall and die.”

The Little Demon’s mouth twitched into a grimace; what little courage she had left had been frightened clean out of her.

Entering the Elders Pavilion went more smoothly than expected. A late-summer evening rain is a fine thing; come autumn, cool days arrive. In such drizzling Penglai scenery, no one wanted a beating for no reason at all. And so, the whole way, every demon cultivator bowed respectful and trembling, heads bowed low—as if You Fusang were not merely the master of Pagoda, but the master of their Penglai as well.

Inside the Elders Pavilion, greenery filled the hall, the roof hollow at its center. At the very middle of the floor lay a spring of water; heaven’s light fell squarely upon it, sheathing the whole shimmering pool, rain threads glinting gold. Elder Chunmu leaned against a table beside the spring, drinking tea.

She was simply too old. Gnarled whiskers crawled over her aged cheeks; her frowns and smiles were hard to read. At the sight of the uninvited guest she lifted her head with visible effort. “So you’ve come…” She dismissed the Little Demon; only the two of them remained. Chunmu came straight to the point. “City Lord Fusang, I know what you’ve come for. The tea is idle and there is nothing to do—I have been waiting for you as well.”

You Fusang arched a brow, made no reply, and sat down directly opposite her.

Eight thousand springs and eight thousand autumns had Chunmu lived—not only the eldest of demon cultivators, but the most aged of all who walked the cultivation path. She had hidden from the world in Penglai, yet had watched countless winds and rains beat across the mortal realm; attaining the Dao by listening to the divine, she was an elder whose years matched heaven and earth—one thought to live, one thought to die. Only her lingering love for the mortal world kept her in its dust.

She said to You Fusang, “I see a calamity written in your fate.”

“Whose fate holds no calamity?” You Fusang laughed lightly. “Though—if your sight should prove wrong, then your Penglai will be gaining one more calamity of its own.”

“Penglai’s calamities are past counting. These hundred years, yourself included, there have already been…” The old one counted on her fingers. “three Pagoda personages paying grand visits to this place.”

You Fusang had expected as much, and asked carefully, “And the other two?”

“City Lord You—you know in your heart.”

You Fusang rolled her eyes inwardly. If I knew, why would I be asking you? But she held fast to her duty as a guest. “One of them is Zhuang Xuan. And the other?”

Chunmu dodged the question, casting a few copper coins in divination. “Nux vomica. Strychnine seed. The back arching rigid in spasm.”

“…” You Fusang’s guestly decorum evaporated. She crushed the teacup in her hand and smiled without a trace of warmth. “Old thing. Speak plainly.”

“I cannot say. But I may offer a hint: the one you seek is far at the sky’s edge, and right before your eyes.” Seeing You Fusang about to lose her temper, Chunmu hurriedly shielded her own teacup. “For now, she is at Solitary Mountain.”

“At Solitary Mountain?”

Someone tied to the Pagoda Token… at Solitary Mountain?

“Yes,” Chunmu said. “In truth—the Yan Sect’s calamity, Solitary Mountain’s scheme, Pagoda’s bewilderment… the answer has always lain with one and the same person.”

Which person? You Fusang knew perfectly well that asking this old Chunmu would get her nothing, so she only said flatly, “The first two are no concern of mine. I worry only for the last.”

Chunmu took the bait, as expected. “They are all your concern.”

“No concern,” You Fusang stressed.

“Concern.”

“No concern.” “Concern.” “No concern.” “Concern.” “…”

You Fusang yielded gracefully, assuming the posture of an attentive listener. “And how, exactly, does it concern me?”

Naturally she ached for Chunmu to simply hand over that person’s name—but she knew the rule of divination arts: heavenly secrets must not be leaked. Sure enough, Chunmu took a last sip of clear tea. “Leak a heavenly secret, and it is this old wreck who pays for it.”

“But setting all that aside—is City Lord Fusang not curious? What precisely is the function of the Solitary Mountain Profound Mirror, the thing that strings all of this together?”

You Fusang shot her a glance, her tone even. “Curious. Please, go on.”

“The Solitary Mountain Profound Mirror is known as the Heavenly Book of the mortal world. It can foresee the future—but at the cost of the viewer’s own cultivation, and only within a three-hundred-year span. I may as well tell you: three hundred years ago, the Old One of Solitary Mountain still lived, and what they glimpsed in the mirror of Solitary Mountain’s calamity was a Spirit Fox. What is there to fear from one fox? Naturally, some believed, and some did not. Three hundred years later—that is, in recent years—the one who gazed into the Profound Mirror was Yan Qingjue. She glimpsed it, then destroyed the mirror, as though to bury something.” Chunmu paused. “However, very few know this: if the Profound Mirror is destroyed, the course of fate may truly be changed. Perhaps for precisely that reason, Yan Qingjue ruined her own name and cultivation without hesitation, and guarded it at the cost of her life.”

“What did she see?”

Chunmu did not answer.

You Fusang’s expression turned grave. “Chunmu. I’d wager you know exactly what Yan Qingjue saw in that mirror—and what made her rather destroy her own name than fail to protect it with her life.”

“One who destroys herself to protect something does so, naturally, for what she treasures and values most.” Chunmu paused, set down her teacup, and smiled faintly. “Ah—this old wreck has hinted far too much already. One word more and things truly will go wrong. City Lord Fusang, why not go and see Queen Mother Peak for yourself?”

The trip was not wasted—so You Fusang thought as she set out alone for Queen Mother Peak.

She would reach Queen Mother Peak, and she would have her answers about the Pagoda Token. As for Chunmu’s mystifying “one and the same person”—who else could it be?

Fang Miaocheng.

But asking Chunmu again would yield nothing—only vague, plausible-sounding evasions. The question was what connection Fang Miaocheng had to Pagoda City…

You Fusang knew very little about Fang Miaocheng and had paid her almost no attention. She knew only that Solitary Mountain’s Zhou Erlang had muddled his way into loving a woman, muddled his way into marriage, muddled his way onto Solitary Mountain’s Sect Master’s seat, and muddled his way to his death.

Could all of it have been Fang Miaocheng’s handiwork?

You Fusang couldn’t say—though she felt these private affairs of Solitary Mountain had little to do with her. Even if she truly understood them—so what? And if she didn’t—so what? The world’s wretched tales of lovers turned enemies, its blood-dripping roads of vengeance, were not things she had lived through, nor roads she needed to walk. What mattered now was finding out where Fang Miaocheng had come from before arriving at Solitary Mountain—and what her ties to Pagoda were.

By the time she had thought this far, she was already standing on Queen Mother Peak of Penglai.

They say Penglai’s scenery is wondrous, but in You Fusang’s eyes nothing here was remarkable. She was long past the age of clicking her tongue in wonder while touring mountains and rivers. Now clouds rolling out and in stirred nothing in her; dawn and dusk glows were all passing mist. She looked down at the Cloud Sea below Queen Mother Peak, standing high, taking in all the lesser mountains at a glance.

Come to think of it, things like Qimen Dunjia and hexagram divination were arts You Fusang had learned back at the Yan Sect. Now she held her breath, connecting points into lines within her mind. The Ghost Market, Qianji Tower—both lay where Penglai’s twin wind-omens converged. And traced the other way, skipping ranks with a single flick—You Fusang’s gaze paused. She looked into the distance, where peak after peak seemed to point toward some hidden realm, buried in cloud and mist, impossible to see.

Fusang Land—