HCAW 10

Chapter 10: The Inchworm Bends

A sharp crack of a whip pierced the air, stirring a bloody wind.

The dungeon was dark and cramped. Rats scurried in the corners, and only a sliver of light leaked through a tiny window, illuminating a figure suspended by iron chains. It was a young man—face filthy, hair disheveled, body covered in bruises and lacerations. His eyes were tightly shut, as if unconscious. A barbed whip lashed his body again and again, carving bloody welts into his flesh.

The torturer, a brothel slave, eventually tired, spat at him and sneered, “Now you know how fierce Zui Chun is, eh? A little boy who sells his ass, daring to lay hands on a Xian Mountain Guard—you must’ve eaten a leopard’s gall!”

With that, he grabbed the young man’s hair and slammed him hard against the dungeon wall. The youth groaned lowly, the skin on his forehead torn open. Blood slithered down his cheek like a snake. His cheek was swollen, as though filled with clotted blood. The torturer barked, “Got anything to confess? Speak up!”

Chu Kuang slowly pried open one eye.

The night Yu Ji visited Zui Chun, though he had escaped the chamber with the bone bow, he hadn’t outrun the force of that elder’s single flick. Yu Ji’s internal energy had crushed him into unconsciousness. When he awoke, he was already imprisoned in the dungeon of Zui Chun.

The madam had harbored bitter resentment for his actions. Though Yu Ji had commanded that his life be spared, she’d resolved to humiliate him thoroughly before selling him off cheap. In Penglai, it wasn’t rare to see such moths rushing to their doom—slaves foolish enough to try and assassinate the Xian Mountain Guard. So Chu Kuang was shackled in this stone cell, subjected to torment daily.

Another slap landed on his cheek, setting his ears buzzing, as if a swarm of flies had flown in.

“Speak!” the torturer roared.

Chu Kuang finally opened his mouth, slowly: “What do you want me to say?”

“You committed high treason, dared raise a hand against a Xian Mountain Guard—why?!”

“No reason,” he said flatly. “Just couldn’t stand that old bastard’s face.”

At those words, the torturer flew into a rage and slammed his head against the wall again. Chu Kuang cried out, “Careful, careful—you’ll damage the wall!”

When the torturer released him, he hissed through his teeth, “I’ve nothing much to say. Just a suggestion.”

The torturer glared.

Chu Kuang said, “The food here’s terrible. The buns are harder than stone, gritty with sand. What, you knead the dough in a gravel pit?”

The torturer struck him again, this time drawing blood from his nose and mouth. What a stubborn bastard. Even after so many beatings, the eyes beneath that mess of hair still shone with fierce vitality. That double pupil, bright red like a demon’s, always seemed to hold mocking laughter.

The slap triggered a dull ache in his old arrow wound. The torturer still fumed and flogged him another thirty lashes before finally stopping, satisfied only when Chu Kuang was bloodied and half-dead.

Not long after, the madam arrived. Seeing Chu Kuang beaten nearly senseless, she was pleased.

“Did you get anything out of him?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. This is the one you bought off the brokers, right? We’ve tried torture and drugs, but his mouth’s tighter than a clam,” the torturer said, nervously bowing his head.

“Useless!” The madam flung her perfumed handkerchief in his face. “Didn’t get a word, and now you’ve nearly beaten my merchandise to death! He cost silver, at least. Sell him off for scraps.”

The torturer nodded and moved to lower Chu Kuang, but the madam stopped him and handed over a small box. She sneered, “Don’t be so quick to let him off. Teach him a proper lesson. Show him Zui Chun isn’t a place he can trifle with.”

Chu Kuang’s head throbbed violently. His jaw was pried open, and several pills shoved down his throat. He tasted Chinese foxglove and tangshen root—supplements. Realizing that, he swallowed them down without resistance. The medicine revived him slightly, and through his slit eyes, he saw several torturers walk into the cell.

“Perfect timing,” the madam clapped her hands. She pointed at Chu Kuang. “Each of you have your turn with him. Make sure he suffers properly.”

The torturers hesitated, eyeing the bloodied figure hanging from the chains. One laughed awkwardly, “Ma’am, look at him—covered in blood. Even if we’ve no standards, how’re we supposed to…?”

Her expression twisted like a lioness enraged.

“I said do it! I feed and clothe you lot, and now what? Been cuckolded so long your cocks can’t rise anymore?”

They had no choice but to step forward. One splashed cold water on the youth’s face, wiping away the blood. As they did, his features came into view, and the man’s eyes lit up with surprise.

“He’s not bad-looking at all—better than some of the courtesans.”

The others gathered closer. Though his eyes were fierce and unruly, there was a kind of fine, ink-brush elegance in his features. Even as a corpse to be defiled, he was tolerable. One by one, they loosened their belts, ready to pounce.

But just as they approached, shadows darted through the air, and a heavy blow struck their skulls. Several torturers collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

The madam stared in disbelief. On the floor, she saw their foreheads were swollen—and nearby lay several white, solid crumbs.

Looking closely, she realized—they were pieces of stale steamed buns.

Then she looked at the youth hanging in chains. He had opened his eyes and, with a loud ptooey, spat out half a bun from his mouth.

“Told you,” Chu Kuang pulled a face. “Your buns are harder than stone.”

_____

A few days later, Chu Kuang was taken out of Zui Chun.

Though his time there had been brief, he had already become the brothel’s most notorious scoundrel. The madam couldn’t subdue him—could only vent her frustration with beatings while he was still weakened. Chu Kuang accepted the whippings without protest, but the moment anyone tried to touch him, he’d go feral, baring his fangs like a beast. Once, she’d brought in two guard dogs to maul him, only to have them both kicked until their teeth were gone. The madam sighed, “Even the most chaste martyr wouldn’t resist like this!”

She sold him at a discount to a slave broker, who locked him in a cage, chained up alongside the dirtiest of servants, parading them daily through the city streets. Every morning, the broker would dump cold water on them, shouting at them to wash up and show their faces.

Travelers passed by in a stream. Many strong, healthy servants were quickly bought. Chu Kuang curled in the corner of the iron cage, hiding his face, nursing his injuries like a hedgehog. If anyone seemed interested, he’d roll his eyes back, drool from the mouth, and pretend to be mad.

The broker yanked his chains and ordered him to sit up, but Chu Kuang was limp as mud. Only when the tugging grew fierce did he reluctantly straighten.

He was like a rock—unmoved by beatings or scolding. Once, the broker whipped him and shouted, “Sit straight! Let the buyers see your face!”

Chu Kuang caught the whip in his mouth and mumbled through the leather, “The slop you feed me is so bad—how would I have the strength to sit up?”

Over time, the broker realized he’d bought a cunning little bastard—decent face, but sly as hell.

Days passed in the cage, and Chu Kuang gradually grew familiar with the other slaves. One day, when the broker stepped away, a fellow captive whispered, “Little brother, may I ask—where are your people from?”

“Where else could I be from? I’m a Penglai native,” said Chu Kuang, listlessly sprawled in the corner of the cage, killing time. As punishment for his insolence, the slaver had taken away his food bowl—he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in two days.

“That’s not necessarily true. Most of us here aren’t even from Penglai,” someone chimed in. “A lot came from outside the Heavenly Pass, got caught by the Xian Mountain enforcers, branded as slaves, and turned into walking meat.”

Another thin servant sighed. “All of us were once good folk. And now? They call us walking meat! What is that, anyway? Just a slab of meat with legs—goes right after ‘walking corpse.’ Not even human anymore!”

But Chu Kuang suddenly grinned, baring a mouthful of stark white teeth. “Well, I wasn’t a good person.”

The cage fell quiet, as if a hand had clutched everyone’s throats. Eyes turned to him in unison.

“I’m the King Yama,” Chu Kuang declared with a wild laugh. “Even the Xian Mountain officiers have to call me Grandpa!”

The silence lasted a beat—then erupted into raucous laughter. Even the noise was enough to draw the slaver over, who smacked the iron bars with his whip.

After the slaver left, one of the captives laughed, “If you’re King Yama, then I’m Emperor Bai! Let’s rule together—you take the underworld, I’ll take the throne!”

Chu Kuang glanced around. Seeing that no one believed him, he slumped back down, grumbling. Someone pointed at him, then tapped their temple, whispering, “Something’s off with that one.”

The others nodded knowingly. They’d long noticed: the young man was quiet as still water, but beneath that surface, madness churned. No one could guess what Chu Kuang was really thinking—his dim, storm-dark eyes always seemed to hide a coming tempest.

But all Chu Kuang was thinking about was one thing.

He stared at the top of the cage. Memories surfaced from the darkness like smoke—surreal, shifting. He saw a filthy hand—his own—grasped tightly by another hand, thin and dying.

His master’s lips moved faintly, smiling as he whispered: “Find someone for me… take him out of Penglai.”

“What kind of person?” the younger Chu Kuang asked urgently.

“You’ll know the moment you see him…” his master replied. “He’ll be as radiant as daylight… unforgettable.”

“But why take him away? The Heavenly Pass is crawling with guards—I couldn’t escape even with wings!”

“No—you will leave,” his master said, a smile ghosting across his ashen face. “Penglai… is a cage. One day, you’ll break the bars and walk with him beyond them.”

Shortly after, his master died—like the last flicker of a burned-out flame. Chu Kuang stared into the darkness as the memories flickered past. And in that drifting smoke, a face appeared.

The face of that Xian Mountain officer—Fang Jingyu.

He remembered being hunted by that black-robed youth in Tongjinh Village, remembered their deadly clash at Zui Chun. From the very first sight, something inside him had trembled. Some emotion he couldn’t name had taken root.

He could tell Fang Jingyu was a sword—honed and tempered, still sheathed but unmistakably sharp.

Could this be the one Master spoke of?

Chu Kuang shook his head. The world was vast, the seas of people endless. How could he be sure who his master meant? Once his wounds healed, he’d vanish again—go underground, wander the land, and never cross paths with that officer again.

Their encounter was nothing more than coincidence. No bond from a past life, nor fate in this one.

So Chu Kuang thought—and closed his eyes.

By nightfall, the blood-red sun hung low on the mountain like a cooked egg yolk. In the street, carriages rolled and people bustled. Thin cooking smoke drifted through the locust trees.

Fang Jingyu strolled through the market with the crowd. Stalls selling writing brushes, donkey rentals, and hot flatbread were as lively as ever. Colorful signs fluttered in the wind like a stream of painted silk. He stopped to buy a few of Xiao Jiao’s favorite stuffed buns, bundled in oil paper, and then turned into Huai Street.

There were no gutters in Huai Street. Wastewater pooled, flies buzzed, but the government permitted trade here. Unwanted slaves, mysterious antiques, and cheap firewood all exchanged hands. It drew many commoners.

The slaver cracked his whip against the iron cage, shouting for the slaves to sit up straight and be presentable for buyers. Fang Jingyu remembered Xiao Jiao’s request, felt the silver in his pouch, and walked over.

“Ah, sir! All good stock here—clean and honest. Two taels of silver and you can take one home. Take your time!” the slaver said, grinning. He recognized this black-robed youth—Fang Jingyu had often come to buy slaves and free them.

Fang Jingyu nodded and approached. His funds were tight, having just forged a new set of blades. He could only afford one. Still, he looked over the cage carefully and asked, “Got any that can’t sell?”

The slaver rubbed his hands and smiled. “Sir, every one here is strong and healthy! Nothing sits long in my lot!”

The slaves sat straight, trying their best to appear dignified. Seeing the badge on Fang Jingyu’s waist, many secretly hoped to be bought. Being purchased by a Xian Mountain officer was far better than ending up in some hellhole.

Just as Fang Jingyu was about to speak, the string tying the bun bundle loosened. The oil paper unraveled, and the delicate white buns rolled into the dirty water.

They gleamed like magnets—every pair of eyes locked onto them. Though their mouths watered, the slaves’ expressions quickly shifted to disappointment once the buns were soiled.

“What a pity,” even the slaver muttered. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. “Sir, those buns are ruined. Let me offer you a discount—just two taels for one servant, to make up for your trouble.”

As he spoke, he struck the cage again with his whip. “Sit up straight! Let the gentleman see your faces!”

The slaves all straightened—except one.

Like lightning, a figure lunged forward, grabbed a bun from the filth, and devoured it ravenously, uncaring of the grime.

“Damned dog of a slave!” the slaver roared, raising his whip—but Fang Jingyu caught his arm.

He squatted to get a better look at the wild-eyed man devouring the bun. His clothes were rags, soaked in blood and grime. Bandages wrapped his limbs, stained red. Fang Jingyu reached into the bars and tore off the bun’s muddy skin, offering the clean inner filling.

But the man was faster. He snapped forward and bit Fang Jingyu’s hand, like a starving hound. Fang Jingyu winced—felt sharp teeth scrape his finger.

The next second, even the muddy scraps were gone. A coarse but soft tongue licked his knuckles.

The man looked up. Fang Jingyu froze.

Even through the filth, his striking features couldn’t be hidden. Pale skin, shadow-dark eyes—but what truly stunned him was the double-pupiled right eye, glinting red like blood jade.

That eye—a double pupil, rare and ominous, said to belong only to sages or kings.

The man held his finger in his mouth, unmoving, gaze locked on Fang Jingyu in stunned disbelief. His body went rigid.

Just then, the slaver’s whip cracked down, leaving a shallow cut. “You bastard! Dared bite an officer?!”

The man released him instantly, retreating into the shadows of the cage, hiding his face like a wary cat, watching with one gleaming eye.

Fang Jingyu’s gaze dropped to the man’s shoulder—wrapped in bloody cloth. It matched the wound he had seen in the blood-soaked body during his investigation at Baicao Pass. The build, the speed, the dark eyes—it all pointed to the same vicious fugitive he had once fought.

He asked, “What’s his name? Where’s he from?”

The slaver scratched his head. “Bought him from Zui Chun. Said to be good at serving folks, but the madam never mentioned his name…”

Zui Chun. Fang Jingyu instantly recalled the assassin who’d tried to kill Yu Ji that night.

One slave suddenly piped up, eager to please. “Sir, we don’t know his name—but he once said who he was.”

Fang Jingyu turned to look at him.

“He said he was… King Yama.”

In the corner of the cage, the man visibly shuddered. Then he bared his teeth in a vicious grin, trying to scare the slave into silence. But the others burst out talking:

“Yes, yes! He bragged about it!”

“Said he’s that infamous criminal everyone’s after!”

Fang Jingyu’s gaze was like a blade, stabbing into the hunched figure in the shadows. The man growled low in his throat, teeth bared.

Fang Jingyu narrowed his eyes.

After a moment, he turned to the slaver, pointed, and said:

“I’ll take this ‘King Yama.’ Two taels.”