HCAW 93

Chapter 93: True and False, Indistinguishable

The wind was gentle, the sun warm, and the sky a brilliant blue. The two packed their things and prepared to set out.

The territory of the Three Xian Mountains was not large. The old nun had drawn them a map; following the marked path, they would soon reach the bridge. Crossing that would take them into Daiyu. Dressed in the garb of Daiyu’s assassins, they trudged through the wilderness. Before leaving, Fang Jingyu looked back one last time at the ancient temple. Black shadows crowded the view—hundreds of tiny eyes blinking rapidly, fixed on them. The monks waved them off, refusing to disperse, calling out:

“See you again!”

Even after they had walked far, Fang Jingyu turned back and saw the shadows still standing there, gazing at them with all their heart and soul. Beneath the green mountains like a painted screen, the dark figures appeared like an uneven stroke of black ink on rice paper.

These were pitiful, miserable, almost inhuman beings, abandoned in a place of withered grass and cold mist, like wandering souls in the wilderness. Fang Jingyu felt a bitterness and chill in his heart. A premonition stirred within him—this would certainly not be their last meeting.

The forests of Yuanqiao were dense, the shade deep. After several days of trekking through the mountains and crossing the bridge, the two finally arrived at the gate of Daiyu Town. Travelers stood at the gate with travel permits in hand, leading mules and donkeys loaded with cotton cloth and saltpeter pots, their faces dusty and worn. The two, having taken travel documents from the assassins they killed, encountered no trouble. The guards at the gate, seeing the peach emblem on their clothing, changed expression immediately. One stepped forward respectfully and said, “Honorables Officials,¹ 大人 (dàren) is a respectful title for officials or people of high status. thank you for your hard work on your mission outside the gate!”

Fang Jingyu asked in a low voice, “What did you call us?”

The guard panicked, thinking he had misspoken. “Forgive me, my lord! Loose tongue, that’s what I’ve got! Ah—of course, you’re trying to keep your identities hidden! I shouldn’t have spoken so casually.”

“You know what we went out to do?”

“Wasn’t it a task from the Gu Bi Guard? That’s all I know—I swear I don’t know any more details. Please, my lords, have mercy…”

Having gotten the information he wanted—that the assassins in Da Yuan Dao garb were under the Gu Bi Guard’s command—Fang Jingyu instantly put on a frosty expression and said coldly, “If you know our mission is secret, why flap your lips like that? Shut up and scram!”

The guards, terrified out of their wits, fled from him like scalded dogs. Chu Kuang smirked and remarked sharply, “Empty posturing.”

Fang Jingyu replied, “That’s called clever strategy.”

Merging with the crowd, the two entered Daiyu—and were instantly struck speechless by what they saw.

Under vermillion-roofed gates flowed a river of tourists and traffic. Thousands of lanterns, countless pavilions, endless incense. Every five steps stood a glazed-tile deity statue, surrounded by red arrow flowers clustered under the eaves like a sea of burning flames.

Below, main shops, side stalls, colorful buildings, and pleasure halls stood crammed together. Signs and banners jostled in layers—pasted together in a riot of colors, the whole scene looking like an embroidered, gold-trimmed robe. The alleys were packed with black-haired heads, surging like boiling porridge. The roar of voices overwhelmed the ears—hawking, haggling, singing—interweaving into a giant net that enveloped them completely.

Fang Jingyu couldn’t help but exclaim, “This place is even more prosperous than Penglai!”

Penglai was the imperial capital—supposedly the most luxurious of the Five Xian Mountains. But compared to Daiyu before them, it wasn’t even close. Chu Kuang, however, surveyed the streets with a shadowed gaze and said nothing.

They reached a temple bustling with worshippers. At its gate stood statues of Narayana and Vajra Guardian (bodhisattvas). Along the corridor walls were colorful paintings of Guanyin (Bodhisattva or Buddha in some forms) wielding a halberd and White Jambhala (Wealth deity) with a staff. The statues were carved from fragrant camphor wood, glowing gold and jade, bright and resplendent. Fang Jingyu thought to himself: This place looks like Jinshan Temple in Penglai—just more raucous.

Inside the Hall of Heavenly Kings were prayer cushions. Worshippers came in endlessly, bowing and offering oil money, kneeling like rows of fat buns. The temple enshrined the Heavenly Kings and Skanda, but unlike Penglai’s deities, their halos didn’t shine like flames but spread like muddy puddles. Their topknots were misshapen, most covered by large rain hats embroidered with peach patterns. Fang Jingyu was puzzled—these outfits looked just like the Da Yuan Dao assassins!

That wasn’t the only strange thing. Walking through the temple, he noticed the painted beams and eaves depicted Great Immortal Yonghe—an enormous yellow-bodied, red-beaked nine-legged octopus with six or seven red eyes and limp claws like mud. The worshippers chanted:

“Heaven and earth we serve, we honor the great one—grant us grain and peace.”

Some offered jerky and wine, skewering a roasted calf on a stick and laying it before the statue. “May the great one protect Daiyu’s peace and bless the Xian Mountains…”

The worshippers bowed devoutly, eyes shut in prayer. The hall was packed, not even a standing spot to spare. Fang Jingyu turned to Chu Kuang and whispered, “The people here really do worship the Da Yuan Dao.”

Chu Kuang nodded and whispered back, “Those assassins you interrogated said the same—Da Yuan Dao is the state religion of the Three Xian Mountains. Their doctrine is that ‘beyond the Xian Mountains lies the Peach Source.’ I wonder what kind of Peach Source they dream of.”

As they strolled along the corridor, they passed vibrant murals—stone blue, cinnabar, and gold leaf mingling in dazzling splendor. One wall showed a group of people crossing the sea, heading for distant lands. At the end of the painting was a scene of green lattice windows, red walls, jade palaces, and floral cities—depicting Daiyu itself. Fang Jingyu looked at it and said thoughtfully, “So their ideal Peach Source is Daiyu itself. A classic case of the seller praising their own goods.”

After touring the temple, Fang Jingyu was troubled—where should they stay? New to this place, with no local contacts, sleeping under a bridge or near a kitchen fire might provoke the city’s enforcers. While he was still thinking, Chu Kuang clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Come on, let’s find an inn and settle in.”

“New to this place—where’d you get money?” Fang Jingyu asked, suspicious.

Chu Kuang opened his palm, revealing a handful of copper coins. “Just a little of money I quietly took from the offering box. I’m borrowing it for now—once I’ve made a name for myself here, I’ll return it.”

“You filthy little thief! Put it back!” Fang Jingyu scolded. Chu Kuang chuckled, flipped his wrist, and tucked the temple money into his sleeve, then held both hands out to him and said, “If I put it back, how are you going to eat and sleep? You planning to live on wind and dew—or maybe suck people’s spiritual energy? Or hey, why don’t you turn me in to the authorities for a reward? With my burrowing skills, I’ll escape the prison in no time, and you can turn me in again. Rinse and repeat—we’ll have endless silver and gold. Too bad this isn’t Penglai or Yingzhou. King Yama’s name isn’t wanted here, so that plan won’t work.”

Fang Jingyu sighed regretfully. “Shame. In this place, we’re just nameless nobodies.”

Chu Kuang laughed. “You mean I’m the nobody. You’re Emperor Bai’s son—a fine cut of plump meat waiting to be carved. You’re famous across every Xian Mountain! Hey, maybe this time I should turn you in—I’d probably fetch a better reward.”

Fang Jingyu glared at him. Chu Kuang stood crooked and slouched, looking relaxed and utterly shameless. His skin was thick as a city wall—there was no arguing with him. So Fang Jingyu swallowed his frustration and let it go.

The two moved through the dense crowds. Daiyu was packed with people—hemp shirts, long robes with cross collars, cloud-shouldered vests, sleeves like canopies. Sweat, date incense, firecracker smoke—countless smells mingled in the air.

They stopped before a rammed-earth wall covered in wanted posters. They checked each one carefully, but there was no “King Yama” or “Emperor Bai’s son” mentioned—only vague arrest notices warning that shadows had been spotted in the outskirts of Daiyu, suspected heretics who did not believe in the Da Yuan Dao and preyed on travelers for wealth and lives.

Fang Jingyu thought, Not a single one of these posters has our names, and Chu Kuang still wanted to turn me in? We really are just nobodies now—not even worth a few coppers.

Since they were so unknown here, they took off the rain hats and cloaks embroidered with the Da Yuan Dao’s peach pattern and strode openly through the streets. But two things were urgent: money and information. Money was easier to get—begging, odd jobs, or robbery all worked. But gathering information was trickier. In the end, it was Chu Kuang who told Fang Jingyu that if they wanted to find someone, the quickest way was to visit the chicken-feather dens and brothels—those places were full of beggars and courtesans with ears to the ground.

So they followed the main street forward—golden towers, green waters, red railings all around. As they reached the northern end of Pingkang, they heard the sharp whoosh of riding whips and a shrill, unpleasant voice shouting:

“You little maggot! You bastard! Watch me beat you to death!”

The two tensed and quickly circled a wall to see—only to be struck by horror at what lay before them. In front of a large, oil-painted blue gate stood several stone-based flagpoles, from which hung several blood-drenched corpses, dried like jerky. Flies buzzed thickly, pecking and swarming over the bodies.

They had seen such sights before in Penglai. The National Preceptor loved to hang executed heads and corpses high during autumn executions as a warning. The common people called it “meat-banner punishment”—dry corpses fluttering in the wind, a grisly, terrifying display. But the National Preceptor often twisted justice and framed innocents, so this punishment was hated in Penglai.

Now, they saw a young boy kneeling on the ground, his back arched like a shrimp. His face was beaten into a bloody mess, the once-delicate features marred by crooked welts. Blood frothed from his mouth, and he was barely breathing. Nearby stood a man with a whip—short and round, with a belly like a metal plow. He wore elegant, dark robes with elaborate knee panels—ornate and flashy. Around him stood a wall of armed guards, swords at their sides, still and silent.

Fang Jingyu sucked in a breath and ignored Chu Kuang tugging at his sleeve to stay out of trouble. He stepped forward boldly between the man and the boy and shouted:

“Stop!”

The man with the whip flinched, but when he saw who it was, he let out a sneer and struck a smug pose. “Who do you think you are, meddling in my business?” He looked Fang Jingyu over and added, “Strange—you look a bit familiar.”

Fang Jingyu stood protectively in front of the bloodied youth, eyes blazing. “That’s what I’d like to ask you. Who are you, to treat a child so cruelly?”

“That brat suddenly pulled a dagger on me—he was about to commit murder! I almost died by his hand! I’m going to make him a human swine, hang him on that stone pole, and let him cry for three days straight—let the maggots feast on him!” the fat man snarled.

The boy, barely clinging to life, lifted his blood-covered face with a look of searing hatred and croaked:

“It was you—you killed my family! You framed my father… had him chopped to pieces… My sister was dragged into your room, abused day and night… and finally hung like a meat flag too! You destroyed my family—I came to take your life! That’s mercy for what you’ve done!” His voice was hoarse and trembling, but his eyes were bloodshot with rage. “You bastard! Give me your life!”

His wrists were broken, but his fingers clutched a thick iron dagger like they were made of steel. He had tried to stab the fat man, only to be beaten and restrained by the guards.

Fang Jingyu saw the boy’s miserable state and found no trace of deceit in his demeanor. He turned to the fat man with a stern face. “Is that true? Did you really kill his family?”

The fat man spat in the boy’s face, then slowly raised his eyes toward Fang Jingyu with contempt and snapped:

“Who the hell are you to speak to me like that?”

Fang Jingyu didn’t strike him, but cupped his hands politely. “I’ve long lived outside Daiyu. May I ask your honored name?” His tone was cautious—he could tell from the man’s extravagant clothing and commanding air that this was no ordinary person. Even if they meant to act heroically, he and Chu Kuang needed to know who they were dealing with.

The fat man scoffed and crossed his arms, sneering, “You don’t even know my name? What a worthless backwater wretch!” Then he added, with arrogant pride, “You should listen carefully, lowborn scum—I am the crown prince of the Immortal Palace, the blood heir Emperor’s Bai, future sovereign of the Xian Mountains!”

He threw back his cloak, revealing a vermilion belt at his waist, adorned with jade pendants and shining embroidery. His silk robe sparkled with gold, and on it was stitched a flying dragon—the imperial dragon crest of the former dynasty. The guards all drew their swords, blades flashing like rainbows at midnight, their points aimed at Fang Jingyu.

And then, standing proudly, the fat man declared:

“My name is Ji Jingyu.”

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  大人 (dàren) is a respectful title for officials or people of high status.