HCAW 114

Chapter 114: A Vow of Life and Death

Outside Daiyu city’s gate, the crowd roared and clamored. The Xian Moutain officers surged with murderous intent, barking orders for every passerby to present their travel documents for inspection. Not a single soul was permitted to exit the city—the defenses were impenetrable, for Gu Bi Guard had issued a command to capture two guests from Yuanqiao: Fang Jingyu and Chu Kuang. Gu Bi Guard accused them of plotting the death of Bi Bao Guard and fleeing afterward, claiming they were mortal enemies of Daiyu.

Lines of travelers shuffled forward with heavy steps. When it came time for a cloaked man to be inspected, the gatekeeper snapped, “Show your travel pass.”

The man produced the document. The gatekeeper examined it carefully but found no flaw. Still, something felt off, and he barked coldly, “What’s your name?”

“Isn’t my name already on the pass?” The man flicked his hand dismissively. “Chen Xiao’er.”

“What business brings you into the city?” the gatekeeper asked, immediately realizing the misstep. The man’s cloak was embroidered with a peach insignia—clearly a high-ranking member of the Da Yuan Dao sect.

A veteran Xian Moutain officer stepped over and hissed, “Let him through!”

The gatekeepers quickly stepped aside to let the man pass. He said nothing and strode through the gate. When he was gone, the old guard whispered to the gatekeeper, “Blind fool! We’re only to stop people from leaving, not entering. Haven’t you heard? Da Yuan Dao has a insect-wielder named Chen Xiao’er, deeply favored by His Highness Ji…”

Inside the city, narrow alleys and tight courtyards were steeped in a murderous hush. Cold light reflected off the green stone slabs like frozen ice. A few dim lamps flickered faintly within the houses, and occasionally a dog barked in the dark. Fang Jingyu wrapped his head and face tightly and moved quietly through the alleys.

In the end, he had left Chu Kuang behind and returned to Daiyu alone. The Mule had prepared Da Yuan Dao garments and forged documents for them—by chance, the identity Fang had been given was none other than Chen Xiao’er. Chen had once hidden in Tongjing Village, the very place where Fang had first met Chu Kuang. Everything that followed—their trials and turns—had begun there. Tongjing, Chen Xiao’er… this felt like a kind of fate, a circle returning to its point of origin.

Fang Jingyu had considered many options: fleeing with Chu Kuang to Yuanqiao or Yingzhou. But doing so would mean that in the time they ran, countless others would die because of him—and that was something he could no longer ignore.

“Xiao Jiao,” Fang Jingyu whispered, “are you awake?”

A soft crawling sound answered from his ear. Xiao Jiao yawned. “Been awake since halfway here.”

“Gu Bi Guard can inject his consciousness into people by injuring them. Can you do that?”

The little nine-tentacled octopus replied proudly, “This immortal is far more capable than him! A trifle like that? Laughable. If I still had my full divine power, I would’ve crushed him under my foot ages ago!” Fang Jingyu asked, “So how can your powers be restored?”

“Let me rest more,” Xiao Jiao said. “Or… if I were to feed on human flesh and blood as sacrifice, it might recover faster—but I don’t want to do that. If only I could return to my source…”

“What is your ‘source’?”

Xiao Jiao fell silent. After a moment: “I don’t remember. It’s probably the root of my divine power. But right now I’ve been disrupted by Gu Bi Guard’s Five-Ward Spirit Formation. My head’s all muddled—I can’t recall where it is.” Fang Jingyu said nothing.

A cold wind rose. He looked up and saw a row of bloody heads hanging from the city gate—meat banners strung tighter and denser than ever. Flies buzzed in a dark swarm. Fang Jingyu stared, frozen. Many of those faces… he knew them. These were people who had once smiled warmly at him in Yingzhou, who had fought beside him in the bloody battle against Yu Ji Guard.

Suddenly, a piercing wave of grief surged through his chest. They’d been gone only a few days—and so many had already died. Daiyu was no longer the lively place it once was—it was more like a vast graveyard. Fang Jingyu couldn’t bear to look. He lowered his head and hurried through the alley, when a thought struck like lightning:

What about Mule?

They’d been too focused on fleeing to consider Mule’s fate. Zheng Deli had once said Mule was clever and likely escaped the trap. Fang clung to a faint hope that he had found his way out of the tunnel and would catch up to them eventually.

If they could find Mule, he might help them survive Daiyu’s dangers. Fang Jingyu followed his memory and made his way to the seagrass house. A strange smell lingered in the air. He frowned and stepped to the window, calling softly:

“Mule?”

He lifted the reed mat that covered the window and was hit by a powerful stench—just like the one he’d smelled along the way, only stronger. A black swarm of flies buzzed within the house. He saw two feet hanging in the air.

Fang Jingyu froze. His whole body felt like ice. His gaze slowly crept upward and met two faces he knew all too well—now greenish with death, eyes bulging, tongues protruding, necks stretched long like goose necks.

Inside the dark and shadowy house, Mule and the old woman who lived with him had been hanged from the beam.

Suddenly, a buzz filled Fang Jingyu’s ears. All other sounds vanished. He stumbled and clung to the wall, staring blankly for half an hour. Xiao Jiao shouted frantically in his ear, “Tight-lipped gourd” But he only clutched his mouth and retched violently.

The world seemed brushed over with dark ink—everything before him turned gray and colorless. He walked through the alley, and for the first time, he truly felt like the iron bones had been pulled from his body. He was soft and hollow. The laughter and voices of old Daiyu were gone, replaced by distant wails of grief.

He wiped his mouth and said calmly to Xiao Jiao:

“No need to call me—I heard it all.”

Xiao Jiao asked nervously, “You… you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. This was likely done by Gu Bi Guard’s men. Right after we escaped through the tunnel that day, they killed Mule and his old woman—to make an example.”

Xiao Jiao stammered, “Gourd mouth, don’t be too sad. Everyone has their fate… the Mule’s death won’t be in vain.”

“What do you mean ‘not in vain’?” Fang Jingyu’s voice turned cold, his head lowered. He clenched his fists until his nails pierced the flesh of his palms, blood dripping steadily to the ground. “They should not have died.”

Xiao Jiao said nothing. A long wind swept past the alley’s mouth and window gaps, swirling around them like the weeping of mourners. A chilling feeling crept into Xiao Jiao’s heart—it was as if Daiyu itself had become a massive chessboard, and their side’s pieces were being devoured one by one, leaving them increasingly isolated.

“Great Immortal,” Fang Jingyu suddenly asked, “can you bring someone back from the dead?”

Had Xiao Jiao crawled from his ear just then, she would’ve seen the frost gathering in his dim eyes. “I… I can’t save the dead,” Xiao Jiao replied. Fang Jingyu then asked, “If you can’t save the dead, can you turn the living into the dead?”

Hearing this, Xiao Jiao shivered. She sensed something was wrong—Fang Jingyu’s heart had changed in just a few days, far removed from the person he once was.

Fang Jingyu said no more and strode into the city.

A wooden platform had been erected in the marketplace at some unknown time. Several iron poles stood tall, and severed heads dangled from them—all faces he recognized from the Yingzhou ship crew. Inside a large iron cage were still some survivors—half his followers had already been executed. The Xian Moutain officers were torturing the rest as sport. Some had mulberry bark pressed over their mouths and noses, with water poured over them. Others had been gutted and stuffed with reeds, which were then lit on fire. This punishment, called “Lighting the Sky Lantern,” became even more brutal when met with human fat.

The boatmen struggled in agony under the torture, while the Daiyu Xian Moutain officiers laughed like wolves drunk on blood. The commoners who watched were silent, eyes dazed and blank, as if newly awoken and lost in fog.

As they whipped the prisoners, the guards jeered:

“Ready to confess where the suspects who killed Bi Bao Guard are hiding? Join Gu Bi Guard’s ranks and you’ll be fed and clothed like lords!”

A mouthful of bloody spit hit one of them. A Yingzhou rebel cursed back: “We’ve been separated from those two for days! How would we know their whereabouts? And what’s so great about that bastard Gu Bi Guard? He’s not even fit to lick His Highness’s little toe!”

Another scream ripped through the air like something shattered atop the scaffold. Prisoners were dragged from the cage, hung high, their feet barely touching blocks of ice. They had to stretch with all their might to avoid strangulation. But bare flesh on frozen ice soon bonded, locking them in place. Their necks choked tighter and tighter. Some tried desperately to extend their bodies like pulled noodles; others bled as skin ripped inch by inch. The execution ground looked like a vision of hell.

And yet, the boatmen refused to yield. Even under torture, they shouted:

“That fat bastard Ji is nothing but a lackey of Gu Bi Guard! What ‘Emperor Bai’s son’? Lies! From birth to death, we pledge loyalty only to His Highness Fang Jingyu! He is the Son of Heaven, our dawn and our tomorrow!”

Another bellowed, “Even if we die in this life, in the next we’ll still charge forward for His Highness!”

Their voices rose above the groans of the dying, like sharp blades tearing through the cold wind.

Then, from the northern end of the scaffold, a slow, lazy voice sounded:

“This king doesn’t quite care for those words. Guards, strip the meat from their bones and hang their skeletons on the city walls!”

The crowd parted in fear. A golden bronze palanquin rumbled through the ranks, flanked by guards in black uniforms adorned with leopard patterns, their sabers gleaming. Inside Fattt Ji, wearing purple robes and a jeweled belt, smug and proud.

Seeing him, the prisoners spat at the ground and, despite their pain, sneered: “Oh look who’s here—a bald, greasy pig!”

Fatty Ji flew into a rage and leapt from his seat. “I’ve changed my mind—cutting their flesh is too kind. Bring the Cangyi dogs! Let beasts kill these beasts!”

Soon, the vicious Cangyi hounds arrived—long-haired and bloodthirsty, their breath stank of rot. The sight made one’s blood run cold. Ji clapped gleefully and barked, “Release them! Have them chew these lackeys into paste!”

The moment the leashes were loosened, the dogs lunged forward—until a sudden voice rang out from the crowd:

“Your Highness—report!”

Fatty Ji turned. His guards immediately yanked back the leashes, and the hounds snarled and thrashed. A Xian Moutain officer in black had dragged a young man in a peach-emblazoned robe from the crowd and reported, “Your Highness, I saw this man lurking suspiciously at the edge of the square. His appearance matches the wanted sketch. I’ve captured him.”

Fatty Ji beamed. “Is it the criminal Fang Jingyu?”

He stepped closer, but suspicion crept in. He’d seen Fang Jingyu before at the palace—agile and cunning. Could he be caught so easily? Suddenly, he stopped and whistled.

At once, guards surrounded the black-clad officer and the man he had seized. Blades struck in unison, skewering both the officer and the captive. Blood spilled. The officer screamed and fell dead.

Fatty Ji burst into laughter. “Ha! That was close. The scoundrel tried to trick me! Grabbed a porter, dressed him in his clothes, and disguised himself as a guard to get close to me! If I weren’t so clever, I’d have been fooled!”

He ordered the guards to pull off the captive’s cloak—beneath it was indeed just a trembling laborer, confirming his guess. They flipped the guard’s corpse too, revealing a face with sharp cheekbones and a big nose—nothing like Fang Jingyu.

So… had the guard simply captured the wrong person? Had he let paranoia get the better of him and slain two innocents?

But just then, the “corpse’s” ear twitched.

A trickle of black fluid oozed from the ear canal—no, not fluid—a tiny nine-legged octopus crawled out, muttering: “Tight-lipped gourd! You made me crawl into someone else—nearly got me killed!”

Fatty Ji’s heart clenched. He vaguely remembered Gu Bi Guard mentioning that Yonghe the Great Immortal was a seven-eyed, nine-legged thing capable of manipulating minds through possession. Could this creature be related?

Before he could think further, a sharp pain tore through his chest.

He looked down to see the tip of a sword piercing his heart.

Agony exploded like thunder. He turned with great effort—and saw a figure behind him. A handsome youth, brows like new moons, eyes sharp as autumn frost, held the Hanguang Sword in hand. He stood like a ghost emerging from the shadows—or a vengeful god of death.

“You… you!” In that instant, Fatty Ji understood it all. Fang Jingyu and the strange little monster were accomplices. The creature had possessed the guard to distract him while Fang circled behind for the kill.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Fang Jingyu said softly.

Then, with a swift motion, he drew Hanguang free—casting a sweeping arc of blood across the air.

“Because Your Highness has proven so unworthy, your subordinate has taken it upon himself to seize the throne.”