HCAW 106

Chapter 106: North Wind and Falling Snow

In the underground chamber, a yellow candle flickered. A girl and a little nine-tentacled octopus lay among scattered pages, reading a picture book together.

It was a book retrieved from the top of a dusty firwood shelf—found and brought down by the little nine-tentacled octopus. Within it were paintings of endless mountains and rivers. Xiao Jiao’s eyes sparkled as she looked, and she said to the octopus:

“So the outside world really is full of beautiful mountains and rivers. I’ve never seen any of it with my own eyes!”

The little nine-tentacled octopus boasted, “If I had the strength, I’d take you across this whole land to see all its splendid sights!” Then it lowered its head and added, “But I’ve been imprisoned too long, and most of my blood sacs were harvested. I’m very weak now.”

Xiao Jiao furrowed her brows in worry. “Are the people outside really that bad?”

The little octopus shook its head. “Some are kind—like you. And someone named Ji… Ji Zhi.” Seeing Xiao Jiao tilt her head in confusion, it added, “You might know him by another name. Many call him ‘Emperor Bai.’”

“I know him! His name shows up in the books!”

“Among all emperors past and present, he was one of the kindest. When he ruled, he decreed that our blood and flesh were never to be used as ‘Immortal Elixirs.’ I was moved by his grace and gave him some of our nectar. Though it wasn’t as effective as our flesh and blood, it could still cure illness and strengthen the body. Emperor Bai didn’t keep it to himself—he named it ‘Immortal Elixir’ and granted it to the guards of Xian Mountain.”

“Nectar?”

The little nine-tentacled octopus suddenly extended two tentacles and stretched its mouth wide open. After gagging and retching for a while, it vomited a small puddle of pitch-black liquid. Then it said proudly, “Look, this is the nectar that prolongs life and cures illness!”

Xiao Jiao cried out, “That’s no ‘Immortal Elixir’ nectar—it’s your spit! It’s disgusting!”

Offended, the little octopus argued, “I’m not like you mortals! I don’t drool stinky saliva—this is real celestial nectar!”

After bickering for a while, Xiao Jiao sighed and gave up. “Fine, fine. It’s not like I’m the one eating it. Where were we just now? You were talking about Emperor Bai and the mountains and rivers outside.” She suddenly slumped down, staring gloomily at the ink-splashed mountains in the book. “All of it is too far from me.”

The underground chamber fell silent for a moment.

Then the girl asked again, “By the way… do you know what ‘Qin Jiao’ is?”

Feigning erudition, the little nine-tentacled octopus answered, “It’s a type of pepper, said to come from Qinchuan in the Nine Provinces.” The girl nibbled on her finger and asked again, “What’s a pepper?”

“It’s a bright red fruit. When you eat it, your mouth feels like it’s on fire!”

Xiao Jiao was instantly intrigued. “Then my parents must have really loved to eat it to give me that name. In this freezing place, eating something that feels like fire in your mouth must be wonderful!”

As she said this, both of them unconsciously looked toward the small window set in the wall. Outside, the wind howled, and snowflakes fluttered like moths through the air. Though they couldn’t clearly see the view outside, Xiao Jiao knew it was a land of bitter cold, where even a drop of water froze solid.

The girl lay back down and stared at the album in a daze, murmuring, “Living here… many of the disciples treat me like filth or ashes. They kick me every day. I want to go to the Nine Provinces. I heard there’s a paradise there—no one will beat me, it’s not as cold as here, and there are lots of ‘Qin Jiaos’ that warm you up from the inside when you eat them.”

Her figure was thin and lonely, like a weed growing in a crack at the base of a wall. The little nine-tentacled octopus quietly extended a tentacle and patted her head. Though it could heal external wounds, it could do nothing for a broken heart.

Suddenly, Xiao Jiao reached out, grasped its tentacle, and pressed her cheek against it. A wave of warmth surged through her, ticklish and tender. The little octopus had never been so close to a human before; its seven small eyes widened, and it stammered:

“Say… aren’t you afraid of me?”

“You told me so many stories about the outside world, kept me company, and comforted me. Why would I be afraid?”

“I don’t look like you humans… you’ve got two hands and two feet, but I have seven eyes and nine claws…”

“I’ve heard there are many strange people and things out there. Maybe there’s someone out there who was born with hands and feet just like yours.” Xiao Jiao chuckled, and the little nine-tentacled octopus laughed too. In the candlelight, one small hand and one inky black tentacle twined tightly together, inseparable.

Time flew. In the underground room where day and night blurred, laughter often echoed. On days without rituals, the little nine-tentacled octopus would sneak through the mouse hole to be by Xiao Jiao’s side, reading and telling stories with her. They played finger games by moonlight, folded leaf whistles from the ligustrum leaves blown in through the window, and chased each other like cats at play. But the little octopus grew weaker by the day, and its crawling slowed.

The Da Yuan Dao members treated Xiao Jiao cruelly. Whenever something displeased them, they used her as a punching bag. They brought in different punishment rods and tried them all on her, laughing as they judged which left the deepest wounds, deciding to use that one in the disciplinary chamber. To them, the life of a fugitive disciple was as worthless as grass. The underground chamber was splattered with blood. New wounds piled atop old ones on Xiao Jiao’s body, and she was beaten until she was barely clinging to life.

One day, when the little nine-tentacled octopus crawled through the mouse hole and saw her barely breathing, it panicked and rushed to her side, calling out, “Hey, hey, Xiao Jiao… Xiao Jiao!”

The girl opened her eyes just a sliver and whispered weakly, “Help… help me…”

The little octopus desperately stretched out its tentacle to brush over her wounds. But it was too small, and she had too many injuries—its effort was like a drop in the bucket. Xiao Jiao started coughing, her breath tinged with the scent of rusted iron—her organs must have been injured. Tears welled up in the seven small eyes of the little octopus. At last, it screamed:

“How can I save you? Your wounds are so grave, and I’m so weak…”

Then it suddenly realized something. It shoved a tentacle into its mouth, bit it off fiercely, and stuffed it into Xiao Jiao’s mouth. She coughed a few times and finally caught her breath.

In the days that followed, Xiao Jiao lay abandoned in the empty underground room, visited only by the little nine-tentacled octopus. It labored to widen the mouse hole and dragged down some offerings from the altar to feed her.

Thanks to the flesh of the little nine-tentacled octopus, her wounds began to slowly heal. When her mind finally cleared, she opened her eyes to find a small, mangled shadow before her. The little octopus was now thin and frail, missing three of its nine claws, but it grinned happily and said:

“You’re awake!”

Xiao Jiao sat up and gently cradled it in her hands. “But what about you? Why are you so badly hurt?”

The little octopus bashfully hid its remaining six tentacles behind its back and said, “I lost them crawling through the mouse hole. A rat bit them off.”

“Liar. You gave them to me. You said your flesh can heal wounds, so people crave it. And you’re already so tiny, yet you still gave me your flesh.” Tears welled up in Xiao Jiao’s eyes. “And now you lie, as if I’m a big rat.”

The little nine-tentacled octopus whispered, “Better to let you eat me than those ravenous wolves.” Xiao Jiao hugged him tightly, tears dripping down and soaking him through.

They leaned against the wall, listening to the wind and snow. As the wind swept across the plains, it sounded like someone plucking zither strings—desolate and mournful. In a lonely world, they were each other’s only warmth.

Suddenly, Xiao Jiao said to the little nine-tentacled octopus, “I want to escape.”

The little octopus was startled. Xiao Jiao asked, “What, don’t you want to escape?”

“Of course I do,” he said, “it’s just…” He looked at her battered body and fell silent. Though he still had a sliver of strength to flee, he couldn’t bear to let her, in such a fragile state, go with him.

Xiao Jiao smiled, her face flushed with a sickly red. “It’s all right. I won’t be a burden to you.”

She looked toward the sky, as if tracing an invisible map in the air.

“Rather than grow old in this place without knowing why, I want to set foot in the world outside. I want to see the sky and the earth, the Xian Mountains and the Ming Sea.” She suddenly cupped the little octopus in her hands and looked at him solemnly. “I want to see the mountains and rivers you’ve seen. Great Immortal, can you fulfill this believer’s wish?”

Faced with the prayer of such a young believer, the little nine-tentacled octopus felt joy unlike any he’d known before. He was elated, but his excitement quickly gave way to gloom.

“For me to take you and flee—it’s not entirely impossible. But do you know why I’ve never tried to escape until now?” he said, raising his claws. “Because my powers are nearly gone. To escape from this place…” He paused, then said, “I must eat a living human!”

He had thought this would scare off the sickly Xiao Jiao. After all, the outside world was bitterly cold—she might die the moment she stepped into it. But the girl immediately rolled up her sleeve and held her wrist to his mouth. “Then eat me. Take as many bites as you need!”

The little octopus stared wide-eyed. Little Jiao smiled. “You let me eat you, but I can’t let you eat a little of me? My flesh is much more tender than yours.”

In the end, the little nine-tentacled octopus gave in. He bit into her flesh and drank a few mouthfuls of blood. Human blood is the essence of life. After drinking it, he gradually regained some strength. He had always been butchered for his flesh—this was the first time someone had given back to him. Xiao Jiao asked again:

“Great Immortal, what about you? What is your wish?”

The little octopus blinked. People always begged him for things, but few had ever asked what he wanted. After thinking for a while, he said shyly:

“I want… I want never to be harvested again. I want a little house to live quietly in peace…”

And so the girl and the nine-tentacled octopus began planning their escape. When the disciples came to deliver food, Xiao Jiao secretly hid a metal spoon. Concealed by the firwood shelf, she began quietly digging at the mouse hole. Now that the octopus had some strength, he helped gnaw at the tunnel’s edge. As days and nights passed, they finally dug a small passage through.

One day, Xiao Jiao was finally able to squeeze her body through the hole and crawl out of the underground chamber.

When she emerged, she saw the vast sky above, with white birds scattered across the dome—sleek-winged terns. The light snow scattered like shards of jade. Her eyes widened. The world was blanketed in white from end to end.

It was her first time seeing the sky. In the underground chamber, everything had been small. The world was as small as its four walls, and the sky was only as big as a windowpane. Now that she stood in the open, she realized it wasn’t the chamber that had been small—it was herself.

She stood for a moment in a daze, then tightened the reed jacket around her, stuffed the tunnel’s entrance with gravel, and held close a small lidded bottle containing the little nine-tentacled octopus.

“We made it out!” she exclaimed to the bottle. “We’re seeing the world!”

But the bottle made no sound. The octopus had exhausted himself digging the tunnel. Though he had drunk a little of her blood, he hadn’t dared to drink much, and so his body had weakened visibly. Worried he would freeze in the snow, Xiao Jiao had tucked him into the bottle and kept him warm against her chest as she fled into the wilderness.

There were so many things she had never seen, so she looked around with wide eyes, taking in everything she could. The snow stopped. The sky was tile-blue, the trees sharp as blades, the wind dry and cold. A hawk hooted in the distance—everything delighted her.

But the joy of discovering a new world was soon worn down by the bitter cold. As she fled, she carefully used snow to cover her tracks. She didn’t know how many days and nights had passed. Her rations were gone, her limbs were stiff, and finally she collapsed into the snow.

She urged her body to move, but her hands and feet had gone numb. As she struggled, she heard footsteps in the distance and dogs barking wildly. Someone shouted:

“There she is! Found her!”

In that instant, Xiao Jiao felt as if she had fallen into a bottomless pit. She felt someone grab her arm and yank her up like a puppet, pulling her from the snow. Several Da Yuan Dao members sneered and laughed. One slapped her in the face:

“What a little brat—you ran off on your own and made us search all this time!”

Then came a storm of punches and kicks. The wounds that had only just begun to heal split open again. Blood stained her reed-fluff jacket red. Xiao Jiao felt despair. That jacket was something she and the little octopus had sewn together, stitch by stitch under candlelight, until their eyes turned red from fatigue.

Then she felt a chill. One of the disciples had torn the jacket apart, spilling the food scraps, a few fire-starting stones—and the little lidded bottle—onto the ground.

“What’s this?”

A cultist squinted at the bottle. Xiao Jiao panicked, afraid the octopus would be discovered. She threw herself forward and clutched the bottle tightly. “Don’t touch it!”

“Hand it over! The more you say no, the more I want to see!”

The punches and kicks rained down like a storm. Xiao Jiao groaned but refused to let go. The little octopus heard the commotion, but his body was too weak to move. The bottle lid loosened. He felt himself slip into a warm place—Xiao Jiao had quietly placed him into her mouth, hiding him beneath her tongue.

The scent of blood grew stronger and stronger. The little octopus heard the girl’s painful gasps. He wanted to crawl out and scream to stop the beating, but he was as fragile as a frost flower—one touch, and he’d vanish. He heard the blows cease. A cultist picked up the bottle from the ground and grumbled:

“Empty!”

“This little brat… protecting an empty bottle even as she died. How odd.”

Their voices faded into the distance. But the little octopus’s heart raced. He struggled to lift the girl’s jaw and crawled out of her mouth. The disciples were gone, their tracks lost in the snow. In the vast white field, Xiao Jiao lay curled in the snow, blood-soaked like a little sleeping kitten.

“Xiao Jiao—Xiao Jiao!”

The little nine-tentacled octopus cried out in panic. The girl’s face had taken on the pallor of death. He bit off his own tentacle and shoved it into her mouth, but no matter how he shook her, she didn’t move. Then he realized—his divine power could do nothing for the dead. This girl, still in the bloom of childhood, had died to protect him.

He had always been harmed by those who claimed to worship him, and now the one person who had treated him kindly was gone.

“Xiao Jiao… Xiao Jiao…” The little octopus sobbed, stroking her with his tentacle, but her wounds would not heal.

A blaze of fury rose in him. If not for those heartless disciples, how could Xiao Jiao have died? At last, the little octopus pried open her teeth and slipped inside her body. It was his last resort—perhaps he could bring her back to life. His divine consciousness began to dissolve. His body melted and flowed through her.

On the snowy plain, a girl staggered to her feet.

She was drenched in blood. Her red robe flapped wildly in the wind. She struggled to lift her arms, as if still unable to control her own limbs.

Her fingers twitched. In her muddled mind, she slowly began to remember who she was. She had been born in the Ming Sea, and had once witnessed the rise and fall of ages on Xian Mountains. She had been worshiped by tens of thousands under the name “Great Immortal Yonghe.” She looked at her pale fingers—only recently, they had been pitch-black sludge. She hadn’t saved the one she wanted to save; all she had done was raise a corpse.

Her consciousness did not belong to Xiao Jiao, but to Great Immortal Yonghe.

Suddenly, a piercing wail burst from her lips—a divine cry of grief. The wind lifted great flurries of snow, erasing all tracks. The new world the girl had glimpsed for the first and only time in her life was finally swallowed up in a vast, empty whiteness.