HCAW 122

Chapter 122: Furious Sea, Surging Tides

In Daiyu, brilliant garments filled the streets, carriages and horses flowed like dragons. Envoys from the Three Xian Mountains and their entourages clamored in the roads; merchants gathered like clouds. It was rumored that Gu Bi Guard had already selected an auspicious date—the twelfth day of the first lunar month—for the grand enthronement of the new emperor.

By tradition, a new emperor ought to be enthroned within a month of the previous emperor’s death, yet Daiyu had been leaderless for a long time. The chosen date was symbolic—it was the very day Emperor Bai had departed Daiyu for Guixu. The people of Xian Mountain had long awaited the arrival of this day.

Before the ceremony, the ‘Emperor Bai’s son’ was to offer prayers to Daiyu and Xian Mountain. The sunlight that day was gentle like flowing silk. Fatty Ji, clad in grand robes and wearing an imperial crown, stood draped in embroidered patterns of ax and bow, glimmering gold. Soldiers stood densely packed, each holding red silk banners. The ceremonial retinue stretched across the mountain’s base. Atop the divine altar, the presiding ritual officers stood at the front while several incense bearers knelt, holding boxes of incense.

Fatty Ji pinched a stick of incense between his fingers, but his heart was inexplicably uneasy. The ceremony had clearly been arranged for him. Once it concluded, he would be the king of the Three Xian Mountains—yet at this very moment, doubt gnawed at him.

Lately, his head had felt shrouded in mist, as if he had forgotten many things. He vaguely remembered a scene of utter chaos—a blood-soaked meat banner flapping in the wind, and a shadow emerging behind him, followed by a dazzling white sword tip piercing through his chest.

“It’s me, Your Highness.”

He heard the shadow speak softly, as the Hanguang Sword tore through his body, arcing through the air like a blood-red crescent moon.

“Because Your Highness was too unworthy, I have taken the liberty of seizing your throne.”

Fatty Ji woke as from a dream, shivering in cold sweat. Though he wore the finest imperial garments, at that moment he felt as if a thousand needles were pricking his flesh from underneath.

“Your Highness?” one of the incense bearers trembled, softly reminding him. Only then did Fatty Ji realize he had zoned out before everyone’s eyes. He hastily bowed again.

After the ceremony, Fatty Ji returned to his residence. The procession of the jade carriage and accompanying guards was grand and majestic. Once inside the main hall, he ordered his servants to help remove his robes. After changing out of his ceremonial attire and dismissing the attendants, he sat on a bed inlaid with jade, yet still felt uneasy. That assassination played again and again in his mind. If I really was killed, then who is the one sitting here now?

Thinking further, fragmented memories surfaced—ones he should not have had. He found himself amidst a battlefield of old—drums and horns blaring, warhorses trampling blood-soaked ground. He looked down at his own rough hands, raising a banner to charge forward, only to be crushed like any other nameless soldier. The memories vanished like morning dew, but his whole body ached, as though he had already died once.

Fatty Ji slapped his sweaty face and looked down at his ten fingers—white, plump, smooth. Nothing like those rough calloused hands from the illusion. He cried out:

“A dream, all dreams! I’ve just been dreaming, delirious nonsense!”

He staggered to a mirror, trying to steady himself—when something in the reflection caught his eye. Beneath the loose collar of his nightclothes, across his chest, ran a hideous sword scar.

Fatty Ji suddenly broke out in a downpour of sweat.

He touched the scar, trembling. Someone had indeed once run a sword through him, yet he had no memory of it—like a manipulated puppet.

_______

The wind was mild, the skies clear. The royal residence brimmed with lush greenery. In a cloud-roofed waterside pavilion, a gentle youth with a jade hairpin and green robes sipped tea slowly. A smile played on his lips, his brows were relaxed—he was evidently in a pleasant mood.

“Lord Gu Bi Guard, the corpse of the traitor Fang Jingyu has been delivered. How shall we dispose of it?”

“Hang it up. Make a meat-banner of him. Let all of Daiyu see: anyone who falsely claims to be the ‘Emperor Bai’s son’ will suffer the same fate—punished by thunder.” Gu Bi Guard replied lightly, sipping his tea again.

Though blessed with divine power that granted him vision and hearing across the land, Gu Bi Guard rarely used it. He preferred to speak directly with the puppets he had created—this helped him feel like an ordinary man from a century ago, not a monster who had lost his human form.

Gu Bi Guard asked, “How are the preparations for Prince Ji’s enthronement ceremony?”

“The inner court prayers have already been conducted. On the appointed day, envoys from Fanghu and Yuanqiao, along with all the court officials, will pay homage. Invitations have been sent, transport arranged—everything is ready.”

Gu Bi Guard nodded. Prince Ji was no more than a puppet on his strings. With Fang Jingyu dead and the soldiers from Yingzhou eliminated, a major threat was gone. From now on, everything would proceed smoothly. There was no one left who could threaten his seat on the dragon throne.

A soldier knelt and reported, “My lord, there’s one more matter. The vast sea has been rising lately—there’s been flooding.”

Gu Bi Guard considered this. “Is it the ao turtle stirring up the tides? Tell the fishermen not to go too far out, lest they get caught in a whirlpool.”

“Yes, I’ll issue the order and notify the villagers near the sea.”

Suddenly, another soldier rushed in. “M-My lord, the prisoner surnamed Chu—he’s probably reached his limit in the dungeon!”

The gentle youth’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“Likely too much ‘Immortal Elixir,’ and too harsh punishment. He’s now burning with fever. His wounds won’t heal, and nothing wakes him—he’s barely breathing.”

Gu Bi Guard said, “Even pricking his fingertips with needles won’t rouse him?”

The soldier bowed repeatedly. “We tried everything—even severing fingers didn’t work.”

Gu Bi Guard fell into thought. “Then hang him beside Fang Jingyu’s corpse as a banner too. But don’t hang him too high. And issue a proclamation to the people of Daiyu: tell them this man is called ‘King Yama’—a heinous criminal beyond words. Let them do with him as they wish—torture, mutilate, anything. Let’s see how the people deal with this great offender.”

The soldiers bowed and left. Gu Bi Guard lifted his patterned teacup again, savoring the tea’s fragrance. Soon, he put the cup down and casually picked up a small ornate eight-sided glass box. The refined youth played with it, unable to part from it.

Inside were four or five beads rolling about. On closer inspection, they were far larger than ordinary pearls—actually eyeballs, bathed in musk, preserved in millet wine so they would not rot.

Each iris was a brilliant blood red—every one of them double pupil.

______

The traitor was dead. All of Daiyu was alight with drums and music. Cymbals clashed, carriages clogged the roads. With envoys from Fanghu and Yuanqiao arriving, the city gates were no longer so strictly guarded. Residents swarmed the streets, spreading word of the coming ceremony.

Several new “meat banners” had been raised, drawing everyone’s gaze like glue. One corpse had its head wrapped in burlap, dangling lifelessly—it was said to be the rebel who had falsely claimed to be Emperor Bai’s son, shot through the skull with a fire lance by the elite officers of Daiyu.

Another banner hung lower. It bore a battered, blood-stained figure—a handsome face, still bleeding, chest rising faintly. Blood streaked down from his eyes. Daiyu’s officers proclaimed he was none other than the infamous ‘King Yama,’ a mass murderer.

The people of Daiyu, enraged by the tale, gathered like clouds. They hurled rotten vegetables, eggs, and jagged stones at him. ‘King Yama’ did not move—like a corpse—letting the stone-rain batter him into a mass of wounds, never once opening his eyes. The bolder ones brought sticks and horsewhips, striking him over and over. ‘King Yama’ did not retaliate. He hung limp like a broken rag doll.

In just a few days, the people tired of this dull spectacle. The crowd dispersed like scattering birds and beasts, leaving only the officers of Xian Mountain sighing and groaning.

Someone remarked, “The wretch looks so young—barely of age—and already he’s done so many vile deeds!”

“Take a closer look—his face is easy on the eyes. What a pity he’s so badly hurt. Doesn’t make a sound no matter what we do. If I were into corpse-humping, I’d have had my way with him a thousand times already!”

The Xian Mountain officers laughed and jabbed at the youth with water-fire rods, but tormenting someone completely unresponsive soon lost its fun. No one paid further attention to the two pitiful, tattered “meat banners.” The grand ceremony was imminent, and there were many matters demanding the attention of the people.

Time rushed by like a swift current. Before they knew it, the twelfth day of the first lunar month had arrived, and the enthronement ceremony was held as scheduled.

That day, clouds were thick and misty, frost wind bit sharply, and the sun hid behind layers of cloud. Heaven and earth seemed to sink into sleep, dim and lightless. The grand imperial procession set out from Daiyu with great fanfare. Fatty Ji had already performed the rites for welcoming the spirits, laying out jade and silk, and presenting offerings. At the fifth night hour, all officials had donned court robes. The ceremonial carriage were arranged—six horses pulled the golden imperial carriage, followed by thirty-six supporting carriages, with tall banners fluttering, forming a radiant torrent from the royal palace outward. Amid the sound of horns and drums, the sun broke through the clouds like a red-hot iron slab. The great bell rang. All people of Daiyu prostrated themselves, kneeling toward the grand hall where the new emperor was enthroned.

Envoys from Fanghu and Yuanqiao had all arrived, bringing ships laden with gold, silver, and others tribute. Countless gilded lacquered boxes were respectfully carried into the palace. On the grand hall’s dais, Fatty Ji wore a five-colored cloud-dragon court robe and a jade-inlaid crown with eastern pearls. He sat upon the dragon throne, receiving homage from all the officials.

Fanghu produced large eastern pearls, each round and luminous like the moon, worthy for enshrining Buddha’s heads. The envoys presented a gift unlike any other—a horn made from the horn of a sacred beast, adorned with an eastern pearl. Prince Ji saw it and was overjoyed. He laughed: “Back in the day, I was a horn-blower too—but never had a horn this fine!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, cold sweat broke out on his back. Horn-blower? When was I ever that?

His expression changed. In that instant, fleeting images flashed in his mind—skies overcast with warclouds, roads frozen in ice; plains blanketed in bones, him wading through fields of blood.

He saw himself ragged and gaunt, carrying someone on his back through the wilderness. His coarse hands gripped a bullhorn. The man on his back panted painfully. He murmured, “S-Sir, just hang on a little longer. The Emperor’s return march should reach us soon. If Emperor Bai passes through here, he’ll definitely take us back to Penglai.”

The man on his back, sickly and frail, whispered, “He won’t. Emperor Bai’s already forgotten this place. We could wait a hundred years, a thousand—and he still wouldn’t return. We’ll die here.”

After a moment, the man added weakly, “Don’t die, Skinny Ji. You’re the last of my men still alive.”

He replied, “If Lord Gu Bi Guard doesn’t let me die, then I won’t. Even if I die, I’ll be reborn as a meat-banner, hung high so my lord will see me.”

The man on his back laughed faintly. “Skinny Ji, if there’s a next life, I’ll help you become emperor. We’ll build a grand and glorious dynasty—startle His Majesty so bad he regrets leaving us behind.” He said, “Then I’ll eat every delicacy under heaven—not Skinny Ji anymore, but Fatty Ji!”

The two of them burst into laughter. Suddenly, his knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground. His body was too frail to go on—he was already on the verge of death. His vision dimmed. The man on his back shouted urgently for him, but the voice grew distant.

In the end, he whispered with trembling lips, “My lord… once I die, hang me up… so I can see Penglai…”

The vision lasted only an instant. Fatty Ji jolted awake and slapped his forehead to chase off the sudden dizziness. Where had he seen that scene? He was the emperor, had never set foot on the battlefield. Daiyu was a place of splendor and luxury—not the desolate ridges of that hallucination.

What’s going on? His heart pounded. He cast a trembling glance at Gu Bi Guard. Gu Bi Guard stood resplendent in pheasant-feather court robes, brows like willows, eyes like phoenixes, graceful and refined—nothing like the withered, despondent man in the vision.

While he was dazed, a warm, gentle gaze swept toward him. Gu Bi Guard smiled politely and said,

“Your Majesty, is something wrong?”

Fatty Ji steadied himself and wiped his sweat with his sleeve. “N-Nothing. Have Yuanqiao’s envoy present her tribute.”

An attendant shouted the order. An old woman entered the hall with her retinue. She was short and round, with tiny hands and feet, like a plump little bean. Dressed in green gauze with gold embroidery, a jade gourd hanging at her waist, she wore a kindly, smiling expression. Fatty Ji thought, So the imposter I hired has arrived.

The real Bi Bao Guard had always opposed him and clearly refused to appear at such a major event, so Fatty Ji found this fraud to stand in and serve as explanation to the commoners. The old woman smiled brightly and knelt to the floor. “Greetings, Your Majesty. I bring a humble gift. May it please you.”

Fatty Ji smiled. “A modest gift bears rich feeling. Bring it forth so I may see.”

A gold-plated bronze chest was presented, carved with silver flowers. Fatty Ji hadn’t expected much—after all, this fake was someone he himself had planted. What grand gift could she possibly have?

But at that moment, a stabbing pain shot through his head. Suddenly, he was struck by delirium. He saw black blood spreading across the room. The fake Bi Bao Guard was gnawed by a beast and collapsed on the ground. The palace swarmed with people, encircling a pale-faced girl in red. On Gu Bi Guard’s face was a cold, arrogant smile as he identified the girl as the culprit.

He was hallucinating again. In the vision, Bi Bao Guard had died. Yet the one before him stood unharmed.

Sweat poured from Prince Ji. These visions were too vivid—so real they made him feel as if he’d lived through them. What if those visions were real—and everything since has been a dream?

As he reeled in terror, an inner attendant rushed in at top speed and cried, “Y-Your Majesty… this lowly one deserves death for interrupting—but the Ming Sea… the Ming Sea is rising!”

Fatty Ji wiped his face and bellowed, “Get out, you witless fool! Tides rise and fall—that’s nature! You’d interrupt my coronation over that?!”

“But… but the sea—it’s roaring like never before! The water’s turned pitch-black. Nothing survives in its path—and the waves are heading straight for the grand hall!”

“What?!”

Fattt Ji leapt to his feet. The pearls on his crown swung wildly. Gu Bi Guard’s face also darkened. He stood tense, his expression grave.

Listening closely, the music faded. Mixed in were cries of panic and the roaring of the sea. The tide sounded as if it surged from a thousand miles away—earth-shaking. All these noises wove together into a net, trapping the stunned Fatty Ji.

Suddenly, the roar reached a climax. The Xian Mountain officers saw it: a towering wave like muddy sludge—dozens of zhang high—crashing toward them. Screams rang out. The black wave slammed into the palace hall. Beams creaked, dust fell. The whole structure seemed on the verge of collapse.

The officers of Daiyu stared in horror as, from the land the wave had swept across, emerged swarms of shadowy figures. Shapeless, like sludge, with oversized heads and six or seven tiny eyes each. The black shapes charged forward, howling—like beasts, yet with the discipline of soldiers.

In an instant, Daiyu was in chaos—people and horses thrown asunder. The shadows devoured everything in their path like a nightmare. Fatty Ji gaped as the black tide shattered on the palace roof. Rain fell in thousands of needle-sharp droplets.

And from within that black rain, a figure silently stepped forth.

Sensing it, Fatty Ji shouted in terror, “Who’s there?!”

He remembered the shadow that had once stabbed him in a dream. Now, that very figure emerged—wearing a dark cloak, its tattered hem fluttering like wings in the wind. His hair was gray-white, its tips like frost and snow.

It was a young man with eyes like icy springs. Half his face bore dark veins, like ancient totems—like living flames.

Gu Bi Guard suddenly tensed. In the presence of this youth, he felt as if he stood on the edge of an abyss. For all his years, even Xian Mountain Guards who had eaten tenfold of the Immortal Elixir had never made his hairs stand on end like this one did.

At that moment, this youth resembled no one more than the Great Immortal Yonghe.

He stepped forward, carrying the Vipashiyin Blade. Wherever he walked, the black tide followed. He had abandoned all the glory of being the “Emperor Bai’s son,” cast aside his future. Now, he was like an emissary of the underworld, invading this land step by step.

“Stop! Stop there!” The Xian Mountain officers charged, swords drawn, hundreds of blades pointed at him. They shouted, but hundreds of hearts beat in terror, desperate to flee their chests. Someone yelled, though his voice trembled, “You know where this is?! Take one more step and we’ll execute you on the spot!”

In a flash, black rain exploded. Countless shadows surged behind the youth. Seven-eyed, nine-tentacled monsters lashed out, striking down the soldiers with ferocity. Though he stood alone, he was like a boiling, furious sea.

At last, he stopped at the steps of the hall and looked up at Fatty Ji. His presence cut through the crowd, piercing to the heart.

“This commoner Fang Jingyu,” he said, eyes cold as winter stars, gaze sweeping across the assembly, not bowing nor kneeling, “has come to congratulate Your Majesty on your ascension.”