HCAW 33

Chapter 33: Great Immortal Yonghe

Night had fallen. The heavens and earth were drowned in darkness. Before the grain-drying field, a sea of blood spread wide like a sheet of crimson satin. Firelight flickered, casting the shadow of a cloaked figure—eerie and still.

“Immortal…Yonghe?”

The Xian Mountain officers stood frozen. This name was far too familiar. It was said that Great Immortal Yonghe had gifted Penglai the seeds of the divine Ganmu tree, enabling the growth of sacred fruit. Throughout the land, people coveted the immortal nectar brewed from that fruit. Known as Immortal Elixir, a single draught was said to grant superhuman strength, cure incurable ailments, and extend one’s lifespan. Great Immortal Yonghe was revered by the people—worshipped as a living god of Penglai.

But… wasn’t the Immortal supposed to dwell in the Penglai Immortal Palace, enshrined and honored by the imperial family? Why would he be hiding here? What’s more, this cloaked man had just called himself the leader of Da Yuan Dao—a heretical sect abhorred by the current emperor, whose followers preached of a utopia beyond Penglai’s Heavenly Pass and incited the masses to flee the realm.

How could the leader of such a sect bear the title “Great Immortal Yonghe”?

The cloaked man noticed their silence, their shaken expressions, and chuckled derisively.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“Great Immortal Yonghe is the sun and moon of Penglai, whose light graces all the land. A base wretch like you dares to claim his name?” one of the officers shouted in fury.

“The being enshrined in the Immortal Palace is merely this Immortal’s image,” the man said coldly. “My true form is not there. That scoundrel of a national preceptor stole my name to flaunt his authority. As for appearances—this body is just a shell. Or perhaps…”

He tilted his head slightly. Though his face remained hidden in shadow, an oppressive, skin-piercing chill swept over the officers like a storm, making every hair stand on end. He sneered:

“Do you dare look directly upon this Immortal’s golden body?”

Everyone recoiled instinctively. Cold sweat formed on the one-eyed man’s brow. Behind the cloaked figure, the bubbling cauldron steamed with black porridge, where strange slivers of flesh danced as if alive—grotesque and uncanny.

“What is that? What did you feed the walking meat?” the one-eyed man asked grimly.

The Immortal laughed softly. “Just meat porridge.”

“Why did you give it to them?”

“Penglai suffers cruel winds and bitter snow. I saw their hunger and sorrow and could not bear it. So I offered porridge—was that not a great act of mercy?”

“If it’s just porridge, why do they go mad after eating it?”

“It’s not madness,” the Immortal said lightly. “The porridge is hot—they probably burned their tongues. But it’s good porridge—fortifies the body. That meat… is my flesh. Once consumed, they grow stronger… and begin to remember.”

His voice sank lower and lower, melting into a sinister rustle of laughter. The officers couldn’t make sense of his words, but the one-eyed man pressed on:

“Remember what?”

Suddenly, the Immortal burst into shrill, raspy laughter—like metal scraping across ice.

“The past of Penglai! Eat this porridge and you’ll remember everything! Penglai is doomed—soon it will become a land of snow and death. But the fools in the Immortal Palace ignore the truth! They hunt me and my followers like dogs!”

The cold wind howled, dead leaves swirling like the footfalls of vengeful spirits. The chill bit deep to the bone. Even trained warriors like the officers trembled. This so-called “Great Immortal Yonghe” did not seem like a man at all—but some being beyond the mortal realm, something closer to a ghost or a god. An urge to kneel and prostrate themselves crept up unbidden.

They stood frozen like statues, the entire field sunk in dead silence.

Then the “Immortal” placed down the bowl and slowly stepped forward. The officers instinctively shrank back—only Chu Kuang stood unmoving.

The cloaked figure walked up to Chu Kuang and raised a gloved hand. His fingers slowly brushed aside Chu Kuang’s messy hair, with a strange tenderness. From where the others stood, they couldn’t see their expressions—but they could see the Immortal’s gloved fingers pause at Chu Kuang’s right eye, lingering there.

He smiled and said softly:

“You and I… are the same kind. You must’ve eaten my porridge once, haven’t you?”

Fang Jingyu was thoroughly bewildered by the exchange, but Chu Kuang appeared entirely unfazed. At that moment, “Great Immortal Yonghe” drifted toward Xiao Jiao. His movements were strangely weightless, as if he bore no feet, gliding on a cloud of mist. Xiao Jiao’s face crumpled in fear, squeezing tears from her eyes like wrung-out cloth.

Great Immortal Yonghe said to her:

“I am quite fond of you. You carry the bone of the Way and the bearing of an immortal—you can hear the voice of Heaven.”

Xiao Jiao stammered, “What salted pork ribs? I don’t understand!”¹“Bone of the Way” (道骨): someone with the natural endowment to follow the Dao—a person with extraordinary spiritual aptitude. “Bearing of an immortal” (仙姿): divine grace, the appearance or demeanor of a transcendent being. “Voice of Heaven” (天語): the ability to comprehend divine will or cosmic truths. she mishears or misinterprets the highbrow phrase “bone of the Way” (道骨, dao gu) as “pork ribs” (排骨, pai gu).

The Immortal let out a hoarse laugh. “To meet here is a sign of fate. Very well, I’ll gift you the seasoning for the meat porridge.” He extended a hand and suddenly seized Xiao Jiao’s wrist.

She thrashed like a startled cat, trying to pull away, but her limbs went weak without warning. Helplessly, she watched as “Great Immortal Yonghe” pressed a small pigskin pouch into her hands. A foul stench wafted from it, and something writhed inside—black fluid slowly seeping from its seams.

Xiao Jiao shuddered violently and tried to drop it, but the Immortal said:

“This is a treasure of great rarity. When the day comes that you achieve enlightenment, you’ll understand its worth. This is this Immortal’s token of goodwill—if you carelessly discard it, heh heh…”

Xiao Jiao froze, gripped by terror, left holding the pouch in a stupor as tears streamed down her face. Whatever was inside the pouch squirmed more frantically, as if it were a beating heart, pulsing with dreadful rhythm. She couldn’t hold it and dropped it to the ground.

The Immortal’s smile vanished, and an even colder aura seeped from his body. At the same time, the one-eyed man noticed a dark mass creeping around them like clouds of ink. A closer look revealed it was the walking meat—those bloodstained, flesh-mangled wretches with wild eyes and crimson irises. They swarmed around the group like a living wall, hemming them in.

The one-eyed man knew things were about to go south. He swiftly raised his heavy warbow and notched an arrow, aiming straight at “Great Immortal Yonghe.”

Yonghe’s voice turned frosty:

“You come here in the name of the Penglai Prefecture. So this… is the Immortal Palace’s attitude toward me?”

The one-eyed man hesitated, lips twitching, but before he could reply, another officer barked back:

“As it should be! ‘Great Immortal Yonghe’ lives for a thousand years and shields Penglai from fire and frost—you dare impersonate such a sacred name?”

Yonghe chuckled coldly. “Fools who can’t see the mountain before them. If you dare defy a god, then this Immortal shall not spare your lives!”

With a wave of his hand, the Zou Rou swarmed forward like hornets. The one-eyed man’s brow was drenched in cold sweat. He muttered, “We may not have caught King Yama today, but this is just as big a fish.”

Fang Jingyu shouted to the others:

“Form up in square formation! Fall back toward the village gate!”

They didn’t yet know the enemy’s nature, and with the Immortal’s origin unknown, it was no time to linger. The officers gripped their spears and horn-carved bows, shielding the others as they fought their way back against the crazed onslaught.

The porridge had clearly had some effect on the walking meat, making them terrifyingly strong, their limbs harder than iron. In a matter of moments, several officers had their spears snapped clean in two. A single punch from the monsters shattered ribs like sticks.

The attack crashed over them like a tidal wave. Just as they were about to be overwhelmed, a gleam of pale light shone through the dark.

It wasn’t moonlight—it was swordlight!

Fang Jingyu, blade in one hand, tore off the rushes-wrapped sword from his back. Hanguang burst from its sheath, its gleam cold and clean as moonstone, scattering like falling blossoms. The sword sliced through the walking meat as if through soft clay. In mere moments, a cluster of them lay motionless on the ground.

While the officers retreated, Fang Jingyu pressed forward, wielding Hanguang like a radiant crescent. He shouted:

“Go! I’ll cover you!”

They cast him grateful looks. Fang Jingyu was always like this—unafraid to step into danger.

Chu Kuang didn’t fall back either. He stayed close behind Fang Jingyu, snatching a hornbow from another and loosing arrows to support his advance. But the wound on his head throbbed at last, and several arrows missed.

Just then, “Great Immortal Yonghe” let out a chilling chuckle and leapt like a spring-loaded trap, cloak billowing. From beneath it burst several black tentacles, whipping toward Fang Jingyu.

He scrambled to block them with blade and sword—but each blow was crushing. These weren’t ordinary limbs. If Hanguang weren’t forged from Western Emperor’s iron, it might have snapped then and there.

Then Fang Jingyu narrowed his eyes—and recoiled in horror.

Those weren’t arms or legs. They were thin, slick black tentacles, glistening with foul slime and stench—writhing like octopus limbs.

What in the world was this “Great Immortal Yonghe”?

Suddenly, a tentacle lashed toward Chu Kuang behind him, shrieking as it flew. Fang Jingyu had no time to think. He threw himself sideways, slamming Chu Kuang out of the way.

In that instant, the wind of his sword swept up the Immortal’s hood—and Fang Jingyu saw the face beneath.

It was a face to shatter the soul with terror.

The flesh was like mud, shapeless and blurred, with no chin. Embedded in it were dozens of scattered white spots.

No—not spots. Eyes.

Eyes bubbled and rolled like boiling water, each iris a different color, and they all turned toward Fang Jingyu in unison.

His heart seized with fear. This—this thing—was no human being.

“Tight-lipped Gourd!” Xiao Jiao’s voice rang out behind him, panicked and distant.

Fang Jingyu suddenly lost his footing. He toppled. His limbs felt limp, like he’d returned to the days of his childhood, plagued by soft-bone sickness.

Chu Kuang caught him mid-fall, cradling him in his arms. A wave of searing pain tore through Fang Jingyu’s chest.

He looked down—and saw blood blooming across his robes.

A thin black tentacle from “Great Immortal Yonghe” had pierced straight through his chest.

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  “Bone of the Way” (道骨): someone with the natural endowment to follow the Dao—a person with extraordinary spiritual aptitude. “Bearing of an immortal” (仙姿): divine grace, the appearance or demeanor of a transcendent being. “Voice of Heaven” (天語): the ability to comprehend divine will or cosmic truths. she mishears or misinterprets the highbrow phrase “bone of the Way” (道骨, dao gu) as “pork ribs” (排骨, pai gu).