HCAW 50

Chapter 50 – Steady Rain Falling

The swift boat cut through the waves like a blade, slicing through wind and sea. Outside the cabin, rain and wind began to howl like wailing ghosts.

Inside the swaying cabin, Zheng Deli hung a paper lantern on the wall and sat cross-legged. By its light, he sorted through a bundle of bone pieces. The carved markings on the bones were uneven, as if recording the passage of time itself.

Xiao Jiao and Chu Kuang were already fast asleep, their soft breaths rising and falling like the tides. Fang Jingyu, however, silently got up and sat beside Zheng Deli.

Zheng Deli was startled, looking up to see a pale face. Fang Jingyu asked, “Ah Li, you left your home and followed us beyond Penglai—what about your family?”

Zheng Deli gave a faint smile and replied vaguely, “It’s alright. My father actually hoped I’d go out and see the customs of the other Xian Mountains.”

“We won’t be able to turn back from here on. Even so… you’re willing?”

Zheng Deli seemed struck by the question. After a heavy pause, he nodded. “Why wouldn’t I be? To travel with the heir of Emperor Bai—my life’s already worth it. Honestly, I wasn’t supposed to be named Zheng Deli¹鄭 (Zhèng): A common Chinese surname. 得 (dé): Means “to obtain,” “to gain,” or “to get.” 利 (lì): Means “benefit,” “profit,” or “advantage.” . When I was born, my father cast a divination and changed my name. Want to know what it was originally?”

Fang Jingyu shook his head. Zheng Deli curved his lips into a smile. “It was Zheng Chengyi²成 (chéng): Means “to accomplish,” “to succeed,” or “to complete.” 義 (yì): Means “righteousness,” “justice,” or “honor.” . Later, my father said he’d rather I live safely and gain profit than sacrifice for justice—so he named me ‘Deli,’ meaning ‘gain profit.’”

Fang Jingyu gave a quiet laugh. “Yet here you are with me—living for righteousness, not profit.”

Zheng Deli flushed. “The days you were captured, I was with Miss Qin at Jinshan Temple, watching a play. One of the lyrics said, ‘To ignore justice is cowardice; to repay kindness is righteousness.’ I didn’t want to live my life muddled. Better to die gloriously than live meaninglessly. If we’re friends, I should give my all—so I came.”

Fang Jingyu was touched by the seriousness in his expression. “Thank you.” Then he noticed the bone pieces cradled carefully in Zheng Deli’s hands and asked, “What are those?”

“They’re from my father—said to be a history of Penglai, carved by our ancestors.”

“What does it say?”

“I haven’t deciphered it all. The script and styles change frequently—clearly many people contributed to it. Some of the writing I’ve never seen before. I might need to visit several Xian Mountains to find scholars to help. But what I’ve read so far… some parts are strange.”

Zheng Deli then shared with Fang Jingyu that these bones actually recorded future events, which left Fang Jingyu astonished. Zheng pointed to one section. “This passage says Penglai will suffer a snow disaster in a few decades, but then an astronomical anomaly will occur—a second sun will rise, melting all the snow and turning it into a flood that swallows Penglai whole.”

“A flood?” Fang Jingyu frowned deeply. He knew Penglai had been growing colder, the snow more intense year by year—but how could that result in a flood? Then he remembered Yingzhou, which had also been submerged centuries ago. Could that have been a foreshadowing of Penglai’s fate?

“There’s something even harder to believe,” Zheng said, moving his finger. “Here it says: After the catastrophe, countless people will die, the Immortal Court will be swept away, Emperor Changyi will perish, the Mohe and Yu Yin Guards will die defending the throne, Penglai will lose all leadership—and the Yu Ji Guard will assume regency…”

Fang Jingyu blurted out, “How could that be!”

Another voice rang out indignantly, “Utter nonsense!”—Xiao Jiao had woken up and couldn’t help shouting, “That filthy rooster in charge of Penglai? As if!”

Zheng Deli stammered, “B-but everything else on the bones has come true… like Jingyu being revealed as Emperor Bai’s heir… or us escaping Penglai…”

The group fell silent, staring at the bone piece. The cabin grew eerily quiet, like a tomb. Finally, Xiao Jiao said with a trembling voice, “Could it… all be real?”

Fang Jingyu couldn’t help worrying too. If the bones were accurate and Penglai truly suffered a flood, what would become of the Langgan Guard and his former men? The Zheng family might be in danger too. He looked up at Zheng Deli, whose pale face revealed he was thinking the same thing.

Zheng Deli murmured, “Jingyu, are you wondering if disaster comes to Penglai, what will happen to our families? I don’t think we need to despair yet. Your father still has allies in other Xian Mountains, and mine is a shrewd man—surely we don’t need to worry too much.” Fang Jingyu nodded, but unease lingered in his heart.

The three discussed the bone script for a while, but grew more confused. Finally, they decided to set it aside. Zheng Deli added, “Jingyu, there’s something else I don’t understand.”

Fang Jingyu looked at him.

Zheng put on a contemplative face. “Even Emperor Changyi now acknowledges you as Emperor Bai’s heir—but that makes it even stranger. Emperor Bai left Penglai 81 years ago. How old was he then?”

“History says he was a young ruler, crowned in his teens, and left at around 18.”

Zheng nodded. “Right. If he was 18 then, he’d be 99 now. That’s seventy-six years older than you. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

It was odd. Fang Jingyu was silent for a while, then said, “Maybe he aged well. Some elders are still strong at seventy or eighty. And don’t forget, he could still wield the Vipashiyin Blade—a blade even the Yu Ji Guard couldn’t lift. He must’ve drunk a lot of ‘Immortal Elixir.’ That stuff’s supposed to prolong life. Maybe it worked.”

Just then, a low snicker sounded. Fang Jingyu turned and saw Chu Kuang awake, clearly mocking him. “Seventy-six-year-old dad,” he said with a laugh.

Fang Jingyu’s face darkened. This brat really had a mouth on him. If not for the fact he was a lifesaver, he would’ve given him a good beating by now.

Moments later, Mule reentered the cabin and informed them that Yingzhou was surrounded by reefs, and they’d soon encounter heavy storms and rough waters. He explained that Yingzhou was composed of floating ships linked by iron chains—most made from red mangrove wood. The closer to the central Qingyu Gao Mountain, the better the quality and materials. Refugees lived on the outskirts, on reed rafts, eating dried olives and often going hungry. As a result, Yingzhou suffered frequent strife and pirate attacks—they would need to remain vigilant.

Their next destination was a more stable floating vessel called the Fenglin, known for relatively calmer waves. It was said a shaman lived aboard—her name was Ruyi—and she never turned away outsiders entering Yingzhou.

Hearing this, Fang Jingyu couldn’t help wondering. The shaman was called “Ruyi,” and the Ruyi Guard, ranked sixth among the Xian Mountain Guards, was rumored to reside outside Penglai. Could this really be just a coincidence?

A sudden massive wave struck, breaking his train of thought. Outside, the crew shouted, “Lower the sails! Lower the sails!”

In an instant, the world tilted violently, as if an invisible hand had seized the ship and was shaking it with all its might. Thunder rumbled like a stampede of beasts. Torrential rain pounded the ship, crackling like exploding beans. Amid the terrifying tremors, the passengers cried out, collapsing into each other.

Fang Jingyu reached out and grabbed the Vipashiyin Blade. The saber was extremely heavy—when he’d first wielded it, it had nearly shattered his bones. Now, it served as an anchor, letting him steady himself. But the storm tossed the boat so violently he still lost his grip, crashing back against the cabin wall, his vision spinning.

Suddenly, he felt someone clutching his clothes tightly. Opening his eyes, he saw Chu Kuang, face taut with worry. This rascal who was usually all smirks was now genuinely looking out for him. Fang Jingyu also grabbed hold of him, and the two of them clung together in the dark, heaving cabin, hearts pounding.

Amid the storm, Fang Jingyu suddenly heard Chu Kuang ask:

“‘Minsheng’… what does that mean?”

“What?”

The roar of the sea drowned everything—like ten thousand war bells clanging at once. Fang Jingyu barely caught the sound of his voice. But even without clarity, something in his heart clenched. He quickly gripped Chu Kuang’s arm. “What did you say?”

Chu Kuang hesitated. Back before they left Zhenhai Pass, he had encountered Langgan Guard—who had called him Minsheng, and even claimed to be his father. In the Fang Jingyu’s house, he had a tablet for his “late elder brother, Fang Minsheng.” He dared not think more. A splitting headache cleaved through his skull like an axe. He let out a low groan and shut his eyes, face pale as death.

“No, it’s nothing,” Chu Kuang gasped.

Seeing his state, Fang Jingyu dared not press further. He assumed he’d misheard. Chu Kuang suddenly gripped his hand tightly, drenched in sweat. Though it hurt, Fang Jingyu didn’t let go. In the pitch-black chaos, the two of them were pressed so close it was as if they were glued together—no words, just the beating of two terrified hearts.

The storm raged for two or three days before finally easing. Though a chilly drizzle still fell, the sea was far calmer. Only then did the passengers dare step outside. What they saw shocked them—this boat looked as if it had aged decades. The sails were torn, and the mast nearly snapped. Mule hurried over, bringing rough cloaks for them to wear.

Fang Jingyu was shaken. According to Mule, this storm was mild. When the ocean currents shifted again, the ships that entered Yingzhou afterward would face even worse. No wonder Mule was so confident that the Yu Ji Guard wouldn’t pursue them soon.

The sky above was smothered by heavy, leaden clouds, with flashes of thunder and lightning within, as if the heavens themselves might collapse. The Ming Sea stretched endlessly in every direction. Rain stitched earth to sky, and the sea and sky blurred into a single, gloomy mass.

It was their first glimpse of such vastness, and everyone’s heart trembled. In the distance, countless floating ships encircled the Qingyu Gao Mountain, layered like stars around the moon. Because of the endless clouds, every ship carried lanterns—tens of thousands of flames swaying together like a colossal bonfire.

Mule pointed and said, “Behold—this is Yingzhou.”

Yingzhou was soaked in year-round rain, surrounded by sea howls and typhoon winds. It was said to never see a day of clear sky. Fang Jingyu and the others greeted the deck soldiers, disembarked from the fast ship, and quickly realized how essential the cloaks were. The nights here were far darker than Penglai’s, impossible to see through without the boat lanterns.

The floating boats were coated in waterproof tung oil, but the outer refugee boats—made of reeds and without such protection—were rotting and smelled of mildew. Huge iron chains connected the boats. Slaves were shouting signals, hauling one chain to latch it to another.

Wrapped in cloaks, they walked from one boat to another, the rain chilling them to the bone. Even in this bitter downpour, there were many beggars sprawled in puddles, unmoving under the pelting rain—either dead or numb to the cold.

Mule whispered to the group, “Though this is beyond Penglai, Yingzhou is no paradise. These people you see—they are the walking meat Penglai had no room to hold.”

Zheng Deli asked in a low voice, “I heard those caught sneaking past the Heavenly Pass end up here. Do the slaves here really live worse than in Penglai?”

“That’s right. This place is a prison. Those who live here—aside from a few nobles who come seeking flesh—are almost all slaves and outcasts. Look at the slave marks on them.”

Mule gave them a discreet signal, and they realized that even among slaves in Yingzhou, there was a hierarchy. Military slaves bore the owl-and-kite mark; farmers were branded with a ploughing ox; merchants had bird patterns. As for the lowest caste—

Mule quietly pointed to a man lying on a boat nearby. His teeth had fallen out, his hair was a mess. He was leashed like a dog by other slaves, who mocked and kicked him. The man crawled along the ground, abject and silent.

“That’s the lowest type of slave—branded with the dog mark. Their lives are worth less than straw. In Yingzhou, anyone can do anything to someone with that brand—beat them, hack them to pieces—and no one will care.”

The dog-branded slave let out pitiful wails. Xiao Jiao looked like she wanted to rush over and help, but Mule stopped her, warning, “Don’t act rashly.”

Just then, the slave collapsed and died. The others simply spat on his body and walked away without a glance.

Everyone was deeply unsettled. They wanted to bury the corpse, but there was no soil in Yingzhou—not even a mound could be raised. Mule whispered, “Let’s go. The corpse collectors will come shortly.”

With heavy hearts, they followed Mule and left the slave behind. The body lay still under the cold rain, like a deflated drumskin. Fang Jingyu noticed Chu Kuang hadn’t followed. He turned and saw him still standing by the dead man. Fang Jingyu walked back and took his hand. “Come. We’re outsiders here—we can’t act recklessly.”

Chu Kuang nodded and stepped forward. His steps were soft and quick—somehow faster than anyone else’s. Fang Jingyu gave the corpse one last look. The rain had soaked the man’s arm, revealing the dog-brand tattoo. It looked familiar.

Then he glanced at Chu Kuang. The young man lowered his head and adjusted his cloak, exposing a pale patch of neck—and there, stark and black, was a slave brand.

Fang Jingyu had always known Chu Kuang avoided talking about his past. But now, he had a hint.

Branded into the nape of his neck was the same cruel, degrading dog mark—the lowest rank among the walking meat. That black brand looked like a hollow, gaping eye, gazing out in sorrow at this cold and bitter world.

• 1
  鄭 (Zhèng): A common Chinese surname. 得 (dé): Means “to obtain,” “to gain,” or “to get.” 利 (lì): Means “benefit,” “profit,” or “advantage.”
• 2
  成 (chéng): Means “to accomplish,” “to succeed,” or “to complete.” 義 (yì): Means “righteousness,” “justice,” or “honor.”