HCAW 67

Chapter 67: Fan Ruo

Dark clouds churned like ink. Black wind stirred the sea. Rain fell in sheets, piercing down from the heavens in unbroken lines. Soldiers of the Qingyu Gao Palace surrounded a lone reed boat with their flat-prowed warships, forming an impenetrable siege. Each man held a long-hafted bow, their eyes fixed on the boat’s canopy.

Corpses floated all across the surface of the sea, dying it crimson. Yet none dared to recklessly attack the small reed boat—for inside it was a fugitive so dangerous he had even severely wounded Yu Ji Guard. Any officer who dared approach would immediately be shot down by precise arrows loosed from the boat—each one striking between the eyes without fail.

Because Yingzhou was locked in endless rains, fire attacks were of no use. And Yu Ji Guard, heavily injured after his battle with the silver-masked man, now lay unconscious in Qingyu Gao Palace, unable to give orders. The soldiers had no choice but to act on their own. At last, one Qingyu Gao officer muttered:

“Ready the trebuchets! Smash the boat!”

But most of the devices had been damaged in the earlier battle. Only a few remained, and those on the verge of collapse. When one of them finally launched a stone, another boulder suddenly came hurtling through the air and shattered it midflight.

The soldiers turned toward the direction of the second stone—only to see the Lei Ze ship approaching in the distance. Furious, the officer shouted, “Aim the trebuchets at Lei Ze Camp! We’ll deal with the reed boat after!”

With no way to force entry, the Qingyu Gao troops resorted to siege tactics. Their plan was to starve out the fugitive inside, certain that even the fiercest man would eventually break under hunger and thirst. With the blockade sealed tight and Ruyi Guard shattered in spirit, sitting like a wooden doll, Lei Ze Camp’s soldiers grew frantic, unable to reach the boat. For a time, both sides fell into a tense stalemate.

Within the reed boat, Chu Kuang groggily awoke.

His whole body screamed in pain. As soon as he opened his eyes, he cried out, “Master!”

The boat reeked of mold and blood. A tightness gripped his chest, like a hand pressing on his heart. He crawled forward and saw a shadowy figure collapsed in the corner.

“Master, Master!” he whimpered as he crawled over and gently shook the figure.

It was the silver-masked man—his body mutilated, entrails spilled, unrecognizable. Blood pooled beneath him as though trying to flee his dying body. The silver-masked man opened his eyes just barely, his voice weak as silk: “Chu Kuang…”

“There are soldiers outside… I drove off a few,” he rasped. “But the bow is broken… and there aren’t many arrows left. This is an old hiding boat of mine—there’s still food and water. You can hold out here for some days.”

Seeing the blood-soaked ruin of his master’s body, Chu Kuang panicked. “I’m fine, but you—your injuries… I’ll find medicine!”

He staggered through the small boat, searching. There was a water barrel, some dried beans—the rations were enough, but little medicine remained. What was left had already been used—mostly on him. Whatever was left wouldn’t save his master.

Eventually, he found a slim Heavenly Moutain gold knife, sharp but small—suitable for trimming paper, not fighting. He returned to the silver-masked man’s side, eyes brimming with tears. “Master, we have no medicine. No weapons. How can I save you?”

The man forced a faint smile. “You don’t need to. It would be a waste. Sit, Chu Kuang. I want to speak with you.”

Chu Kuang sat beside him, trying to apply the remaining medicine, but the silver-masked man shook his head. “Keep it for yourself.”

The old boat, draped in cobwebs and dust, shone faintly under dim skyglow. The waves rose and fell beyond. It was like a faded painting. The silver-masked man reached out with a bloodied hand and gently held Chu Kuang’s. “There are many soldiers outside. You must find a way to escape. I killed many of them—they won’t dare rush in for now.”

“And you?” Chu Kuang asked.

He smiled, eyes glazed. “I’ll stay here, nowhere to go—until night falls and the Ox-Head and Horse-Face¹Ox-Head (牛頭 Niútóu) and Horse-Face (馬面 Mǎmiàn) are two guardians in Chinese mythology and underworld folklore. come to fetch me.”

“I’ll drive them off!” Chu Kuang cried. “Aren’t you still going back to Penglai? You still have someone to find, don’t you? I heard Penglai is your homeland—but to save me, you wandered the borderlands and came to Yingzhou.”

He gripped his master’s hand tightly. “Master, let’s go back to Penglai together, all right?”

“…Penglai is no longer the home it once was.” The silver-masked man smiled bitterly. “And now, what good would returning do? I can’t walk. I can’t see.”

He sighed, as if exhausted. “But you must go back. You remember, don’t you? You must find someone… and bring him out of Penglai.”

Chu Kuang remembered. His master had always said this to him—perhaps it was his dying wish. But Chu Kuang, plagued by headaches, often forgot things.

“Who is it?”

“When you see him, you’ll know. He is like the bright sun—he will carve into your heart. Penglai is a cage. One day, you’ll break its shackles, and walk with him side by side.”

The silver-masked man’s voice faded. His eyes drifted shut. Chu Kuang stared at his half-beautiful, half-ruined face and felt his heart break. Softly, he whispered:

“Master… the rain has stopped. Through the window, I can see very far—all the way to Penglai.”

In truth, the rain had not stopped. And one could not see Penglai from here.

The silver-masked man smiled faintly. “Nonsense. I may be blind, but I can still hear the rain—clear and light, like music from a zither.”

After a while, he asked softly, “But I believe you. So tell me—what do you see through that window now?”

Chu Kuang choked back tears. “I see fishing boats near Zhenhai Pass, people cooking in their cabins. It’s sunny over there—the snow’s melted, and the sun is shining.”

“…And farther?”

“Farther is Mount Guxie, and Tianwu waters. The wind blows the wheat, and hawks fly through the skies. At dusk, the sky turns rosy, like a maiden’s cheeks. After sunset, the stars scatter like sand across the sky.”

“…And farther still?”

“Then there’s the markets of Penglai—music and laughter, night-blooming orchids, heavenly herbs by the walls. The old waterwheel squeaks as it turns, fish jump in the ponds, and the moon breaks and re-forms.”

“…And farther still?”

“Then there’s the Immortal Palace of Penglai, resplendent and glorious. The gates of Yonghe Temple are open wide—anyone may go in and offer incense. The warming stoves are set outside, so even commoners can keep warm. Lights flicker, and the air is thick with incense.”

“…And beyond that?”

“I can’t see further than that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have to go there and see it for myself,” Chu Kuang said, weeping. “Master, come back to Penglai with me. I’ll row the boat. You can rest. Once we arrive, there will be nothing we cannot see.”

Once, his master had carried him to safety. Now, it was his turn to bring his master home.

The silver-masked man said nothing, eyes still closed—but his expression had grown peaceful, as if he were already aboard the boat, drifting gently through the waters.

“…All right. I’ll go with you,” he said at last.

Joy surged in Chu Kuang’s chest. He rushed to gather weapons. To break the encirclement, he would need a bow. But his master’s was shattered, the fragments too fine to repair. The reed boat had straw, but no wood—what could he use to make a bow?

He unwound straw from the canopy, twisting it into cords to make a bowstring. Sinew would have been better—but straw would have to do. As for the bow itself, he prayed some driftwood might float by… or maybe he could swim to the Qingyu Gao ships and steal a plank. He was halfway through these desperate thoughts when a fit of coughing cut through the silence.

He rushed back—his master’s face was pale as paper. His breath was fading.

“Master! Master!” Chu Kuang cried, pressing his forehead to the man’s ear. “Hold on! I’ll get us out of here!”

His ribs ached, his wounds not yet healed—but he no longer cared. He gripped his master’s hand with all his strength.

His master smiled, a faint and melting smile, like thawing spring ice—fragile and vanishing at a touch. Chu Kuang was about to help him up when the silver-masked man suddenly said, “There is material for a bow.”

“There’s no wood here, no horn or sinew—how can I make one?” Chu Kuang muttered, then a spark lit his mind. “Wait… whale bone, is that it? I’ll go hunt a whale!”

But one glance at the slim gold knife in his hand told him it was a fool’s dream. How could any man, alone and wounded, hope to hunt a whale? He could barely walk—let alone catch any large fish. His master laughed faintly. “You don’t need fish bone.”

Chu Kuang turned back to him, heart pounding. For he had just heard his master say:

“Use human bone.”

Chu Kuang froze.

Twilight deepened, and a slash of red bled through the clouds, painting the boat in the hue of spilled blood. Wind lifted the torn curtain, chilling him to the marrow. The silver-masked man said, “My time was long fated. But I’ve consumed so much Immortal Elixir, it tempered my body into copper sinew and iron bone. My bones—if made into a bow—would be excellent material. You’re no good with sword or blade, but with a bow, you can break through their ranks.”

For a moment, Chu Kuang was stunned to his core.

A dizzying pressure struck him—his world spun, sea and sky turned silent. Waves, rain, all faded. Only the thunder of his heartbeat drummed loud in his chest. He shook his head slowly, voice cracking. “Master… you’re joking, right?”

“I’m not. Do you know what a ‘blood-bait lock’ is? It’s a lock made from human bone—only the owner’s blood or a relative’s can open it. I’ve made a few of those before—cut off an arm, shaved bone, then used Immortal Elixir to regrow the body.” His master smiled. “But this time will be the last.”

“Don’t say that!” Chu Kuang shouted. “I’ll go hunt a fish! I’ll find a harpoon—”

His master cut him off. “Chu Kuang, I told you—you must stop holding yourself back. Think like a beast, fierce and fearless, one that can break all cages… Playing by the rules won’t kill Yu Ji Guard. I’m the living proof of that.” Chu Kuang just kept shaking his head, trembling like a leaf. His master smiled again and said:

“Take me with you. If I die here, I’ll be your nameless master. But if I live on in another name, I can still walk beside you.”

Suddenly, his gaze dimmed, soul seeming to drift away like mist. Chu Kuang gripped his hand tightly, but could not hold onto his life force.

The sunset burned through the boat’s window, casting no warmth. The red glow on the horizon was the color of blood—perhaps hiding Penglai behind it, though Penglai lay a thousand li away.

“Bone can be bow… sinew, string.”

Their shadows stretched long across the deck, then melted into one. His master gently returned his grip and smiled. Chu Kuang wept wordlessly.

“‘Fan Ruo’—the divine bow with which Hou Yi shot down the suns. That will be my new name.”²繁 (fán): can mean complex, abundant, or ornate 弱 (ruò): means weak, delicate, or fragile. Together, 繁弱 something like “delicate and intricate” or “ornately fragile.”

_____

That night, lanterns flickered on the flat-prowed ships. Fires were lit in the stoves, and the smell of dried fish and beans spread across the decks.

The Qingyu Gao soldiers had eaten the same dinner for fifteen or sixteen nights. The reed boat remained silent and still—life here had grown dry and dull.

“Maybe the criminal inside that reed boat already starved to death,” someone muttered. “And we’re just wasting time waiting.”

“He has food and water,” another said. “It’s a game of endurance now—let’s see who rots first.”

“Why don’t we just storm it?”

“If you could, you’d already be a Xian Mountain Guard. Didn’t you see Yu Ji Guard nearly buried under the longevity slab?”

Someone shouted, “Damn it! Who broke the oil barrel? Lost half of our fire-oil!”

Another said, “Maybe we should use this chance—burn that reed boat.”

“But the Lei Ze ships are still outside. We can’t waste all our resources here. And that fire-oil is all around our ships—if we light it, we’re the first to go.” He turned and yelled, “Fisher Brat, bring the fish!”

A hunched, timid figure shuffled over, carrying some fish. He was skilled at salting fish and pickling meat, so the soldiers mockingly called him “Fisher Brat.”

He cooked fish and beans quietly, but was always the butt of jokes. Someone sneered, “Fisher Brat, your beans grow legs and run off!”

With that, he kicked over the bowl, forcing the boy to pick up the beans by hand. His fingers were soon blistered from the heat.

Another man said, “You’re late. Nothing left for you.”

The boy looked at the skewer—only fish bones remained. They’d used him and tossed him aside.

That night, after the others slept, hungry and angry, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder.

“Get up. There’s something good to do.”

It was one of the soldiers who often ordered him around. He led him aside and whispered, “Grab your weapon. We’re sneaking onto the reed boat.”

“Th-the reed boat? Isn’t the one inside the same guy Yu Ji Guard couldn’t handle?!”

“They’re probably all dead by now. If we’re first to cut off their heads, we’ll be swimming in gold. Who’s going to call you ‘Fisher Brat’ again?”

Tempted, the boy gritted his teeth, picked up a long halberd, and followed the soldier.

They rowed out in a small boat. The sky was pitch black, heavy clouds piled above. The boy reached the reed boat, heart pounding, and crept aboard.

Silence.

No sound from inside—like a grave.

He turned, wanting to call the other soldier—but the boat was already paddling away. The bastard had left him behind to test the danger. He panicked, wanting to shout, but dared not make a sound.

Then he remembered—anyone approaching this boat before had been shot down. Yet tonight, it was dead quiet.

Maybe everyone really had died?

Emboldened, he gripped the halberd and crept inside.

The stench of blood hit him like a brick. He raised his weapon instinctively—but no movement. He stepped forward… and saw a hellish scene.

Blood soaked everything. Bones littered the floor. White, gleaming, human bones.

Terror gripped him. But then came a high, piercing screech.

Like a hawk’s cry—or a spirit’s howl. The boy bolted, only to see the soldier who’d abandoned him slumped dead by the small boat.

“Enemy attack!”

Qingyu Gao soldiers shouted in panic. An arrow burst through the darkness, lighting up the sea—and fire spread up the rudder. Chaos erupted.

Arrow after arrow struck like phantoms, killing silently. Lei Ze’s catapults answered with a hail of stones.

In the madness, one by one, soldiers fell—each with a bone arrow in their skull.

The boy sat frozen in a puddle of his own urine.

Then he saw a figure emerge from the boat.

A archer—killer of so many Qingyu Gao troops.

But not the monster he imagined—just a boy.

Young, lean, cold-eyed. One eye blood-red, heavy with grief. He carried a bow made of bone, glowing white like jade beneath the moon.

Like a beast unleashed, the boy nocked arrows and loosed them in rapid fury. Each shot felling another man. He roared like a blood-weeping wild goose.

The boy—Chu Kuang—walked toward the shivering Fisher Brat.

He was wounded—arrows pierced him, blood flowing. But he stood tall, and spoke hoarsely:

“Tell your master, Yu Ji Guard—‘King Yama’ will never die. Today’s vengeance… will be repaid tenfold.”

Tears streamed from his eyes, red as blood.

The bone bow in his hands gleamed like a pale moon.

He looked at the boy before him—who saw fire burning in his gaze, a hatred that could never be quenched.

Chu Kuang raised the bow and said, word by word, with searing wrath:

“For all the days he has left, he will know no peace. He will die—beneath this bow!”

• 1
  Ox-Head (牛頭 Niútóu) and Horse-Face (馬面 Mǎmiàn) are two guardians in Chinese mythology and underworld folklore.
• 2
  繁 (fán): can mean complex, abundant, or ornate 弱 (ruò): means weak, delicate, or fragile. Together, 繁弱 something like “delicate and intricate” or “ornately fragile.”