HCAW 87

Chapter 87: Ancient Temple in the Wild Woods

The sound of waves lingered in his ears, long and low, like gentle whispers.

Fang Jingyu hovered between dream and waking. He seemed to return to the Fang estate nine years ago. The Yu Ji Guard and the Mohe Guard stood in the courtyard, towering like twin mountains, barring his way. The Langgan Guard had fallen to the ground, screaming in anguish. Soldiers’ chaotic footsteps rang out—and his elder brother, Fang Minsheng, was being escorted past him.

Tears streamed down his face, yet his brother bent down and embraced him, gently saying:

“See you in the next life, Jingyu.”

A sharp pain pierced his chest, and then countless strange and vivid images flashed before his eyes: himself training under the Yu Yin Guard’s instruction, gritting through hardship; dueling the “King Yama” on the frozen river outside Tongjing Village, shards of ice flying like stars; the raging sea of fire in Yingzhou, where people burst forth like wild beasts, fighting the Yu Ji Guard to the death… Finally, all images extinguished. In the darkness, he saw Chu Kuang diving into the sea, swimming toward him.

Suddenly, Fang Jingyu’s eyes flew open, and he gasped for air in panic.

Above him stretched a sky of vivid blue, vast and distant, with a few terns spreading their wings in flight.

He slowly moved his fingers—his whole body ached intensely.

Sitting up in a daze, he looked around and saw he’d been washed ashore by the great waves. His body was scraped and bruised, some iron bones dislocated. Every movement brought pain. Remembering the stormy night, and now facing this calm, rippling sea, it all felt like a dream from another life.

Just then, a piercing cry rang out in the distance. The earth quaked, and the sea surged. A massive ao turtle’s head broke the water—wrinkled, toothed, as large as a small island.

Fang Jingyu was stunned. Only now did he understand the cause of the sea storm: the ao turtle had stirred up wind and rain to repel uninvited guests from nearing the xian mountain—this was what had shattered their sea vessel.

He turned his head and saw a figure lying nearby. Alarm surged through him as he crawled over and discovered it was Chu Kuang, limp and deathly pale.

“Chu Kuang—Chu Kuang!”

Fang Jingyu’s expression changed at once, calling hoarsely. Chu Kuang didn’t respond, curled on his side. When Fang Jingyu gently turned him over, he found splinters embedded all over him, one large shard piercing his abdomen and staining his shirt with blood.

A pang of pain hit Fang Jingyu. He checked Chu Kuang’s pulse—it was dangerously weak. His limbs were ice-cold, but his forehead burned with fever. Fang Jingyu looked around: all was wild peaks and dense forest. The ship had been torn apart by the waves; Xiao Jiao, Zheng Deli, and the sailors were nowhere to be seen, their fate unknown. Their weapons, supplies, medicine, and even the pigskin pouch from the Da Yuan Dao leader were gone. He had nothing.

To have survived the great waves at all was a miracle. But now—how was he to treat Chu Kuang’s injuries?

Carefully, he slipped one arm beneath Chu Kuang’s knees, another around his back, and lifted him up.

Chu Kuang remained unconscious, breathing faintly. No matter how Fang Jingyu called him, he didn’t stir.

Fang Jingyu ventured into the forest. Time passed in a blur. The trees were towering, dense and endless. Fatigue gnawed at him, and Chu Kuang’s breathing grew weaker still, the occasional faint whimper the only sign he yet lived.

At last, when the sun reached its zenith, he glimpsed a ruined temple in the distance. Half the mountain gate had collapsed, the name plaque weathered to illegibility.

“Is anyone there?”

Fang Jingyu stepped through the gate, calling out. No answer. Only the worn-down halls stood silently. Behind a stone wall stood a bronze statue—but it bore no resemblance to any god or Buddha. Its form was grotesquely twisted, like mud warped by rain. As Fang Jingyu frowned at it, a rustling sound arose behind him. He turned—and found that, without his noticing, a number of monks had emerged from the ground like bamboo shoots, quietly watching him.

Fang Jingyu stepped back warily. These monks were strange—they wore mud-colored robes with wide sleeves, their skin tanned, each at least nine feet tall. Stranger still, every one of them had a begging bowl covering their face.

The bowls seemed fused to them, hiding their features completely. Fang Jingyu’s wariness deepened. He tested cautiously:

“Masters, I’m a traveler who washed ashore here after a shipwreck. My companion is gravely injured. Would any of you kindly spare us some medicine?”

They said nothing, merely surrounded him in silence. With their faces hidden, it was impossible to tell what they thought. Fear crept into his heart—these monks didn’t seem quite human.

Suddenly, they turned and dispersed.

They moved without steps, their robes rippling, footsteps inaudible. Only a whispering sound, like something soft flowing, followed them.

In a short while, all figures vanished. Only one large ritual drum remained in the temple, and before it stood an old nun. She, too, had a bowl over her face, but hers was painted with bright floral patterns. Her attire was different—she wore a ceremonial hat adorned with red, yellow, and blue cloth.

She spoke, voice muffled behind the bowl:

“啝峩俫¹。”

The words were of no known tongue, yet Fang Jingyu’s heart trembled—he somehow understood: she was telling him to follow.

She stepped forward, body ghostlike in motion. Fang Jingyu had to jog to keep up. Cradling Chu Kuang, he passed through a door, finding the interior far beyond his expectations. It was pitch black, like the walls were smeared with mud. The floor gurgled and bubbled, like a swamp.

Eventually, they reached a spot where the old nun called out: “鬦閄.”

The black mud parted like lips, revealing an opening. They crawled inside—clammy, sticky, revolting. The nun pointed to a flat area and said, “牀.”

Fang Jingyu understood—it meant “bed.” The place was bizarre, but he had no choice. Despite his revulsion, he gently laid Chu Kuang down.

Chu Kuang was burning with fever, letting out faint groans, his lips grayish-white, as if on the brink of death. Fang Jingyu no longer had time to think—he dropped to his knees on the clammy, sticky stone floor and kowtowed to the old nun. That usually cold and composed face of his now held deep distress. Clenching his jaw, he said, “Master, I beg you, please save him… If you lend us your aid, I will remember your grace forever.”

The old nun was silent for a moment, then suddenly stretched out a hand, as if asking for payment. Fang Jingyu searched all over his body, but it was truly empty—everything had been swept away by the sea. “I’ve lost my belongings to the waves,” he said. “I have no money at the moment. Please, show mercy.”

But the old nun shook her head. Only then did Fang Jingyu realize she was pointing at a segment of iron bone that had pierced through his skin.

She wanted the dragonhead iron? Fang Jingyu was stunned. Dragonhead iron was immensely valuable—used as currency in some parts of Penglai. He gritted his teeth and snapped off a small segment, handing it over. The old nun accepted it with satisfaction. Though her face was hidden, her posture brimmed with greed. She slid away like water, soon returning with a bowl filled with thick, black liquid that emitted a strange and dangerous scent.

She said, “曷芐.”

Fang Jingyu hesitated, the black liquid reminding him of the meat slices and Immortal Elixirs from the Da Yuan Dao leader—remedies that could heal wounds, yet came at a cost. He didn’t know what this medicine was.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. He extracted the wooden shard from Chu Kuang’s abdomen and fed him the medicine. The old nun shuffled away again. Fang Jingyu noticed a bedding pile in a corner—it was filthy, but after hesitating a long while, he still picked it up and covered Chu Kuang with it.

Chu Kuang remained unconscious, but his breathing gradually steadied, and his brow slowly relaxed. Fang Jingyu’s gaze lingered on his face—round and round, like the tip of a brush circling paper. The more he looked, the more he saw his elder brother in him. Drowsiness eventually crept in. Leaning beside the bed, he dozed lightly. When he awoke, he heard a faint sound—Chu Kuang was stirring, softly groaning.

“How are you feeling? Does it still hurt?” Fang Jingyu caught his hand anxiously.

Chu Kuang opened his eyes—his gaze vacant and unfocused. “Where… are we?” he asked weakly.

“Our ship was wrecked in the storm. Only the two of us washed ashore. I found a temple and took shelter here.” At this, Fang Jingyu paused, then added, “I don’t even know if this is Fanghu…”

“Are you… hurt?” Chu Kuang’s gaze fell on the bleeding gash on Fang Jingyu’s hand. Fang Jingyu glanced down, finally noticing a small piece of exposed iron bone had pierced his skin. But he hadn’t felt the pain at all, too worried about Chu Kuang. He shook his head. “You’re the one badly hurt.”

Yet Chu Kuang, with effort, grabbed his hand and tore off a strip of clean cloth from his own sleeve, wrapping it around Fang Jingyu’s wound. It was tied crookedly—he had little strength. As soon as he finished, his hand slipped away and he fainted again. Fang Jingyu stared at the cloth, emotions churning. The first thing Chu Kuang did after waking was ask about his safety. Seeing he was hurt, Chu Kuang had immediately tried to bandage him.

Fang Jingyu sat at the bedside for a while. Eventually, exhaustion washed over him. After a moment of hesitation, he climbed into bed, gently held Chu Kuang, and softly murmured, “Brother.”

Chu Kuang didn’t respond, lashes drooping, his pale face like thawing spring ice. Fang Jingyu closed his eyes and whispered again, “Brother Minsheng.” The words circled endlessly on his tongue, soft and tender. As he held Chu Kuang close, he felt the man’s sharp, bony frame, prickly under his touch. He suddenly felt like he was deceiving himself, chasing a phantom of the past. He sighed quietly and let the thoughts go. The two of them fell asleep in each other’s arms—just like years ago.

______

They rested in the temple for several days. In spare moments, Fang Jingyu went into the woods to hunt. He sharpened stones, carved a wooden sword, and caught wild hares and lynxes. He kept the sinew for bowstrings and crafted a small bow. Sometimes he waded into streams to gather water weeds and fiddlehead ferns—enough to keep them fed.

The strange old nun brought medicine daily. Fang Jingyu disliked trading iron bone for it, so sometimes he gave her wild quail or rabbits instead. She accepted them—but never took the meat, only the bones, throwing the bloody parts back at him. It made Fang Jingyu even more uneasy.

One day, after Chu Kuang took another dose of the inky black medicine, he perked up slightly. Still feverish, he leaned weakly against the bed and asked:

“Your Highness, what… is this place?”

“You’re asking me? I’d like to know myself,” Fang Jingyu replied flatly as he shaved a sword. “No birds, no eggs—not sure if this is even Fanghu. And those monks are strange.”

“If I don’t recover,” Chu Kuang said softly, “leave me and go.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. You think I’m that kind of person?” Fang Jingyu shot back instinctively.

But when he turned, he saw Chu Kuang smiling faintly—so weak and fragile it looked like one touch would shatter it. It stunned Fang Jingyu. Chu Kuang was usually loud and brash, wild as could be. Now that he’d gone quiet, it was unbearable to see.

Fang Jingyu set down the sword and sat beside him, grasping his hand. Chu Kuang’s fingers twitched, then went still. Fang Jingyu said:

“What’s gotten into you? You’ve survived worse before. Why talk like you’ve given up?”

Chu Kuang lowered his eyes. “I’ve always been forcing it. Saying it doesn’t hurt is a lie. Not fearing death, not dying—that’s all lies too.” He was silent for a while, then added, “Your Highness, I know my body. Maybe it’s the meat slices. My wounds… are getting harder to heal.”

He slowly unwrapped the cloth around his stomach. Fang Jingyu saw the wound—still raw and red—and gasped.

“This… is from the meat slices?”

“Maybe.”

“And… the medicine you’ve been taking—does it help?”

“It does, a little. I don’t know what it is, but it brings some relief. The wound just heals slowly, and the pain’s intense.” He said it quietly, with none of his usual bluster—almost frightening in its calm.

Fang Jingyu nodded. “In that case, I’ll go ask the monks for more.”

Leaving the room, he walked toward the bell tower, hoping to find the old nun—she usually lingered there. But he hadn’t gone far before spotting a group of the strange monks heading to the kitchen.

Fang Jingyu’s curiosity was piqued, so he quietly followed. Inside the kitchen, a pot of medicine was simmering, its bitter scent thick in the air. Fang Jingyu thought: Perfect—I’ll see what goes into their medicine. He crept behind the wall and peeked through a crack.

What he saw chilled him to the bone.

One monk reached up and pulled off the bowl covering his face. Beneath it was not a face, but a black, viscous mess like mud—no features at all. Suddenly, a crack split across that black sludge, like a mouth yawning open. A stream of pitch-black liquid gurgled out into the bowl in his hands.

The awful, bitter smell flooded the room again.

Fang Jingyu’s heart seized in horror.

The medicine the monks had given him—and that he’d fed to Chu Kuang—was the black water they had vomited from their mouths.

1. Gibberish. ↩︎