HCAW 88

Chapter 88: Into the Trap

What in the world was this?

Fang Jingyu stared in shock. He watched as the monk lifted the bowl and glided forward with that same fluid, water-like gait. This time, however, Fang Jingyu finally saw their legs—sleek, slippery, not legs at all, but like thick, viscous slurry.

The monk who had removed the bowl from his face passed the threshold and, as he passed by the crumbling wall where Fang Jingyu hid, he suddenly turned his head.

Fang Jingyu got a full look at his face. The surface of that mud-like head rippled—and then, all at once, countless densely packed, multicolored eyes burst forth and opened wide!

Fang Jingyu froze in terror, every hair standing on end. This monk looked exactly like the leader of Da Yuan Dao and the National Preceptor he’d once seen in Penglai! So these weren’t monks at all—they were just bald creatures, dressed in robes to masquerade as men.

The monk blinked his dozens of eyes, peering suspiciously toward where Fang Jingyu was hiding. Fang Jingyu held his breath, heart pounding in his throat. The monk began drifting in his direction—but just then, another monk called out, “赱叻.”

The suspicious monk hesitated a moment, then turned away and followed the others. Fang Jingyu remained behind the wall, eyes wide, too shaken to move.

Only after a long while did he finally muster the strength to stand, though his limbs still trembled. He stumbled back, returning to the room. Chu Kuang was still fast asleep, clutching a pillow. Fang Jingyu rushed over and shook him.

“Get up! We have to run!”

Chu Kuang blinked blearily. “What’s wrong?”

“This temple we’ve taken shelter in—it’s dangerous! The monks here are monsters, the same kind as the National Preceptor in Penglai—”

He hadn’t finished speaking when a slithering sound like water sliding over stone filled the air. His face drained of color. He turned and saw the windows crowded with shadows—all those strange, mud-clad monks. Two entered the room. One of them held that same bowl of pitch-black medicine Fang Jingyu had seen earlier and said, “曷葯.”

Fang Jingyu tensed. Just then, he felt a tug on his back—it was Chu Kuang, gently pulling his robe and motioning for him to step back. The man extended a pale arm, shielding Fang Jingyu behind him. Fang Jingyu’s heart clenched. Chu Kuang was the injured one, yet he still placed himself between them. What right did he have to cower?

He pressed down on Chu Kuang’s arm and said to the monks, “Masters, my companion’s injuries are nearly healed. There’s no need to trouble you further with medicine.”

But instead of accepting this, the monks grew visibly agitated, bodies swaying like a chaotic dance of demons. Even the floor beneath their feet seemed to tremble. The air turned bitter cold and dry, and their voices rang out like an echo through a cavern:

“鲵吥曷葯!”

The layered chant resounded in his ears like a thunderclap, rattling his very core. Fang Jingyu unconsciously stepped back. Chu Kuang shook his head and pressed down on his hand.

“I’ll drink it.” Chu Kuang took the bowl with surprising calm and downed it in one go. Then he returned the bowl with a smile. “Thank you, Masters. I do feel much better now.”

Only then did the monks leave, filing out and dispersing. Just moments before, they had sealed off the building so tightly that not even water could’ve slipped through. Fang Jingyu was still reeling from the encounter. He grabbed Chu Kuang by the shoulders and barked, “Spit it out! That medicine!”

“It’s already gone down,” Chu Kuang replied.

Fang Jingyu paled and hurriedly told him everything he had seen. When he got to the part about the medicine being black water vomited from the monks’ mouths, Chu Kuang didn’t look shocked at all. He only said, “The medicine does have some effect. I’m in far less pain now. And that meat from the Da Yuan Dao master—wasn’t that suspicious too? Who knows which corpse it came from.”

“Don’t you find them disturbing?”

“In a place like the Xian Mountains, strange things are everywhere. This isn’t Penglai or Yingzhou. Outside of Emperor Bai’s and the Xian Mountain Guards, few ever venture this far. Nothing here would surprise me.” Chu Kuang closed his eyes, clearly weary. “I’m not saying we should wait around to die, but I’m too weak to protect you right now. You should either go alone or wait a few days until I recover enough, and then we escape together.”

Fang Jingyu’s brow furrowed deeply. “I would rather die than leave you behind.”

Chu Kuang gave a weak smile. “I wouldn’t let that happen.” At that, the two of them shared a faint laugh. The tension between them eased.

Fang Jingyu looked at him and thought again how much he resembled his older brother when quiet—but he would rather Chu Kuang be his usual loud, reckless self. The current calmness only made his heart ache more.

Over the next few days, whenever the monks brought more medicine, Fang Jingyu would pretend to feed it to Chu Kuang with a spoon. In truth, he placed a handkerchief under his chin and poured the liquid into it instead. The monks didn’t notice. Still, the hallways and temple chambers were full of those strange monk-creatures. Even if they wanted to flee, there was nowhere to go.

With nothing else to do, Fang Jingyu poked holes in the lantern-like window paper and quietly spied on the outside.

He observed the monks rising early at the hour of yin (3:00 AM to 5:00 AM) to chant in the main hall. Their voices were so powerful that the tiles hummed. “Homage to the Truly Enlightened One——” When Fang Jingyu was in Yingzhou, he had too much time on his hands and read many books of the Ruyi Guard, so he was not unfamiliar with the various legends of the Nine Provinces. This mantra sounded like one of the Buddha Crown Mantras¹The Buddha Crown Mantras (佛頂神咒, Fódǐng shénzhòu): category of esoteric Buddhist mantras associated with the Buddha’s ushnisha (the topknot or crown of enlightenment on the Buddha’s head). of the Nine Provinces.

After morning rites, the monks entered the kitchen, opened doors, and swept the grounds. Their meditations were bizarre—not seated chants or wooden fish drumming, but something else entirely. They removed their robes, revealing slick, black, formless bodies beneath.

Only now did Fang Jingyu realize they truly were made of black sludge. Their limbs were unformed. Joyful chattering rose from their mouths as their bodies began to merge, black sludge pouring into black sludge, melting together like liquid mud under the sun.

Beneath the blazing sunlight, in front of the grand hall, a giant mass of black ooze churned. You inside me, me inside you. All around were cries of joy: “鉸瀜! 鉸瀜!”—words that seemed to mean “to fuse.”

Afterward, the ooze reformed into individual shapes again—but there was no telling who had used whose body. They each grabbed a robe, put it on, and slithered away with soft, sloshing sounds.

Fang Jingyu took in everything he’d just witnessed and thought grimly: If I stay here any longer, I fear my brain will melt to sludge too.

The monks loved physical contact—upon meeting, they’d stretch out soft, mud-like tentacles to intertwine with one another, chirping a cheerful “鉸瀜!” as a sign of goodwill.

Even more affectionately, one would open his mouth wide while another would crawl inside, emerging again from beneath the robe. Both parties would tremble with delight, screeching like a spatula scraping an iron pot. Fang Jingyu dared not guess from which orifice that one had emerged.

But to these monks, physical form meant nothing. Merging with another was considered a joyous act. Though they kept to their daily rituals, there were always monks patrolling the temple, and when hunting beasts, they went in packs—making escape for the two men near impossible.

And now, something else happened to add to Fang Jingyu’s mounting anxiety.

After several days without the black medicine, Chu Kuang’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. Far from improving, he looked even more frail than before. His fever wouldn’t break, and he could only sip small amounts of water. Anything more he tried to eat was vomited up in bloody froth. His wounds reopened and bled constantly. He barely looked alive.

Even Fang Jingyu, usually composed, was now panicking. He searched the mountain for herbs and applied poultices, but nothing helped. Chu Kuang’s breath grew shallow and weak.

Looking at his wan, hollow face, Fang Jingyu’s heart twisted. Time and again, Chu Kuang had endured near-fatal injuries, overdosed on dubious meat slices, and now his body was falling apart. There could be no further delay.

So Fang Jingyu sprang into action. He drew up a rough map to escape the temple and forest, and that night—while the monks were in evening chant—he wrapped Chu Kuang in a blanket, slung him over his shoulders, and slipped quietly into the darkness.

Chu Kuang was burning up, his face flushed red while the rest of him was ghostly pale. Still, he managed to rouse, half-dazed, and murmured:

“Your Highness… where are we going?”

“Fleeing into the night,² 夜奔: “night escape” — often with romantic or connotations” Fang Jingyu answered.

Chu Kuang rested his head against his shoulder and chuckled weakly. “And if they catch us… what if they drown us in pig cages?”

Fang Jingyu replied, “Would Father drown you? He’d probably just drown me. He couldn’t bear to hurt you.”

The moment he said it, he realized he’d let something slip—and inwardly cursed himself. Without solid proof that Chu Kuang was his older brother, speaking like this would only cause him pain, or worse, provoke anger.

But when he glanced over, Chu Kuang had already passed out again. Fang Jingyu couldn’t tell whether to feel relieved or more unsettled. He could only sigh heavily.

The forest was silent, the night deep. Crickets chirped, and pale green flames darted among the grass—more like ghost fire than fireflies. The dense woods stretched endlessly, and all around was pitch black. It felt like being trapped in a cloth sack, with no path out. Cold sweat drenched Fang Jingyu’s back. He was chilled to the bone.

Have I escaped one trap only to run straight into another? he wondered. In this strange land, carrying an unconscious man on his back, where could he go?

He fled for a long while and finally dared to look back, hoping the temple was far behind. He saw nothing but darkness—no lights. He let out a breath of relief.

But just then, he heard a soft, slithering water sound.

Every hair on his body stood on end.

He looked around—there were no streams nearby. Where could that water sound be coming from? He turned back and saw only darkness. He had fled deep into the woods—there was no way the monks could have followed him this far.

Suddenly, in that darkness, countless shimmering, multicolored eyes blinked open—all staring straight at him.

Fang Jingyu broke out in goosebumps. In the faint glow of the sky, he realized the shadows behind him were not night, but a churning black sludge. He had been followed from the very beginning. The monk-creatures, made of black sludge, had blocked out the light with their mass. He was like a tick in a fish’s mouth—no way out.

Panic struck him. And to make matters worse, his foot suddenly missed the ground.

He was falling.

He immediately realized he’d stepped into a trap—camouflaged with loose dirt, likely with spikes below. He braced his hands against the pit wall and glanced down: thorny spikes clustered below.

But the walls gave way. The earth was soft, hollowed underneath. They fell together.

In a flash, Fang Jingyu twisted his body, holding Chu Kuang tightly and using himself to cushion the fall. He landed heavily, impaled on the thorns. Blood flowed freely.

Half an hour later, the monks hoisted them out of the pit.

They cradled Chu Kuang carefully, murmuring incomprehensible words with what seemed reverence. But they dragged Fang Jingyu like a sack of rice, hauling him all the way back to the temple. Pain wracked his body. He nearly coughed up blood.

Back at the temple, the monks surrounded them in what looked like a trial. Chu Kuang had regained a bit of strength and asked anxiously upon seeing Fang Jingyu’s wounds, “Your Highness… are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Fang Jingyu said, “but I don’t know what they plan to do to us.”

The monks appeared furious at their escape. They muttered and shrieked, their voices like cats clawing at wood, chaotic and eerie.

At last, they seemed to reach a consensus. One monk stepped forward and set a bowl of pitch-black liquid before Fang Jingyu, roaring something incomprehensible.

Fang Jingyu’s ears rang. He turned to Chu Kuang. “What did they say?”

“They want you to feed this to me,” Chu Kuang replied.

Fang Jingyu snorted. “So petty. They’re still bitter that I once refused their medicine. Now they want to make me spoon it into you and praise the taste too.”

Then he lowered his voice. “I’ll feed it to you with a spoon. Hold a cloth under your chin—we’ll dump it out quietly. Just go along with me.”

But Chu Kuang looked troubled. Somehow, he seemed to understand the monks better than Fang Jingyu did.

“What is it?” Fang Jingyu asked.

“They said… it has to be fed by mouth,” Chu Kuang answered quietly, eyes fixed on him with a complex expression. “Not a single drop may be wasted.”

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  The Buddha Crown Mantras (佛頂神咒, Fódǐng shénzhòu): category of esoteric Buddhist mantras associated with the Buddha’s ushnisha (the topknot or crown of enlightenment on the Buddha’s head).
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  夜奔: “night escape” — often with romantic or connotations