HCAW 91

Chapter 91: Faint Shadows Beneath the Waning Moon

The silver moon hung high, but in the forest, the light was dim and eerie. The two rose from the auspicious pool, wiping the droplets of water from their bodies.

Fang Jingyu stared closely at Chu Kuang’s body, battered and bruised. He racked his brain but still couldn’t recall whether his older brother had any identifiable birthmarks or moles. Was Chu Kuang truly his brother? The question weighed on his heart, growing ever more baffling and obscure.

But Chu Kuang’s thoughts were elsewhere. After all the lewd words he’d just spouted, his face burned with shame as he turned his head away, secretly wanting to slap himself—why the hell would he say something like that to his younger brother?

Worse still, he had once again slept with Fang Jingyu. Though they were trapped in this desolate place by a band of non-human monks, survival was paramount. In this world, things like purity and chastity were worthless. There was no point dwelling on guilt.

As Chu Kuang tried to console himself, he suddenly felt a darkness descend before his eyes. He looked up and saw shadows fluttering and overlapping before him, like ghouls dancing wildly. Clutching his aching forehead, he knew his old ailment was flaring up again. Ever since he had eaten that meat, his hallucinations had worsened. Places that seemed empty to others appeared to him to swarm with demonic phantoms.

And now, in his vision, a figure in a silver mask stood silently before him.

“Master…”

Taking advantage of Fang Jingyu’s distraction, Chu Kuang whispered softly.

This was a new hallucination of his—the master who had died many years ago.

Unlike the other illusions that disturbed his mind, this one spoke words he had never heard before, and exuded the same gentle presence as the master in his memory.

Under the moonlight, everything seemed shrouded in mist and cloud. The silver-masked figure’s form was indistinct. He smiled and said:

“Chu Kuang, don’t be in such a rush to leave. Stay and listen to the people here.”

“You mean those strange monks?”

“Exactly,” said the silver-masked man. “Listen carefully to their voices. They’ll tell you of the past of the Xians Mountains.”

Suddenly, a breeze lifted, and in the blink of an eye, the figure vanished. Chu Kuang stood motionless, dazed for a long while.

“What’s wrong?” Fang Jingyu turned and noticed his odd expression.

Chu Kuang shook his head. “Nothing. Just feeling a bit tired. Since the monks aren’t stopping us, there’s no need to rush. Let’s rest here a few days.”

Fang Jingyu disagreed. “We’ve been delayed too long. If Xiao Jiao and Deli run into danger, what will we do?”

“I know you’re anxious, Your Highness, but this place still holds too many mysteries. Rather than rush out and die, we’d do better to ask those monks and figure out what’s going on.”

That made sense. Fang Jingyu thought for a moment, then nodded. The two dressed properly, packed their belongings in the monk’s quarters, and headed toward the Hall of Heavenly Kings. That night, a monk’s assembly was taking place—but it wasn’t solemn. The lotus pool was crowded with monks frolicking like they were in black mud. Under the moonlight, their shadows swayed, giving off an oddly peaceful atmosphere.

Before the hall steps was a shallow pit, with a brazier full of charcoal ash burning a small fire. The old nun, face covered with a bowl patterned in precious blooms, sat cross-legged behind it. Upon seeing them, she said calmly:

“埥唑.”

She was inviting them to sit. Chu Kuang pulled Fang Jingyu down beside him, his face briefly twitching—he still had the “Joyful Buddha” artifact hidden below. Strangely, as soon as the old nun spoke, he felt a tremor in his soul. Her words strung together into sentences he could slowly understand.

So Chu Kuang sat cross-legged and asked her, “Master, we are castaways. We owe you all a debt of gratitude. But may I ask—what is this place?”

The old nun said, “This is Yuanqiao.”

What she said sounded perfectly normal to Chu Kuang, but to Fang Jingyu, their conversation was gibberish, like voices from another world.

Insects chirped around them, a rustling like a downpour. The cold wind pierced their skin. Chu Kuang exclaimed in surprise:

“Yuanqiao?”

Before they left Yingzhou, he’d clearly been told they were headed for Fanghu—a vast lake of a thousand acres, with clear, rippling waters. But this place, with its dense forest, seemed entirely different.

The old nun spoke softly: “Have you heard? The three Xian Mountains—Fanghu, Yuanqiao, and Daiyu—are borne upon ao turtle and often shift their positions.”

Chu Kuang nodded. That explained it. They had been swept by the ao turtle’s storm onto a different immortal mountain. But were the others scattered here too—or lost to the sea? He forced down his worry and asked the question that most troubled him:

“May I ask, Master… who exactly are you?”

Suddenly, all the monks froze, turning their heads—some inset with ceramic bowls, some sprouting six or seven small eyes—and stared fixedly at them.

Fang Jingyu instantly grew uneasy and tugged at Chu Kuang’s sleeve. “Did you say something wrong?”

Chu Kuang said nothing, but his body tensed like a drawn bowstring, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, fixed on the old nun. The killing intent swirled in the wind, shadows shifting under the silver moon.

After a long silence, the old nun suddenly let out a soft chuckle, dispelling the tension.

She said, “We are… people.”

People? Chu Kuang froze, glancing around. The monks’ bodies were soft and slimy like mud, with tentacles like nine-legged octopus—how could they resemble humans at all? The old nun continued, “We settled on the xian mountain ages ago. But we were later driven from our homeland and wandered the mountains, finally settling here. There was once a monastery here. A kind abbot sheltered us. After he passed, we inherited his robes and remained.”

Chu Kuang turned to look. The monks, dressed in muddy-colored robes, blinked curiously at them. One monk, with a hole in his robe, was crouched with his butt in the air, struggling to thread a needle by moonlight to patch his clothes—a comical and endearing sight.

“If you say you are human,” Chu Kuang asked, “then why are you so different from us?”

The old nun replied, “You see yourselves as human and us as strange. But to us, it’s the other way around.”

Just then, the monks crept over like a gentle tide, surrounding them and slithering across the ground like black carp. They examined the pair curiously, murmuring, “鉸瀜!” (Fusion) and Fang Jingyu actually understood this—it made his face flush with embarrassment. The monks reached out with their tentacles, affectionately petting them like birds fluffing soft feathers, clearly treating the two as one of their own. Fang Jingyu suddenly felt as if these strange beings were the true natives of this land, and they were the outsiders.

Since performing that “fusion” ritual with Chu Kuang, the monks had shown them great affection. Some brought dew-covered herbs, others fresh green duckweed from the water—offerings presented to the pair like sacred gifts. Fang Jingyu realized that though the monks looked bizarre, their hearts were pure and childlike. Many gathered to sing mountain songs—the melodies strange but deeply resonant, distinct from any Buddhist chant.

Bathed in this song, the two found their hearts settling, all their burdens smoothed away. The old nun continued: “Though we live here, we are not at peace. To tell the truth, the three Xian Moutains are enemies. Yuanqiao and Daiyu are at odds. They often send assassins to kill us. I ask only this: for the sake of our hospitality, will you help us?”

Chu Kuang and Fang Jingyu looked at each other. Fang Jingyu hadn’t understood a word, only staring blankly. Chu Kuang asked, “What do these assassins look like? Even you can’t handle them? Are they monsters with three heads and six arms?”

The old nun said, “To us, they are the strange ones. They appear on nights of the waning moon, coming to harvest our lives.”

“Why?”

The old nun extended a pitch-black tentacle and lightly touched Chu Kuang’s hand. He felt a tickle—there had been a scratch there, but when the tentacle lifted, the wound was miraculously healed. Chu Kuang stared in shock: these monster monks—they were like walking elixirs! The old nun said, “Now you understand? In the language of Penglai, it’s called ‘a jade invites its own misfortune.’”

Chu Kuang nodded and looked up at the sky. “Well, wouldn’t you know—it just so happens tonight is a waning moon.”

Just then, he noticed the bowl on the old nun’s face trembling. She let out a sharp screech. “They—they’re here!”

Who “they” were was now clear. The forest leaves roared, and figures leapt from the darkness, draped in black cloaks. Wide rain hats shaded their faces, each stitched with a peach blossom pattern in white thread. In their hands were long trident-rakes, brimming with killing intent.

Fang Jingyu took one look and knew they meant trouble. Seeing the peach blossoms on their hats, his heart sank. “Are these people from the Da Yuan Dao sect?”

Chu Kuang was just as shocked—so these were the Daiyu assassins the old nun mentioned?

But they had two arms, two legs, and looked entirely human. Why were they attacking the monks and not aiding people?

Then Chu Kuang thought again—when he had washed ashore, it was these slimy monks who gave them shelter and medicine. Apart from forcing them into one awkward act, they’d done no harm.

Looking again, he saw one assassin with a peach-blossom hat swinging a crescent shovel, gutting monks left and right. Many were maimed, their limbs severed, black fluid pooling on the ground. The monks cried out pitifully, “Please help!”

Chu Kuang gritted his teeth and shouted to Fang Jingyu, “Your Highness, let’s help the monks!”

Fang Jingyu said, “You don’t need to tell me. I know right from wrong!”

Luckily, they had returned to the monk’s quarters earlier and retrieved their usual hunting weapons. One drew a sword, the other a bow. The sword gleamed coldly, and the horn bow sang—together, they beat back the uninvited foes.

But Fang Jingyu, sharp as ever, noticed Chu Kuang’s face pale when he drew the bowstring. Worried he might suffer another seizure, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Chu Kuang snapped, though he was grimacing. Between his thighs was a wet, slippery sensation—something hard poking at him. It was the Joyful Buddha artifact. Every time he moved, what his brother had poured into him earlier kept leaking out. Fang Jingyu, full of suspicion, leaned over and whispered, “Don’t tell me… after what we just did, you’re actually pregnant this time?”

“Pregnant my ass!” Chu Kuang exploded with fury, raising his bow at him. “Say one more word and I’ll kill you!”