HCAW 97

Chapter 97: Scales Beneath the Skin

The night was deep, dew condensed thick, and the Ox and Dipper constellations hung in the sky. From a rough stone house in the countryside of Daiyu came the sound of chanting.

At the back window of the house sat a shrine, on which rested a statue of a nine-legged, seven-eyed octopus deity, its gold lacquer flaking. In Daiyu, this deity—Great Immortal Yonghe—was worshipped in every household.

The one reciting was an elderly woman, hunched and dry as a gourd, dressed in a gray headscarf and a narrow-sleeved bean-green robe. In a hushed voice, she muttered:

“Great Immortal, protect us. May our small home be safe and blessed…”

As she chanted, she nervously rolled the prayer beads in her hand. But rather than gold or jade, her beads were strung with fresh malabar spinach leaves—a strange sight. As she turned the beads, she anxiously peered out the window, waiting for someone to return. But the night outside was dead silent, no sign of the person she hoped for.

Suddenly, the thatch gate rustled, and a chill wind swept through, causing the lamp’s flame to flicker. A dark silhouette suddenly filled the doorway, startling the old woman. She rose tremblingly and peered closely, then let out a breath—it was her old husband, a skinny man in a short hemp coat, holding a paper parcel in his arms.

Seeing him, she stood from her straw mat, no longer reverent, and snapped:

“You dead twig! Where the hell have you been, gone this long?!”

He chuckled:

“Went up to Jinshan Temple to ask for ‘Immortal Elixir’.”

Her brows relaxed a little upon hearing that. But before he could open the paper parcel, she smacked him on the back:

“What are you rushing for, white-faced fool? Wash your hands and pay respects to the Immortal first!”

So the old man stepped outside, washed at the well, and returned to kneel with her before the shrine. They bowed solemnly.

In Daiyu, “Immortal Elixir” is not rare. The temple monks would regularly distribute them to the people. Legend said the elixir was dew bestowed by the deity to the Xian Mountain Guards, who then kindly distributed them to the masses. They nourished the body and healed illness. Common folk often queued in long lines at the temples for a share.

After their prayer, the old man said:

“Hurry and drink this Immortal Elixir —it’ll fix your bum leg.”

The old woman replied,

“Why worry about this old leg of mine? You should eat it, build your strength to work the fields.” Though she said this, her eyes were full of laughter.

The two bickered and pushed the paper parcel between them until it crumpled. But then came a sudden howl of wind outside. It roared and sobbed, like a long-drawn horn call. Then—a knock at the door.

The old man frowned and looked toward the gate. Who could be calling this late?

The old woman slapped her forehead:

“Aiyoh, it must be Lady Pei from the mountainside! I saw her yesterday—she said she’d bring us some of her tofu today.”

The old man’s eyes widened:

“This late? Mountain paths are rough—how could she get here?”

The old woman shoved him:

“Then how did you get back? If she made it, why not? Lazy bones! I’ll go.”

She rose and hobbled toward the door. But the old man wasn’t convinced. The night was pitch-black, and it made no sense for anyone to be out. This wasn’t banditry either—Daiyu had been peaceful for years under Gu Bi Guard’s rule. The Xian Mountains were always under the guards’ watchful eyes. Any trouble was swiftly met with public execution. There were few outlaws here.

Still puzzling, he suddenly heard a soft “ow” from the door.

“Wife? What happened?”

He looked up and saw her standing there, motionless. The night outside was a black curtain. Her green robe seemed a patch sewn into that darkness. Beneath it, her coarsecloth pants and carefully braided straw sandals.

Then—she collapsed backward all at once. The body inside dropped stiffly to the ground with a muffled thump, like a drumbeat. The old man froze. The body—had no head. It was as if the darkness had devoured it.

He jumped up as if jabbed by a needle. Grabbing the iron rake nearby, he turned over her body. The neck stump was jagged, as though chewed by beasts—but there was no blood, only an ominous black smear. He rushed to the gate and slammed it shut.

The wind outside was sharp and cold. No sign of Lady Pei. No beast either.

Only a ghost.

The old man’s palms poured sweat, nearly making him drop the rake. He barricaded the door with whatever furniture he could grab, heart hammering. Inside, the lamp flickered wildly. The deity’s statue swayed in shadow, as though dancing. Shapes overlapped and twisted into a frenzied whirl.

Then came a terrible sound—the wind, thin and sharp, like a hundred orange leaves blown at once.

It came from the shuttered window.

He tore his wife’s robe from the body, rushed to the window, and stuffed it with her clothes to stop the sound.

After everything was sealed, he was soaked in cold sweat.

He didn’t know what he was facing. His wife had only opened the door—and then her head was gone. There was nothing in the dark.

Or maybe… the darkness itself was his enemy.

Then, silently, a shadow crept into the room.

It flowed through the sealed window like silk, like water, like wind—soft, fluid, impossible to grasp.

The old man stared. The shadow gathered form: a soft, boneless human shape, a muddy head. Seven glittering eyes like pearls reflected his horrified face.

He turned to look at the shrine one last time. The seven-eyed, nine-legged octopus god stood cold and aloof behind the incense. Unmoved. Unhelpful.

The shadow was its twin—same form, but with a hideous gaping mouth.

“G… Great Immortal?” the old man whispered. But he never got an answer.

The mouth surged forward—and tore off his head.

The flickering lamplight lit the stone house.

The shrine stood silent.

Beneath it, two headless corpses lay sprawled. The wind hissed through the empty room.

_____

Night thickened. In a military tent near the prince’s manor, a single lamp flickered.

Outside sat several silhouettes—Chu Kuang and Fang Jingyu, drinking huangpei wine and playing hand games with a palace guard.

Chu Kuang had mingled with the guards long enough to become one of them. That night, they drank and chatted. The guard slurred:

“They say the prince will ascend the throne soon.”

“Ascend?”

The guard squinted at them:

“Are you really from Daiyu? You don’t know about this?”

Chu Kuang and Fang Jingyu exchanged a glance. Chu Kuang laughed:

“We lived in seclusion with the Divine Maiden—cut off from the world. Forgive our ignorance, brother.”

The guard relaxed.

“The three Xian Mountain Guards decided it. The peaks have been without a ruler for too long. His Highness, being Emperor Bai’s son, will naturally govern. It’s only a matter of time—it’s just been delayed.”

Fang Jingyu frowned.

“If he claims the throne, won’t the Emperor Changyi object?”

Hearing this, the soldier was instead deeply surprised and asked, “Changyi Emperor? Who’s that?”

This left Fang Jingyu and Chu Kuang utterly dumbfounded. The two exchanged a look, and Fang Jingyu hesitantly said, “Isn’t he… the sovereign of the Five Xian Mountains?”

The soldier flew into a rage. “What Five Xian Mountains? Since ancient times, there have only been three Xian Mountains under heaven! And who is this Changyi Emperor? What right does he have to claim the throne? Other than Emperor Bai and our soon-to-be enthroned Fatty Ji, the Three Mountains recognize no other emperor!”

The two were even more shocked. They had long suspected the people of Daiyu were unaware of Penglai and believed only in the existence of three mountains. But now they realized even Emperor Changyi’s prestige had not reached this land. On second thought, it made sense—Daiyu was distant and remote, like an outlying frontier. The people were like those beyond the realm’s reach, untouched by imperial grace.

Seeing the soldier still fuming, Chu Kuang patted his shoulder and said with a smile, “Brother, calm down. This little servant of mine is ignorant of the world—he even took an arrow through the head once, left him half a fool. We’re still trying to learn a lot—hoping to ask for your guidance.”

Only then did the soldier grunt and ease his temper. Fang Jingyu, however, shot Chu Kuang a fierce glare, wanting to speak but holding back.

The soldier continued, “As for the enthronement, since His Highness is recommended by the three Xian Mountain Guards, people from all three mountains will gather here to partake in the grand feast.”

Chu Kuang asked, “We commoners seldom see figures of such stature. What kind of people are the three Xian Mountain Guards?”

“It’s said the Bi Bao Guard from Yuanqiao is an ancient matron, the Bai Huan Guard of Fanghu is a powdered-faced beauty, and as for Gu Bi Guard of Daiyu…” The soldier hesitated, lowering his voice. “We rarely see him ourselves, but he’s said to be a charismatic gentleman.”

Chu Kuang nodded enthusiastically, laying it on thick. “To govern Daiyu so prosperously, he must be a dashing and virtuous young noble!”

The soldier sighed deeply and looked to the vast heavens. “Each of the three Mountain Guards has their own strengths, but all of them once followed in Emperor Bai’s footsteps. His majesty moved the world—he was the most radiant figure of all time. But it’s already been over twenty years since he left the Three Mountains. They can no longer remain without a leader.”

The two were again shaken. So Emperor Bai had only left Daiyu a little over twenty years ago, while in Penglai and Yingzhou, he was already a near-mythical figure from a century past. Perhaps he lingered here after his campaign before finally departing? But they had no time to ponder it further, as the soldier began recounting the Emperor Bai’s legend:

“When the Emperor arrived, his army thundered across the land—ten thousand riders strong, shaking the earth. But in the end, the losses were heavy. Even the Tianfu Guard fell here! When he reached the gate of Guixu, only Emperor Bai remained.”

“Tianfu Guard?”

The soldier looked at Chu Kuang and smiled, showing white teeth. “Not referring to you, little brother—His Highness only just gave you that title. I mean the one who accompanied Emperor Bai on his campaign twenty-odd years ago.”

Chu Kuang thought: What nonsense! The Tianfu Guard didn’t die here—he ran off to Penglai and ended up becoming my master!

Just then, the soldier excitedly pulled out a fan from his robe. “I used some silver to buy this from the Yunji Troupe. Have a look!”

The two leaned in. Painted on the fan was a vivid image: misty sea waves, a blood-red sunset, craggy stone cliffs. Sitting upon them was a man clad in silver-scaled brocade, embroidered with soaring dragons, dressed in moon-white silk. He was a striking young man, gazing toward the distant sea, his expression melancholy and vacant.

The soldier proudly said, “This is the famous ‘Emperor Bai Gazing at the Sea’. Took me months of saved wages to buy this fan.” He studied the image, then suddenly stared at Fang Jingyu like he’d seen a ghost. “Aiyoh! Now that I look closely—this little servant here looks just like the man in the picture!”

At that moment, Fang Jingyu sat bolt upright, face solemn. The thin layer of moonlight lent him a fair complexion, red lips, heroic grace—indeed resembling the man in the painting. He thought: Of course we look alike. That’s my father. What son doesn’t resemble his own father?

But they couldn’t expose their identities now. Chu Kuang quickly jumped in, laughing: “Heh! Everyone’s got two eyes, one nose and a mouth. Bit of a likeness, sure. He used to do street performances dressed up like Emperor Bai to earn a few coins for the Divine Maiden’s temple lamp oil. I bought him because he looked lucky, that’s all—just a cheap two-silver brat. Looks pretty, but no guts.”

Fang Jingyu glared at him again. Chu Kuang shrugged, “See? Told you—petty and narrow-hearted.” The soldier finally relaxed.

Still, jokes aside, Fang Jingyu stared at that fan and felt a sudden, overwhelming sorrow, like a flood crashing down on his heart. Emperor Bai, so dazzling and proud upon arrival… what terrible, bloody battle had left him a solitary, lonesome figure in the end?

A sovereign left alone, abandoned by fate. Only the sea knew his pain.

Unknowingly, Fang Jingyu’s thoughts drifted into the painting, heart aching for that distant figure—sharing in his joy, grief, and solitude. A sharp sorrow, like a blade, sliced his chest.

“What is it?” Chu Kuang sensed his mood change and leaned in.

Fang Jingyu shook his head. “Nothing. Just too much wine. Feeling a bit drunk.”

______

At the hour of Mao (5:00 AM to 7:00 AM) the next day, the two arrived at the prince’s manor. Chaos reigned, servants scrambling everywhere, two ceremonial stewards waving their arms and shouting orders. Xiao Jiao sat in the main hall, perched primly on a brocade chair, pretending to be dignified. She shot them meaningful glances, signaling them not to disrupt her act.

It was another full hour before Fatty Ji finally appeared in the grand hall. He wore five-emblem black robes, decorated with ceremonial patterns, fully styled—but his face was full of irritation. Chu Kuang suddenly understood: they were rehearsing for his enthronement.

Fatty Ji paced about restlessly, spitting and swearing, “Are you ready yet? Gu Bi Guard is on the way! Soon Bi Bao Guard will arrive too—if she sees you lot looking like deadwood, I’ll lose face completely!”

He swung a riding crop, whipping the air. The servants trembled and scrambled faster. He finally flopped into a cloisonné chair, pulled an ivory doll from his sleeve, and jabbed it with an embroidery needle.

Xiao Jiao asked, “Your Highness, what’s that?”

Grinding his teeth, he handed it over. It was a voodoo doll, and carved beneath its foot was “Bi Bao Guard,” its face sculpted like a shriveled old crone.

“You don’t like Bi Bao Guard? But I heard you say just now you were preparing a grand welcome for her arrival.”

Fatty Ji grumbled, “That old hag—she’s always saying I’m useless, said back then she only recommended me because she was ‘blinded by pig fat.’ Now she’s gone missing just as the enthronement approaches. Damn her! It’s probably all her fault I’ve been delayed this long!”

He ranted furiously, tossing out insults left and right. Just then, a crisp laugh drifted in like the chime of jade pendants:

“Your Highness is a learned man—how could you speak so vulgarly?”

Fatty Ji froze, neck shrinking like a turtle. A figure stepped out from behind a black pillar: jade hairpin, green robes trimmed with pheasant plumes, slender and elegant, a gentle-faced young man with crescent-moon eyes and a breezy presence. At his waist hung a jade disc etched with valley patterns.

Fatty Ji rushed to bow.

“G-Gu Bi Guard, please! You must’ve misheard—I didn’t say anything, really…”

All present were secretly stunned. Fang Jingyu had seen many Xian Mountain Guards—Yu Ji, Mohe, Yu Yin, Ruyi—all ancient, domineering figures. But this Gu Bi Guard was shockingly young.

Yet the moment their eyes met, Fang Jingyu’s hair stood on end.

This was no amiable gentleman. His glassy eyes shimmered like glaze—but within them was cold, deadly frost.

Gu Bi Guard studied them and smiled faintly. “Your Highness, guests have arrived at your manor, and yet I’ve not been informed. Where might they be from?”

Fatty Ji stammered, unable to answer. Then Gu Bi Guard turned to Fang Jingyu.

In that instant, a cold light flashed like lightning—a calligraphy brush, forged of black iron and etched with valley patterns, shot straight for Fang Jingyu’s brow!

But Fang Jingyu reacted instantly. His hand was already on the hilt of Hanguang, and he caught the strike by a hair’s breadth. Even so, his palm went numb, bones humming, jaw clenched tight.

Gu Bi Guard looked at him, smiling thinly, and softly asked:

“Why are you here, Your Majesty?”