Mountain Wind Gu
Shen Shu had already closed his eyes and resigned himself to death when he felt the person in front of him crouch down and pull him into a tight embrace. The golden sword had been discarded to one side.
He opened his eyes and stared for three seconds. Then his face flushed, and he hurriedly slipped out of Wen Zhuo’s arms.
“What are you doing?!”
Once he was on his feet, he noticed that Wen Zhuo’s eyes seemed much duller, and his expression had gone strangely rigid, as if someone had taken control of his mind.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Wen Zhuo said.
He stood and gently took Shen Shu’s hand, turning his wrist over. Deep purple veins were exposed before their eyes.
“You touched my flower, so you’ve been poisoned,” Wen Zhuo said softly. “Shall I draw the poison out for you?”
Oh, so that was what he meant.
Shen Shu had misunderstood. He’d thought Wen Zhuo was going to kill him.
Only then did he relax. He awkwardly scratched his cheek and looked down at his hand. The spot where the little flower had pricked him was already turning black. The poison was spreading fast, and in the blink of an eye it had crept halfway up his arm.
The pain registered belatedly. He hissed and clutched his wound. “What is this stuff…? It hurts like hell.”
Wen Zhuo blinked, watching him with eager eyes. “Would you like me to draw out the poison?”
Still shaken, Shen Shu immediately pulled his hand from Wen Zhuo’s grasp. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.”
“If I don’t draw it out, you’ll be dead within three days.”
“Go ahead, then.”
The moment Shen Shu heard he would die, he obediently sat down against the dead tree, pushed up his white sleeve, and held out his arm to Wen Zhuo.
Wen Zhuo crouched and took the knife from Shen Shu. He pressed a fingertip to several of Shen Shu’s acupuncture points, locating where the poison had gathered.
He gently warned him, “This might hurt a little.”
As he spoke, the knife tip glinted, then plunged down.
“Wait!”
Just as the blade was about to pierce his skin, Shen Shu suddenly shouted and yanked his hand away.
Wen Zhuo paused, holding the knife steady, and slowly looked up at Shen Shu.
“Scared?”
Shen Shu breathed in short, tight gasps. He looked from his arm, nearly black halfway up, to the knife in Wen Zhuo’s hand, then finally lifted a pitiful gaze to Wen Zhuo’s face.
His brow furrowed slightly, and he spoke in a soft voice. “Daoist, how about we just…”
Before he could get out the words “forget it,” a powerful force slammed him against the dead tree.
A moment later, there was a wet squelch. A small cross-shaped cut opened in the center of his wrist, and thick black blood streamed down his pale skin.
Wen Zhuo swiftly tapped several points on his arm, then placed two fingers against the crook of his elbow. A thread of spiritual power seeped into Shen Shu’s skin, thrashing through his bloodstream and slowly forcing the tainted blood out through the wound.
Shen Shu felt as if a thousand needles were piercing his bones. Cold sweat broke out as he clutched Wen Zhuo’s robe and begged over and over:
“No, no, Daoist, stop, I don’t want treatment anymore! It hurts so much! I’m going to die!”
Wen Zhuo glanced up at Shen Shu and said gently, “If I don’t draw out the poison, you’ll be dead soon.”
At the mention of death, Shen Shu could only let go in frustration. He tipped his head back and knocked it twice against the tree trunk, making the red earring swing and jingle.
“If it hurts, you can cry,” Wen Zhuo said comfortingly as he steadily drew out the poison. “I won’t laugh at you.”
Shen Shu’s eyes grew misty, and sure enough, he began to cry. He wanted to try his usual trick of playing up his misery to plead for mercy, but the pain left him unable to get out a single word.
Seeing him in such a pitiful state, Wen Zhuo paused and suddenly released his spiritual power.
Instead, he cradled Shen Shu’s arm. As Shen Shu watched in alarm, Wen Zhuo brought the wound to his lips and took it into his mouth.
Shen Shu furrowed his brow and let out a low groan, his fingers curling slightly.
But it really didn’t hurt anymore.
Wen Zhuo slowly sucked out the poison. His movements were far gentler than before, though the sight was rather strange.
Having Wen Zhuo’s lips pressed against his wrist tickled, too.
After who knew how long, Wen Zhuo finally spat out a mouthful of blood. He wiped the knife clean with a graceful swipe and announced, “All done.”
Blood covered his entire arm. Shen Shu was drenched in cold sweat and had tears in his eyes. As if granted a reprieve, he let out a deep breath and looked down at his trembling arm.
“It still hurts quite a bit…” He sucked in a breath.
Hearing this, Wen Zhuo reached toward him. Shen Shu immediately recoiled, his pupils tightening again.
“What’s wrong?”
Wen Zhuo’s eyes held a smile as he reminded him, “From now on, don’t touch the flowers and plants in the mountains. I’ll bandage your arm.”
Only then did Shen Shu realize Wen Zhuo meant no harm. His pupils relaxed, and he slowly held out his hand.
“Thank you, Daoist. I didn’t mean to touch it. I woke up and it was right there.” Shen Shu gave a mournful sigh. “Can’t you cultivators use some kind of spell to stop the pain?”
Wen Zhuo didn’t answer. When he saw the tears running down Shen Shu’s face, his smile seemed to deepen.
Shen Shu: ? What’s he so happy about?
Once his arm was wrapped in white bandages, Shen Shu pushed himself up by his knee, brushed the dirt from his clothes, and asked, “Where are we, exactly?”
Wen Zhuo said nothing. He just stared at him, his gaze turning very strange, as though Shen Shu were an old acquaintance he had known for a long time.
Shen Shu turned around and met his gaze.
“W-What’s wrong?”
“Where are your ears?” Wen Zhuo’s eyes brimmed with nostalgia. He reached out and touched Shen Shu’s hair. “There used to be a pair here.”
Wen Zhuo’s touch made Shen Shu nervous. He ducked his head and dodged away.
What ears…? He wasn’t a cat or a dog.
What was going on? Ever since Shen Shu had cried, Wen Zhuo had been acting so strangely, like he’d drunk some kind of love potion.
“Daoist, my name is Shen Shu,” Shen Shu kindly reminded him. “Are you sure you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?”
“Shen Shu?” Wen Zhuo repeated.
After a long pause, he gave a faint smile. “That’s a lovely name.”
His eyes soon returned to normal. He stopped saying things that made no sense and patiently answered Shen Shu’s questions.
“We’re in Qizhou, in Chishui Forest.”
Qizhou?
He’d never heard of a place by that name in ancient China.
Shen Shu rubbed his chin, thinking.
His old shifu had said he was sending him back to the past to escape danger. Could he have ended up in some alternate version of history?
Judging by the way this man was dressed, he was probably seeking immortality and the Dao. Maybe the cultivation world still existed in this era.
Wen Zhuo continued, “You can’t get out because a ghost has laid a vast miasma over this place. Anyone who enters from outside falls under its spell.”
“This kind of ghost is called a shuimang ghost.” Wen Zhuo looked at Shen Shu. “Do you want to go home?”
Shen Shu forced a smile. “Would you be willing to take me home, Daoist?”
Though his home was in another time and place now.
Wen Zhuo didn’t answer. He looked away and pointed his Hanguang Sword at the ground. “If you want to leave, you’ll have to persuade the shuimang ghost to lift the miasma.”
He leveled the sword and gave it a light swing, sending out a streak of sword qi that cut through a section of the dense fog. Through the opening, Shen Shu could just make out the scenery beyond the miasma.
But as soon as it was split, the fog grew back in an instant, like crazed flesh, and joined together in a grotesque mass.
Just as Wen Zhuo had said, no matter how they wandered around the mountain, they could never escape the miasma. Something was keeping them trapped.
“The ghost is hiding underground in Chishui Forest.”
Wen Zhuo let go of the sword and formed a hand seal. The Hanguang Sword rose into the air, turning to point toward the ground.
“You can come with me and search for the shuimang ghost’s lair.”
Shen Shu’s head was spinning. All he wanted was to get out of this foul-smelling place as soon as possible, then figure out how to return to the modern world.
He said offhandedly, “You’re so powerful, Daoist. Why bother talking? Why not just beat it into submission and make it let us go?”
“That makes sense,” Wen Zhuo said with a smile. “How old are you now?”
Shen Shu made something up. “Twenty.”
“Twenty already.” A trace of regret flickered in Wen Zhuo’s eyes. “Who raised you?”
“Daoist, nobody raised me.” Shen Shu felt that this conversation was getting stranger by the minute. “I don’t have parents. An old shifu from a Daoist temple found me and took me in.”
Wen Zhuo’s gaze cooled. “Your shifu?”
The look made Shen Shu’s heart tighten. He answered slowly, “Yes, my shifu.”
Wen Zhuo looked away and put on his gentle smile again.
“I’ll take you out of Chishui Forest now.”
As soon as Wen Zhuo finished speaking, Shen Shu felt the ground tremble beneath his feet.
He stepped back and looked down. Points of rosy light gradually appeared in the cracks of the frozen, cracked earth, stirring the vigorous plant roots below. Nearby, Wen Zhuo pressed his palms together and closed his eyes. An invisible mass of true qi gathered in his palm.
In a low voice, he chanted the spell.
“Wind and thunder.”
Thunder boomed!
The spirit veins of the entire mountain stirred at the incantation, and the rosy light widened the cracks in the earth.
Keeping to the side, Shen Shu watched several flower buds, each as tall as a person, rise from the ground. They unfurled, revealing a rotten skull inside each one. One eyeball dangled from its socket, and the flower’s sharp stamen had pierced straight through the skull to the top of the head.
Shen Shu’s mouth twitched. He muttered, “I was wondering what kind of flowers you’d planted. Turns out they bloom out of people’s heads.”
Wen Zhuo explained, “I’ve killed quite a few shuimang ghosts over the years. Their heads, buried in the earth, attract the miasma and show us where the entrance to the lair is.”
Shen Shu only nodded.
Terrifying. No wonder he was Lord Yama. Even his flowers were planted with human heads.
Seeing Shen Shu muttering to himself, Wen Zhuo chuckled softly and looked away. The mark between his brows flashed.
Then he closed his hand into a fist.
At that gesture, every flower across the mountain rotted at once!
Thick miasma surged skyward from the corpses. In moments, it spread into a vast, foul cloud, several times larger than the miasma that had been there before.
Wen Zhuo frowned. “It’s here.”
The next second, half a mile away from Shen Shu, a small mound of earth exploded with a bang.
Shen Shu immediately crouched halfway down, warily watching the mound.
A gust of evil wind quickly swept toward them, carrying something sinister as it rushed past his ear like a ghostly claw.
Shen Shu’s pupils narrowed.
The dark wind darted and twisted. Several strands of waterweed shot from the black opening, lashing toward Shen Shu and Wen Zhuo like the tongues of a vicious beast.
Wen Zhuo retreated several steps and cut them to pieces with his sword. Shen Shu grabbed the strands of waterweed, but they were as slippery as earthworms and immediately slid out of his hands.
Soon, he felt a chill creep over his ankles. Looking down, he saw that his feet had been wrapped three times in damp waterweed without him noticing.
Oh no, it was after him!
Shen Shu reached for his knife to cut himself free, but the plants seemed to sense what he was planning. They let out a piercing, chaotic shriek and suddenly began to grow like unraveling thread.
They rapidly wove themselves into a hand that clamped over Shen Shu’s mouth, flung him backward, and dragged him toward the opening.
In an instant, the world turned upside down.
Bound from head to toe, Shen Shu was dragged away. Amid the chaos, all he could make out was Wen Zhuo’s blurred figure…
And the waterweed creeping over to his ear, whispering like a venomous snake:
“A fox demon’s eyes aren’t meant to be used this way.”