Content warning:
Young Nezha during the Investiture era × a married Clam Spirit.
From Nezha’s perspective: My wife is married, but she keeps seducing me.
From Shuanglian’s perspective: I’ve returned to my husband’s youth.
Qinglong Pass was turned upside down—flames licked the sky, blood flowed thick enough to float pestles. Nezha charged into the city with his spear, and the generals fought until dawn, routing the Shang army.
Nezha withdrew his spear, reported victory at the central command, and entered the tent to inform Jiang Ziya that Qinglong Pass had fallen.
The Zhou army’s morale was soaring after taking two passes in a row. Jiang Ziya was overjoyed and held a celebratory banquet that night. Nezha would attend such gatherings as well.
By then, the Li family father and sons had all pledged allegiance to Jiang Ziya, and Nezha was stationed alongside Jinzha. In the past, he and his eldest brother rarely met, but now they were comrades-in-arms, fighting side by side and often in each other’s company.
Jinzha came over: “Third brother.”
Nezha was somewhat familiar with him. He nodded, then sat back down on the rock outside the tent, swinging his legs, utterly bored.
Nezha was the reincarnation of the Spirit Pearl, born through the body of the Li family’s third son. He had already cut off his flesh and gouged out his bones to return them to his parents, severing his bloodline. His soul, with no place to rest, drifted aimlessly—wherever the wind went, his soul followed.
Later, Taiyi Zhenren reshaped him into a Lotus Incarnation. A lotus has no soul, no flesh and blood, and was even more disconnected from the Li family. Nezha had no grudge against his two elder brothers; he simply hated being entangled with Li Jing and family matters.
They weren’t far off, and his lotus ears were sharp—the sounds of conversation and congratulations drifted over from a distance.
Nezha toyed with a newly seized Magical Artifact, tossing it up, then watching it smash to pieces on the ground.
Their chatter irritated him. Nezha’s heart wasn’t generous, and he remembered clearly: back then, the Flat Staff that Manjusri Guangfa Tianzun used to beat him had been handed to the immortal by Jinzha.
Nezha edged further away, moving to Huang Feihu’s side.
Since the campaign against Zhou began, two of Huang Feihu’s four sons had met untimely deaths. Huang Feihu sat in silent grief, wine cup in hand, his body still as a mountain, tears dripping into the cup.
Huang Feihu’s sons were close in age to Nezha—all spirited young generals. Nezha had no close confidants in the camp, estranged from his own family as he was. He preferred to walk alone, and the only ones who occasionally chatted with him were these few peers in arms.
The eldest son, Huang Tianhua, had been the vanguard of the forward guard, with Nezha as the rear guard—though Nezha always charged his spear to the very front, throwing the Shang army into chaos.
Now Huang Tianhua had fallen in battle, and Nezha had taken his place as forward vanguard, clearing the path through mountains. Before long, Huang Tianxiang had his head severed, his corpse hung from the city walls.
Their souls had all entered the Investiture List—whether their fates were good or ill was hard to say.
“General Nezha.”
“Thanks.”
Nezha took a wine cup someone handed him, swirled the liquor, and saw his own face reflected—rouged like painted makeup.
Nezha had no soul. If he lost a battle and died one day, that would be it—just a scattering of lotus petals left behind. Wherever the wind blew, the petals would go.
As the banquet wound down, Nezha offered Huang Feihu a hollow word of comfort before leaving. Then he jumped off the rock, spear in hand, and returned alone to his tent.
Nezha’s tent was sparsely decorated, but packed with weapons. After the altar ceremony appointing generals, the Zhou army had fought hard for days at Mount Jinji, then split into two forces to retake Qinglong and Jiameng Passes, spending months on the road.
Now, standing in the empty tent with cold wind whistling in, he realized winter was nearly here.
He felt neither heat nor cold. He lay down on the cot without covering himself, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
Frustrated, Nezha grabbed the blanket nearby and pulled it over his head. After a long while, a pair of childish eyes peeked out from the tangled bedding, blazing with irritation. He opened them, then shut them again, long lashes resting against his cheeks.
Ever since his Lotus Body was reshaped at age seven, Nezha had always dreamed the same dream. He dreamed he was wearing a red bellyband, bare-bottomed, asking a small demoness to hold him.
“…” Nezha yanked at his long hair in annoyance. In his past life, he’d been the third son of the Chentang Pass commander, dressed in silks and jades, surrounded by servants. What demon could have ever accompanied him without getting smashed to death by his Universe Ring?
Back when his body was being remade, Nezha had been cultivating on Mount Qianyuan. He’d asked Taiyi Zhenren about it, but Taiyi was utterly baffled, thinking he’d fallen under some demon’s sorcery.
Nezha ground his teeth and said to his master: “Right. Seems to be some Clam Spirit. Master, where do I go to catch her?”
Taiyi Zhenren: “Catch her to break the dream?”
Seven-year-old Nezha: “Catch her for fun.”
Taiyi Zhenren was horrified. What little demon dared to disturb the Spirit Pearl’s heart of dao?
Over a decade passed, and the little demon’s face in his dreams grew fainter and fainter. Nezha couldn’t remember anything clearly, and the thought filled him with restless irritation. He pulled the blanket over his head, and the moment he closed his eyes, his younger self stood in the shallow sea, scooping up fish.
Nezha opened his eyes again. He sat up, hair loose and falling around his face. Outside the tent, soldiers patrolled, torchlight leaking through the gaps—dawn hadn’t even broken.
False. He stared at the tent ceiling, rolled over, and buried his face in the bedding, catching the scent of his own lotus fragrance on his nose. The moment he closed his eyes, the Clam Spirit’s face flickered in his mind, vanishing just as he tried to see it clearly.
Nezha: “…Damn you.”
He muttered, and lay awake staring into the dark for half the night.
In the morning, soldiers drilled, and Jiang Ziya delivered a declaration of war to the commander of Sishui Pass. The Shang army accepted the challenge.
A crisp morning wind blew against Nezha’s face. He held his spear, the Universe Ring around his neck, and the Universe-Overturning Silk draped over his arm fluttered in the breeze.
Nezha wrapped the Universe-Overturning Silk around his arm, the wind dispelling his drowsiness. He wore silver armor over a red robe, his hair tied into twin buns with red cords, revealing the cinnabar mark on his brow.
Nezha’s rationality returned. He cast the dream aside, shook his head, and fell in step with the assembled army.
What Clam Spirit? What Chentang Pass? None of it had anything to do with him.
He was Nezha made of lotus, a Nezha with no ties or attachments. Treasures that could seize souls and steal spirits could not harm him. What did the affections and friendships of a past life have to do with Nezha, that he should still carry them in his heart?
The army stood in solemn formation. Nezha took the lead, riding his Wind and Fire Wheels to escort Jiang Ziya. The gates of Sishui Pass opened, and the Shang vanguard galloped straight toward Jiang Ziya.
Before Jiang Ziya could speak, Nezha—eager for battle—had already launched himself forward with his spear.
The vanguard officer sent by the Shang army saw a fair-faced youth with twin buns charging at him and shouted, “What milk-fed brat is this? Can you even survive a single strike?”
Nezha’s spear was faster than his tongue. “Don’t you recognize your grandpa Nezha?”
The vanguard officer had no time to react. But Han Rong, the commander defending Sishui Pass, heard the name and his face changed dramatically. He looked up and saw a figure standing on Wind and Fire Wheels, a face more handsome than any maiden’s, wielding a spear like lightning—it was indeed Nezha.
He cried out in shock and fury, “Li Nezha!”
The Shang vanguard officer, being of Mortal Fleshly Body with no Magic Treasure to protect him, was quickly stripped of his armor and helmet. A silver spear struck his heart, and he fell dead on the spot.
The enemy died too quickly. Nezha was not pleased. Hearing the shout, he turned and recognized the man, immediately breaking into a smile. “When I was twelve, I didn’t manage to kill you and Yu Hua. Today I’ve come specially to capture you both. Are you happy or not?”
Wang Hu was dead, and the Shang army had no strength to resist. Han Rong dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and, escorted by his soldiers, retreated hastily back through the pass.
Once back inside the pass, Han Rong was still shaken. His last encounter with Nezha had been years ago, when Nezha, under orders from Taiyi Zhenren, had left Mount Qianyuan to assist Jiang Ziya.
The twelve-year-old child had charged at the front, striking with ruthless ferocity, cutting through the enemy ranks at his own whim, killing as he pleased. The golden brick he’d hurled had nearly cost Han Rong his life, and his deputy commander Yu Hua had been beaten within an inch of his own.
Han Rong was fretting over how to hold Sishui Pass when his deputy commander Yu Hua returned to camp carrying a Magic Treasure forged by his master. The treasure was called the Blood-Dissolving Divine Blade, and its edge bore a strange poison—even Nezha, with his Lotus Incarnation, would be helpless against it.
Han Rong was skeptical, but Yu Hua took the blade and went to issue a challenge. Nezha, ever eager for battle, fell for the trap. The Blood-Dissolving Divine Blade struck like lightning, cutting into his shoulder.
Nezha’s body was made entirely of lotus petals. He felt a searing pain in his shoulder and nearly lost his life.
His pride was too great to allow him to collapse face-down before Yu Hua. Nezha turned and flew back to camp, stumbling off his Wind and Fire Wheels and crashing into the main tent where the commander was stationed.
Jiang Ziya was startled and called Nezha’s name repeatedly. Nezha did not answer. He kept his head low, his body trembling with pain, silent, waiting for the agony to pass.
Few treasures in the world could harm Nezha—let alone nearly kill him.
Nezha couldn’t even turn over. He tried to push himself up but couldn’t. Shame filled his heart—to be wounded by such a contemptible, underhanded weapon.
He had often seen comrades fall in battle. He had once taken his own life. He did not fear death. But for the first time, he was thrust into a life-and-death crisis not of his choosing. His face was pale, his eyes closed, his cheek pressed against his arm. He looked asleep—if not for the constant trembling.
Jiang Ziya and the others were at a loss, their hearts heavy with worry. They could only have Nezha carried back to his tent.
Nezha lay collapsed on the bed, a crowd of people gathered around him, sighing and shaking their heads. The poison of the Blood-Dissolving Divine Blade—even if Yuanshi Tianzun himself came, there would be no cure.
The crowd came and went, light and shadow shifting across his face.
Nezha’s cheek pressed against the cold bed. Outside the window, the sun set and the moon rose. When the pain grew unbearable, he finally forced out two syllables.
What his eyes saw drifted and blurred, much like the feeling at the final moment of his self-inflicted death—his body and soul adrift, with nowhere to belong.
His long hair covered his brow and eyes. Broken sounds squeezed from his throat. When Huang Tianhua and Huang Tianxiang died, their father and brothers would weep for them and give them proper burials.
Nezha quickly put thoughts of his father and brothers aside—he had never cared about them anyway. He was young and proud, and what he felt was unwillingness and humiliation. He had not died in battle; he had been poisoned. Even if he were saved, how could he ever hold his head up before others again?
Nezha sulked inwardly, but he lacked the strength to open his eyes. The moment he closed them, the faint, elusive face of that dead Clam Spirit appeared before him again, reaching out to embrace him. He wanted to strike her, but he couldn’t lift his hand. And that Clam Spirit was impossibly strong—even as a child, he’d never been able to break free from her grip.
Nezha could only let her hold him, drifting in a haze through the night.
Nezha lay unconscious for many days, walking to the very gates of death. Later, he took the antidote delivered by Yang Jian and spent many days recovering. His master taught him the art of Three Heads and Eight Arms and gave him additional weapons, bringing his total to eight.
Nezha descended the mountain and returned to the Western Qi camp. Still unaccustomed to his awkward Three Heads and Eight Arms form, he went to an open area to practice his martial arts.
The soldiers and generals who saw his dharma form were all astonished. Nezha showed nothing on his face, but inwardly, he had regained much of the face he had lost after being ambushed by Yu Hua.
The Zhou camp crowd gathered around Nezha, praising him endlessly. Once Nezha had basked in enough glory, he retracted his Three Heads and Eight Arms and swaggered off with his spear, looking quite pleased with himself. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief—finally, the child was appeased.
Nezha strode toward the central tent to see Jiang Ziya. Today, three or four people stood outside the tent, gathered around something.
Nezha didn’t care. He walked past without a second glance.
Unlucky. Truly unlucky. The great Nezha had received the Jade Emperor’s decree to go eliminate demons.
Shuanglian wanted to visit little Nezha inside the Map of Mountains and Rivers. But the map had not been used for so long that it kept malfunctioning.
She fell from the sky and landed right in the Western Qi camp. When the Zhou army saw her, both commanders and soldiers braced themselves as if facing a formidable enemy.
Shuanglian’s strength had not yet recovered. Her arms and legs flailed uselessly in the air for a moment before ropes bound her hands and feet, and she was taken to the central tent to await judgment.
Shuanglian sat on the ground, hunching her shoulders, pouting in frustration. Her mind was completely blank. She obediently crouched inside their hastily built wooden cage, picking at the wood shavings with her fingers. Hearing the commotion, Jiang Ziya came out.
Shuanglian looked at the white-bearded old man. Then her gaze drifted past him and caught sight of a red figure passing by.
Nezha walked past with his spear. When he turned his face, his eyes met Shuanglian’s.
Nezha stopped in his tracks.
He came over.