After living on Silent Reflection Peak for years, Shang Zhu knew exactly where its silence ended.
He left the wooden house beneath trees older than Lingyun Sect itself. Each had developed a spirit—and a temper. Perhaps rebirth had changed him, for even without cultivation he could hear them.
“Who is that pretty child?”
“The old man must have brought him.”
“Wait. Where is he going?”
“The rear mountain! He’s doomed!”
Branches rustled in warning. The rear mountain was He Yi’an’s “secret storehouse.” Yet his master rarely visited and never counted its treasures. Fortune favored the bold, so Shang Zhu intended to accept the gift.
He patted the nearest trunk. “Relax. I’ll be fine.”
Every tree went still. How could a mortal hear them?
He returned with astonishing speed and patted the same trunk. “Thank you for warning me. I’ll bring you something tasty next time.”
For trees, that meant rich soil and high-grade water.
His easy smile vanished as he approached the house. Pale and sweating, he clutched his stomach.
“Settle down!”
“No! It’s hot! I want to go back into the water!”
“Keep shouting and I’ll chew you up.”
The juvenile bloodfish he had swallowed was deafening. He had chosen a young one because it should have been easy to control, but only threats of frying, steaming, and boiling made it stop crashing around inside him.
Three cups of spiritual water eased the burning.
“So you do know what’s good for you,” Shang Zhu said sweetly. “What else would make you comfortable?”
“Spiritual springs, herbs—anything full of qi. You’re a mortal who swallowed me whole! Without these treasures, the pain would kill you.”
So the bloodfish required constant spiritual nourishment. In his first life, He Yi’an had placed one inside him after he possessed cultivation, which explained the absence of symptoms. Shang Zhu had only repeated it because the forbidden art needed a bloodfish to maximize the power of blood.
His gaze fixed on a medicine box. After he was refined, his pill would have rested there.
“Why did you stop talking?”
“Just thinking.”
“No! You’ll spit me out! I don’t want to stay here!”
Shang Zhu dragged its translucent spirit from his dantian and held it between two fingers. “Do you think I came here without knowing how to control you?”
The bloodfish wilted. What kind of demon had it met?
The heat soon returned. Spiritual water could not cure the cause, so Shang Zhu went outside.
He found a wild chicken nest. Even ordinary fowl in the cultivation world were fast, but they were the weakest creatures available. By the time he caught one, twigs tangled his hair and claw marks covered his face and neck.
He carried it to a clearing and recalled the forbidden ritual: draw the formation, then use the bloodfish as the medium.
With a stick dipped in spiritual water, he traced an intricate array over the earth. Then he poured the chicken’s blood across it.
Heat engulfed him instantly.
“What are you doing? It burns!” the bloodfish screamed.
Shang Zhu collapsed against a rock, sweat falling in heavy drops. When the agony finally receded, he summoned the faint power drawn into his body.
Red mist bloomed at his fingertip. Grass beside him withered.
Could it only destroy? Could it restore?
At the thought, the grass sprang back to life.
Seconds later, all the power vanished. The terrible pain seemed almost laughable, but progress was progress. Perhaps the blood was too weak, the medium too crude, or both.
Footsteps approached.
Shang Zhu erased most of the formation, leaving one old-looking corner, then collapsed beside the shriveled chicken and pretended to be unconscious.
Someone threw the bird away and lifted him onto a back.
Didn’t He Yi’an hate dirt? Shang Zhu had rolled across the ground, yet the man did not hesitate.
“I leave you alone for one moment, and you end up like this,” He Yi’an sighed. “I will have to watch you carefully.”
In his haze, Shang Zhu felt strangely safe. As though this man were not—
No.
He bolted upright.
He Yi’an sat beside him, patting his back and humming an old song Shang Zhu’s parents had often sung.
How did he know it?
Because it was him. He had watched Shang Zhu’s family all along.
“Are you uncomfortable because I’m too close?” He Yi’an withdrew apologetically.
“What happened? Why does everything hurt?”
“I found you beside a corrupted formation mixed with chicken blood. It must have injured you.”
His concern held no visible falsehood. Shang Zhu focused on one phrase: followed your aura.
“I was hungry and wandered many places. Could I have encountered something else?”
“No. Your aura remained in that area. There was nothing unusual besides the incomplete formation.” He Yi’an offered a spiritual fruit.
Shang Zhu relaxed. His concealment spell had held only briefly; next time he must be more careful.
“Relax. I’ll inspect your body.”
Cool power flowed through his limbs. The bloodfish’s spirit was too insubstantial to discover.
“You are unharmed,” He Yi’an said. “I’ll search the mountain before allowing you out alone again.”
He produced a plate of pastries and left: mung-bean cakes, jasmine-tea pastries, red-bean osmanthus cakes.
Every one was Shang Zhu’s favorite.
Why?
Only a day had passed, yet he could not understand He Yi’an.
“What is that? Taste it! I want some too!” the bloodfish demanded.
“You can taste food?”
“Of course. This great fish is omnipotent!”
Shang Zhu ate a mung-bean cake, catching every crumb in his palm. Its sweetness was perfect.
Then he realized the burning inside him had nearly vanished.
“The man reduced it while examining you,” the bloodfish said.
Shang Zhu’s gaze sharpened. “You can hear my thoughts?”
“Our spirits share one body. Obviously.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me about the heat?”
“Humans love doing kind things in secret. Don’t you know anything? Now eat—I haven’t tasted enough.”
Shang Zhu continued feeding it pastries, his thoughts elsewhere.
What could a demon beast understand?
He Yi’an was simply very good at pretending.