Chapter Twenty-Eight: Two Souls, One Body

A wolf’s howl pierced the night, and he recognized it as Bejo’s cry. Quickly, he placed his fingers to his lips and whistled. Before long, the silvery form came racing toward him with wild abandon. Seeing Bejo’s silhouette, his spirits lifted slightly. He spread his arms wide to welcome the wolf.

Bejo, upon sighting him, bounded toward him from twenty feet away, knocking him flat to the ground. Zhou Yi was startled, fearing Bejo had forgotten him and was about to attack. Instantly, he gathered his spiritual energy, ready to strike Bejo dead at the first sign of aggression.

He was just about to throw Bejo off when he caught sight of the wolf’s eyes and let his spiritual energy dissipate. In Bejo’s gaze was a deep reliance upon him—something Zhou Yi could read with ease.

Bejo sensed the change in his expression and stopped, confusion clouding his eyes. Zhou Yi inwardly cursed himself for his suspicion and gently stroked Bejo’s head.

Bejo, reassured, stuck out his tongue and began licking Zhou Yi’s face with abandon, coating him in slobber. Zhou Yi hastily pushed Bejo aside and wiped his face with his sleeve, uneasy with the mess.

Returning to the Daoist temple, Zhou Yi found the buildings collapsed—likely due to the tremors that had shaken the mountain days before. The statue was half-buried beneath a beam. He cleared away the timber and earth, revealing the secret door behind the statue. The door itself had collapsed, and the entrance was filled with rubble.

Only then did Zhou Yi relax. He was certain that the entrance beneath Tianchi Lake was known only to himself; henceforth, he need no longer worry about someone destroying the dragon vein.

It was time to seek out the family where his father had been reborn. That child should be due to be born soon. With this in mind, Zhou Yi set out northwest with Bejo.

Because Bejo was with him, their pace slowed considerably. The June night was refreshingly cool, with no mosquitoes—a comfortable time to travel. Morning brought heavy dew, making travel unpleasant, and rest was needed. He and Bejo found an inn, ate a simple breakfast, slept for a while, and continued their journey in the afternoon.

After resting, Zhou Yi noticed Bejo’s gait was off. He examined Bejo’s paws and found the pads worn thin. Bejo, having left the pack as a pup, was unaccustomed to long journeys. It was no wonder his stride was odd after traveling so far.

So Zhou Yi tore his shirt into four strips and wrapped them around Bejo’s legs, then returned with Bejo to the small town. There, he bought a carriage and a horse for five silver dollars. But before they’d gone far, Bejo leapt to the ground and refused to board again, no matter how Zhou Yi called him.

After leaving the carriage, Bejo walked with an unsteady, swaying step. Zhou Yi chuckled—so even Bejo suffered from motion sickness.

Despite his laughter, Zhou Yi felt a pang of sympathy for Bejo and slowed their pace. He was impressed by Bejo’s endurance; he’d thought the wolf wouldn’t last long, but by that night, Bejo’s gait had returned to normal. Upon unwrapping the cloth, Zhou Yi found new pads had grown on Bejo’s paws—though thin, they were much better than before.

Thus, after three days, man and wolf arrived at Dunhua. The city was small, and it was easy to locate the wealthy Zhou family.

The master of the household was Zhou Jianwei, who dealt in grain and oil. The directions given led straight to the Zhou family’s rice shop. Zhou Yi hesitated outside, unsure how to begin. He couldn’t simply walk in and ask about their offspring. Then a thought struck him: why not ask directly upon entering?

He recited, “Boundless Heavenly Honor, this humble Daoist bows his head,” and stepped into the rice shop. Zhou Yi used Daoist etiquette, for itinerant cultivators had no set customs. Making his intentions clear upon entry would arouse suspicion, so pretending to be a Daoist was a prudent move.

The shop assistant, seeing a Daoist come to solicit alms, glanced at Zhou Yi with disdain. “Fake Daoist, go seek alms elsewhere,” he said, trying to drive him out.

It was understandable—the assistant saw Zhou Yi’s disheveled hair and noted his shirt was missing, having been used for Bejo’s paws. He wore only a gray undershirt and carried no Daoist implements. He hardly looked the part.

Zhou Yi took no offense and said, “Congratulations, shopkeeper. The mistress carries a male child.”

He spoke deliberately to seem profound; how could anyone know the gender of a child without seeing the parents? If someone claimed such knowledge, it was likely learned elsewhere—just like those tricksters.

The assistant was startled. In the Republic era, pregnancy was common, but only friends and family knew, and it was never publicly announced. Zhou Yi was clearly not a local, yet he knew about the pregnancy and confidently asserted it was a boy. The assistant saw him as someone with real abilities.

Hastily, the assistant invited him to sit and offered tea before going to the rear courtyard to summon Zhou Jianwei. Soon Zhou Jianwei arrived, surprised to see Zhou Yi, but quickly composed himself. Obviously, the assistant had already mentioned Zhou Yi’s odd claim.

“Blessings upon you, Master. May I ask your name and where your temple is?” Zhou Jianwei greeted him politely.

Zhou Yi straightened and replied, “Shopkeeper, you are too courteous. In fact, we share the same surname—I am Zhou Yi. I am an adherent, not attached to any temple.”

By calling himself an adherent, Zhou Yi indicated he was an itinerant cultivator, who need not have a Daoist title and could be addressed by name.

“Master Zhou, I just heard the assistant say you asserted my wife carries a boy. Is that true?” Zhou Jianwei, wary of being deceived, asked again. His words betrayed a lack of trust.

Zhou Yi was displeased but maintained his composure. “I dare not speak falsely. Your young master and I are connected by fate, so I came to see him.”

Hearing this, Zhou Jianwei’s brow furrowed. If the child had a Daoist connection, he’d have to call Zhou Yi ‘Master’ and become a Daoist himself—something Zhou Jianwei would never accept.

Zhou Yi understood Zhou Jianwei’s concern. “Shopkeeper, you need not worry. Your son need not become a Daoist; I merely wish to teach him cultivation methods.”

Zhou Jianwei relaxed and nodded, then rose. “Master, please follow me to the back hall.” He led Zhou Yi to the rear, where Zhou Yi saw the pregnant wife. Upon examining her, he sensed the soul within the child was indeed Zhou Dajiang, but the infant’s original consciousness was not extinguished. It seemed that when Zhou Dajiang performed the reincarnation ritual, the unborn child’s spirit had already awakened.

Four months had passed; by now, Zhou Dajiang’s soul should have fully occupied the child’s body. Why, then, had this situation arisen? Zhou Yi frowned and pondered, while Zhou Jianwei, observing his expression, grew anxious and finally asked, “Master, is there something wrong with my child?”

Zhou Yi dared not speak the truth. “No need to worry, shopkeeper. The child is fine. I must travel far; when the child is born, care for him well. I will return to cure him—you may rest easy.”

Zhou Jianwei grew even more anxious. “Master, what illness does my child have? Please tell me honestly.”

Zhou Yi considered—he did not know how long it would take to find the key to Nurhaci’s tomb. If he returned late and Zhou Jianwei discovered the child had a dual personality, who knew what drastic actions he might take?

Dual personality meant split consciousness—the souls of Zhou Dajiang and the child would both reside within the body. If one dominated, it would be fine, but if they alternated, it would surely terrify Zhou Jianwei and his wife.

“I am leaving to seek a medicine for the child’s condition, so you need not worry. Raise him well. If, upon my return, I find anything amiss…” Zhou Yi left the threat unspoken, but its implication was clear.

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