Chapter 56: Return to Changbai Mountain

How could there possibly be a human figure in Zhuolu?

“Who’s there!” Zhou Yi shouted. It was dusk, the light was poor, but he was certain he hadn’t seen wrong.

Only the rustling of new branches on the old locust tree answered him, swaying in the wind.

“Whether you’re man or ghost, show yourself! I, a humble Taoist, will subdue you,” Mu Chen declared with mock seriousness.

“You saw that figure too?” Zhou Yi turned to ask.

Mu Chen shook his head, indicating he’d seen nothing at all.

“Then why did you yell?” Zhou Yi asked.

“I heard you shout, so I shouted. What, am I not allowed to speak now?” Mu Chen replied. Only then did Zhou Yi remember that Mu Chen’s way of thinking was quite different from his own.

He didn’t bother to argue. When they reached the far side of the old locust tree, there was a rope tied to it—not the one Zhou Yi had used last time, but a much thinner one.

Could there be more secrets hidden in Zhuolu? With the Wind of Xun and the Fire of Li already in Zhou Yi’s possession, why would anyone else come here?

“You go down first and catch Xun Feng,” Zhou Yi said.

Xun Feng knew this journey was for his own healing. Once Mu Chen climbed down the rope into the chamber, Xun Feng leapt down through the opening.

Zhou Yi glanced warily around, feeling as if someone was watching him from the shadows, though he saw no one. Perhaps he was just unnerved by the thought of Chi You’s lingering soul sealed beneath Zhuolu.

He shook his head, casting out the chaotic thoughts, and followed the rope into the tomb chamber.

“The Withered Roots of Grief are just ahead. How do we heal with them?” Zhou Yi asked, seeing Xun Feng’s condition worsening—he swayed as he walked, and even at home, his spirit was listless and drained.

Zhou Yi’s heart ached for Xun Feng. He bent down and lifted him into his arms, pressing onward.

“Yes, these are the Withered Roots of Grief. So many of them could cure countless incurable diseases! No, I must return and tell Master right away,” Mu Chen exclaimed the moment he entered the chamber, turning to leave.

Zhou Yi sighed quietly. When would Mu Chen’s thinking ever become normal? He felt helpless in the face of Mu Chen’s oddities.

Hearing Zhou Yi’s sigh, Mu Chen scratched his head. “Sorry, I forgot the business at hand.” He chuckled sheepishly as he spoke.

“What now?” Zhou Yi asked impatiently. All he wanted was to heal Xun Feng as soon as possible.

“Boundless Heavenly Lord, step aside!” Mu Chen replied, flashing Zhou Yi a grin. On any other day, Zhou Yi would have given him a sound thrashing for that.

Right now, Zhou Yi wanted nothing more than to strangle Mu Chen, gritting his teeth in frustration. But with Xun Feng’s life at stake, and knowing Mu Chen’s temperament, provoking him would be unwise.

So Zhou Yi reluctantly stepped back to watch.

Mu Chen produced a talisman from his robes, holding it between his index and middle fingers before his chest, mumbling incantations under his breath. In moments, the talisman ignited of its own accord. The Withered Roots of Grief in the chamber seemed catalyzed, growing rapidly.

Within moments, the roots nearly filled the entire pit. Mu Chen brandished his copper-coin sword, slicing off a clump of the roots.

Without waiting for them to wilt, he swiftly pressed the roots to Xun Feng’s wound, then grabbed a rat from the chamber, killing it with a swing of the sword.

Holding the rat by the neck, he let its blood drip onto the roots.

The pain must have been excruciating, for as the rat’s blood touched his wound, Xun Feng let out a wretched howl.

Fearing something was amiss, Zhou Yi hurried over, but Mu Chen tossed the rat aside, stood up, clapped the dust from his hands, and grinned. “Done.”

Zhou Yi was astonished at the simplicity of the method. “That’s it?”

Mu Chen nodded. “That’s it.”

“What was the talisman for?” Zhou Yi asked, suspecting its importance.

“That was a Five Elements Wood Talisman, to stimulate the growth of plants. Nothing special,” Mu Chen replied smugly.

“And the rat’s blood?”

“The rats here dwell in the tomb all year round, never seeing sunlight. Their blood is naturally yin in nature—perfect for healing wounds caused by firearms. The blood of other animals would work too,” Mu Chen explained, gently patting Xun Feng’s head and checking the wound.

Zhou Yi nodded in understanding.

“All right, time to go. The smell in here is unbearable,” Mu Chen said, pinching his nose. If not for the faint fragrance of the Withered Roots of Grief, it would be impossible to stay here.

As the two turned to leave, a massive rat crawled from a burrow in the pit, watching Zhou Yi go. Had Zhou Yi turned back, he would have seen the rat’s eyes glowing an eerie red.

Back in the burial chamber beneath the locust tree, Zhou Yi glanced once more at the coffin in the center. Upon inspection, he realized someone had indeed been here: last time, the lid was half open, but now it was sealed shut.

Earlier, preoccupied with Xun Feng, he hadn’t scrutinized the surroundings. Now, he was certain—the shadow behind the locust tree wasn’t his imagination.

But these affairs had little to do with him; it mattered not whether others came or went. With that thought, Zhou Yi climbed out on the rope.

When the two men and one wolf emerged from Zhuolu, the first light of dawn was breaking on the horizon.

It was June 22, 1917. Two cars sped toward Changbai Mountain. The consequences of Zhou Yi’s journey would shake China as much as an earthquake—perhaps even more.

The journey passed uneventfully. By the morning of the 25th, they arrived at the foot of Changbai Mountain. Without pause, they headed up with light packs.

Zhang Zuozheng and Zuo Zhi’s efficiency was indisputable—they had already excavated a new tunnel, with only the final rock layer remaining. Once breached, the heart of the mountain would be accessible.

At the cave entrance, Zhang Zuozheng emerged from the tunnel to lead the way.

There was more than one tunnel leading into the mountain’s core beneath Heavenly Lake. Zuo Zhi likely knew another route, but said nothing, so Zhang Zuozheng remained unaware.

Inside the mountain, Zhou Yi saw the giant python, alert and watching the tunnel entrance.

“You beast, why are you still here? Be gone at once, lest you force my hand,” Zhou Yi said coldly, though a flicker of joy crossed his eyes upon seeing the python—but only for a moment, then his expression turned emotionless.

The python was surprised by Zhou Yi’s arrival with so many people. Zhou Yi had once saved its life, so why send it away now?

If the python were human, it would have understood Zhou Yi’s intentions. But though it possessed a spark of intelligence, its thinking remained unchanged: good is good.

Clearly, in the python’s mind, Zhou Yi was good. Yet Zhou Yi’s words confused it.

“Still you linger, beast? If you don’t leave now, don’t blame me for killing you for wine later,” Zhou Yi warned again.

Even the dullest creature would now understand. The python opened its great jaws and let out a long, echoing cry, then lunged toward Zhou Yi...

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