Traveling Master and Disciple (Part 2)

Old Zhang the herb gatherer clutched the half-length gold bar, his palm slick with sweat.

He turned the gold bar over and over, then brought it to the window to examine it against the light. Finally, he tucked it carefully into his bosom, patted it, as if afraid it might sprout legs and run off.

"This... sir," Old Zhang sidled up to the young man, forcing a smile, "that place isn't far, but the road's rough. Out of the county seat, twenty li south, into the mountain pass, then over two ridges. Last time I went gathering, I took a detour along the eastern ridge and went down—didn't dare enter the valley, just stayed at the edge..."

"The edge?" The young man frowned. "Didn't you say you smelled it?"

"I smelled it, I smelled it," Old Zhang nodded hastily, "that very scent. When I got home, my head was heavy, my feet light, my face burning like charcoal."

The old man suddenly spoke: "Which direction does the valley mouth face?"

Old Zhang froze, then gestured vaguely: "Uh... east? No, north... Ah, I can't read a single character, can't tell directions. Anyway, when we get there, I'll point it out to you."

The young man was about to ask more when a commotion arose outside the door. The servant boy's voice rang out loudly: "This way, this way, all follow me, don't gawk around!"

The curtain was pushed aside, and the servant boy led a dozen or so men pouring through the door. The herb shop, once spacious enough, suddenly felt cramped.

"Take a look, sir," the servant boy said, beaming, pointing at each arrival in turn, "these six are all heavy-lifters, plenty of strength; these four are proper sedan-chair carriers—though they usually carry palanquins, carrying a litter is their trade too..."

The young man swept his gaze over them and nodded.

The ten men the servant boy had brought were indeed sturdy fellows, dark-skinned, with thick hands and feet, reeking of sweat all over.

But the way they looked at the young man carried a hint of unease.

On the way, the servant boy had already told them that these two were generous patrons, but he'd also mentioned that the young man could snap a gold bar in half with two fingers.

"Wages," the young man said, pulling another ingot of silver from his bosom, about twenty taels, "for the round trip into the mountains, no matter how many days, this is the deposit. After we come out, each of you gets another two taels. On the road, follow orders—go when told, stop when told, don't ask what you shouldn't, don't look at what you shouldn't."

The twenty taels of silver landed on the small table the physician used for pulse-taking. The men stared at it, unblinking.

Carrying heavy loads all day earned them only a few dozen coppers. This twenty taels... was enough for two years of that work.

"We'll do as you say, sir!"

The leading dark-faced man immediately cupped his fists, "If you say east, we won't go west!"

The young man waved a hand: "Go prepare dry rations, torches, ropes, and machetes. We leave at dawn when the city gates open. And you..."

He pointed a finger.

"Here, here!" The servant boy hurried forward.

"You go with them, help with the purchases. The leftover money," the young man glanced at him, "is yours to keep."

The servant boy's face lit up with joy. He bowed repeatedly, then led the men out in a noisy bustle.

The herb shop fell quiet again.

Old Zhang hesitated, then approached: "Gentlemen, then... what about me today..."

"You go home," the young man said, "get your affairs in order. Same time tomorrow, wait at the city gate. If you dare take the money and run... heh..."

He smiled, but didn't finish.

Old Zhang shuddered, stammering that he wouldn't dare, and backed out the door.

The next morning, the spring wind was biting.

A group of over a dozen people left the county seat, heading south.

Old Zhang led the way, identifying the path as he walked.

Six sturdy men went ahead with machetes, clearing the way, hacking through vines and branches, cutting a barely passable route through the thick brambles.

Behind them, four men carried a bamboo litter, with a reclining chair tied to the poles. The old man sat in it.

The young disciple bustled about, attending to him—handing him water, asking if he was cold. The old man just rested with his eyes closed, occasionally nodding.

They passed through several dense forests and waded across a few shallow streams. The scenery grew increasingly desolate.

At first, they could still see traces left by woodcutters, but soon it was all wild mountains and untamed forests, untouched by human feet.

The sun climbed higher, then gradually sank westward.

Around the hour of Shen, Old Zhang stopped, pointed at a cliff ahead, and said in a trembling voice: "It's... it's over there."

Everyone followed his gaze. Below the cliff, a hazy pink mist lay still in the valley, like a stagnant cloud.

The mist was faint; if you didn't look closely, you might mistake it for mountain haze.

But a second glance revealed its strangeness.

The color was too vivid, as if someone had dissolved rouge into the fog, or like the fumes from rotting peach blossoms blanketing the hills.

The old man, who had been resting with his eyes closed on the chair, finally opened them. He looked at the pink mist, and a faint smile slowly crept across his lips.

The young disciple leaned in, lowering his voice with a fawning tone: "Master, what do you think..."

The old man nodded.

The men carrying the litter quickly set it down steadily.

Old Zhang stood to the side, staring at the pink mist, a mix of curiosity and fear churning in his heart. He couldn't help but approach and ask:

"Gentlemen, inside this Peach Blossom Miasma... is there some demon living there?"

As he spoke, he glanced at the white banner the young disciple carried on his shoulder. The wind stirred it, and the words "Subdue Demons and Exorcise Evil" flapped loudly.

The old man did not answer.

He gazed at the pink mist, then suddenly spoke, but it was to his own disciple:

"Disciple, on this journey of ten thousand li, how many types of miasma have we sought together?"

The disciple thought briefly, then replied respectfully, "Master, four."

"And how many types of sha qi?"

"One."

The old man nodded, his gaze shifting from the pink mist to his disciple's face, a trace of emotion flickering across his gaunt features:

"In the blink of an eye, you've accompanied me this far. You've worked hard."

The disciple, flattered and startled, quickly bowed: "Master, you flatter me. This is all this disciple's duty."

The old man made no comment, silent for a moment, then added, "Your filial piety, I, your master, have seen it all. In a moment, I will pass down to you the method for refining this banner."

Hearing this, the disciple's face lit up with barely suppressed joy. He was about to speak his thanks when the old man continued.

"Do you know what the final breath a person takes before death is called?"

The disciple paused, then answered, "Master, it is called doom qi."

The old man nodded, his gaze returning to the pink mist, his voice dry and steady:

"Correct. In our lineage, most spells and the refining of magical tools require the collection of this doom qi. We use doom qi to temper yin souls, then supplement them with sha qi and poisonous miasma to forge the artifact. Whenever it is unleashed, a yin wind blows, capable of dissolving souls and corroding bones."

The disciple listened, entranced, his eyes fixed on the white banner, filled with both reverence and longing.

The men, however, felt a chill run down their spines.

Doom qi? Yin souls? Dissolving souls and corroding bones?

Though they were rough, illiterate men, they sensed something was terribly wrong.

Old Zhang's face had gone pale. He shrank back, wanting to speak but daring not.

The old man paid them no heed, only looking at his disciple. Suddenly, he smiled.

"Raise the banner."

The disciple's expression turned solemn. He immediately suppressed his joy, and with both hands respectfully presented the white banner.

The old man reached out and took it. His withered hand suddenly bulged with veins, and his face twisted into a vicious sneer.

The white banner stirred without wind, rising upright on its own, hovering before him.

The men carrying the sedan chair stared, dumbfounded, instinctively stepping back.

The burly men leading the way were even more unsettled, exchanging uneasy glances, unsure of what was happening.

Suddenly, the white banner began to rotate slowly.

In an instant, the cliff was shrouded in ghostly aura, a mournful yin wind howling.

Though it was afternoon and the sun had not yet set, the sky abruptly darkened, as if something had blotted out the light.

The four characters "Subdue Demons and Exorcise Evil" on the banner suddenly dissolved into a mass of black qi, writhing and churning like a living thing.

The black qi grew denser and denser, then in a flash, it tore free from the banner, transforming into a gale that swept toward the crowd.

Old Zhang let out only a short, sharp cry.

Where the black wind passed, skin dissolved, flesh rotted, and white bones gleamed.

A group of living people, in the blink of an eye, became a pile of bleached bones.

The skeletons still held their living postures—some with arms raised to block, some turning to flee, some kneeling on the ground.

Then they clattered to the floor.

A few yin souls drifted out from the bones, wandering aimlessly in the air.

But the black wind did not stop. It coiled and wrapped, gathering those yin souls into itself, then plunged back into the white banner.

The banner's surface trembled lightly, then returned to its original state.

The four characters "Subdue Demons and Exorcise Evil" hung quietly on the white cloth, only now tinged with an added eeriness.

The old man withdrew his hand and gently set the white banner on the ground.

"Disciple. You must not be like your senior brother, who learned the refining method from me and then vanished without a trace."

The disciple's whole body trembled. He fell to his knees with a thud.

"Master! This disciple swears to heaven, I would never dare harbor a disloyal heart! If I break this oath, may lightning strike me dead!"

The old man nodded, seemingly satisfied with his reaction.

"Rise."

The disciple stood up shakily, a cold sweat beading on his forehead.

He looked at his master's gaunt face and forced a smile: "Master, then... then this refining method..."

"Naturally, it will be passed on to you."

The Old Man said slowly, "But you must listen carefully to the crucial point in all this."

The Disciple quickly bowed: "Your disciple is all ears."

The Old Man stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at that stretch of Pink Mist, and spoke unhurriedly: "To refine this Banner, not only does it require washing with Doom Qi and Sha Qi, but for every hundred souls, a Main Soul is needed to guide them."

"Main Soul?" The Disciple was taken aback.

"Correct." The Old Man turned his head to look at him. "Preferably a Yin Soul, or a Fierce Ghost. If you truly have none, then you must use a cultivator's soul."

The Disciple's expression shifted slightly, yet he still replied respectfully: "Your disciple understands."

The Old Man looked at him and suddenly smiled.

Within that smile was relief, affection, and a hint of something hard to define.

"My Disciple."

"Your disciple is here."

"Do you still recall what your master told you—how many souls we've gathered on this trip?"

The Disciple thought for a moment: "You, venerable one, said we were still short a few, not yet breaking a thousand souls."

The Old Man nodded.

"Yes, still short a few."

He sighed, gazing at the Pink Mist, then at the white bones on the ground, and finally settled his gaze back on the Disciple.

"With these dozen or so we've collected here, plus what we gathered elsewhere before, counting it up..."

He paused, then smiled again.

"...we're still short one Main Soul."

That smile made the Disciple's heart sink heavily. The joy hidden on his face hadn't fully bloomed before it froze midway.

He opened his mouth, as if he hadn't heard clearly: "Master... what did you say?"

The Old Man did not repeat himself.

The spring wind stirred his gray tunic, revealing the bony wrist beneath.

On that wrist, veins bulged like earthworms coiled under the skin.

The Disciple took a step back.

"Master," his voice trembled, the joy on his face long gone, "your disciple... your disciple has followed you this far, served you hand and foot—even without great merit, there's been hard work..."

"Yes."

The Old Man nodded, a note of approval in his tone.

"That's why your master told you the method for refining this Banner. Now that you've heard it all, when you reach the other side, you'll know how you came to be."

The Disciple's face turned deathly pale.

He spun around and bolted.

But he had barely taken two steps when his legs gave way beneath him, and he pitched forward stiffly.

He looked down—his legs were still there, but they held no strength at all, as if something had drained the sinew from them.

The Old Man, unconcerned, pulled out a Green-Gourd, uncorked it, and tipped out a Meat Pill.

The Meat Pill hit the ground, rolled twice, swelled in the wind, and in the blink of an eye turned into a Long-Tailed Monkey.

"Good child, go kill all the tigers and leopards nearby, then come back and guard me."

At that, the monkey rubbed against the Banner's pole, then turned and plunged into the surrounding forest.

"Don't be playful."

The Old Man added this, then looked down again at the Disciple at his feet.

"Disciple, you've studied under your master for nine years. Your foundation is solid, your soul is condensed. Grant your master this one favor."