Chapter 49: The Burning at the Stake (III)

The five-day deadline flashed by in the blink of an eye for those in the Yu family who racked their brains to save Daidai from her fate. Yet for those who wished for her death, the days crawled by with agonizing slowness.

Delay breeds change, and change threatens to unravel all careful plans. Within those five days, countless added fuel to the fire, and rumors painting Daidai as a demoness spread throughout the capital. There was, however, one unintended benefit: no one dared eat snake meat anymore. The common folk whispered in secret that the snake demon had come for revenge, angered by their fad for feasting on her kindred.

The scandal raged through the city, and Daidai’s life or death was now beyond even Ji Ye’s decision. He was bound to heed public opinion, to give the realm an answer—an unshirkable duty as emperor.

The dungeon was damp and cold. By day it was bearable, but at night the chill seeped from the earth and sank into her bones. Daidai curled up atop a pile of straw, shivering, feigning a pitiful sob, whimpering for her king, longing for his warmth.

By midnight, her endurance gave out. With a mournful sigh, she crept from the depths of the prison. The guards were all slumped over their tables, dozing. Daidai, in a foul mood, passed by and, snatching up a wine jug, splashed their faces. The cold wine jolted them awake, and when they saw Daidai with the imperial snake coiled about her shoulders, each let out a terrified howl.

“I’m just going up to bask in the moonlight,” she informed them airily. “Don’t think I’m trying to escape.”

She floated out the dungeon door, leaving the guards utterly stupefied.

Below, it was clammy and cold; above, the heat was stifling—especially on the ground, baked all day by the sun. Daidai, barefoot, hopped and skipped across the scorched earth.

She found herself in a garden, emerging from an artificial rock grotto. Pebbled paths stretched outward, flanked by crouching beast-shaped pillars. Over three fathoms tall, they bore blue gauze lanterns that glowed with an eerie, will-o’-the-wisp light.

Daidai disliked the color; it reminded her of the underworld she’d once traversed. She harbored particular disdain for the white-haired crone selling soup by the Bridge of Regret—the so-called brew to forget past lives was a sham. Wasn’t she living proof? She’d risked being caught and skinned by the King of Hell to sneak in and drink a whole vat, yet after just a few thousand years, she remembered it all again. If she ever went back, she’d smash that old woman’s sign in a heartbeat.

“Hey, you…”

The jailer, pale and beardless, trailed nervously behind her, hesitant to interfere.

Raking her greasy hair, Daidai turned to glance at him. Poor man, she thought. She flopped into a patch of grass and closed her eyes to sleep.

“Hey?”

The jailer, frustrated, nearly coughed blood. He squeezed the iron chain in his hand, but in the end, dared not try to shackle this “prisoner,” so he could only squat beside her and keep watch.

“Is there anyone you wish to be with?” Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, Daidai sat up and gazed at the jailer with a woeful expression.

The imperial snake flicked its tail, coiling around the jailer’s calf, hissing as if echoing Daidai’s question.

The jailer’s teeth chattered. “N-no… no…”

“Oh. Then give me your wine. I can’t sleep.”

“Take it… take it…” Ancestor, whatever you say goes.

The cold and damp of the dungeon meant all the keepers carried a flask of strong liquor. Daidai took a hearty swig, gasping at the burn, but savoring the comfort it brought to her heart. She drained it dry, not leaving the jailer a drop.

Soon her head spun, and looking up at the night sky, the stars seemed to leap and twirl like dancers. Daidai giggled foolishly and collapsed, a gentle snore following.

She dreamed—dreams as intoxicating as wine, filled with a bittersweet ecstasy like making love to her king on death’s edge, the pain piercing to the bone yet sweet as honey. To seek solace in poison was much the same.

Tomorrow she would die, yet she felt no fear. She hated pain—death by burning was agony beyond words—but she was unafraid, for to her, the door of death opened onto life. She would return to her own world as a spirit. If she missed her king, she could secretly visit him atop Mount Sumeru. She had no wish for this incomplete king before her.

A foolish smile played on her lips. Turning over, Daidai thought, even having a little is better than nothing. Atop Mount Sumeru, she could not touch him; here, she could sleep by his side, delight in his embrace.

Ah, she was stealing a lover even in her dreams.

Dawn broke, and in the silvery mist, dewdrops clung to her hair, brows, and lashes, round and glistening like tears. Her cheeks were flushed, as if the happiness from last night’s dream still lingered.

The jailer woke under the burning sun, his scalp aflame. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he suddenly recalled the events of the night, and jerked his head to find the demon. A flash of dazzling color struck him.

Skin white as jade, lips red and full, a slender figure—yet what truly overwhelmed him was the natural allure that seemed to radiate from her. He gulped, eyes greedy, lascivious intent rising as his trembling hand reached for her. But above all, desire brings peril—he failed to notice the imperial snake poised to strike.

Fortunately, his courage overcame his lust. He bit his lip hard, the taste of blood snapping him back to his senses. He shook his head violently, banishing all wanton thoughts, cleared his throat, and left.

When he returned, a new figure was beside him—a eunuch in vermilion peacock-embroidered robes, a white whisk always slung over his arm. His sharp, grating voice betrayed his identity.

“Eunuch Li, should we wake her?” the jailer asked obsequiously.

“Is this how you treat the Empress?” Li Fuquan quivered with anger—and, inexplicably, guilt, as if he himself had played a part in Daidai’s misfortune. He feared monsters, but in truth, this one had committed no bloodshed; even when confronted by the imperial guards, not a single snake had bitten a man. Was it truly right to burn her alive?

Yet, not of our kind—her heart must be different. He hardened his resolve.

“Never mind. Tie her up. The pyre at Chengtian Gate is ready.”

The iron chain in the jailer’s hands was as thick as two grown men’s fingers and weighed dozens of pounds. Yet, with the venomous snake watching, loyalty to the throne could not outweigh the risk to his own life. He knelt, gestured toward the serpent atop Daidai’s head, and grimaced miserably.

Li Fuquan faltered, retreating three steps. Still early, he impatiently waved them off. “Fine, just wait for the snake ancestor to wake up.”

He knew well enough—she’d surrendered of her own accord the night they captured her. She could escape this cell whenever she wished. Stranger still was the emperor’s attitude: these days, he neither ate nor drank as if stricken with lovesickness. And for whom? The thought made Li Fuquan uneasy.

At noon, the sun blazed fiercely. Daidai, sunburned and groggy from last night’s wine, wanted to cry. When she spotted Li Fuquan, her eyes brightened, then quickly dimmed as she began to waver—which was better: the man atop Mount Sumeru or the one in the palace whose bed she could share?

In other words, was it better to die, or to cling to life a little longer?

No wonder she followed Li Fuquan meekly to Chengtian Gate Square, though she refused to be weighed down by the heavy chains.

The summer heat scorched the ground, the city gate towered overhead, and atop it stood a row of imperial guards with bows and crossbows at the ready. They flanked a striking man in golden dragon robes and a jade crown. Seeing him from afar, Daidai’s heart leapt, tinged with anger and discontent.

“My king—!”

She summoned her courage, heart pounding, and called out to the man atop the gatehouse. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, braced for what was to come, but the clear, tender cry shook him to his core. Out of sight, his fists clenched involuntarily. Beneath his cold, steely exterior, he fought the urge to pull her into his arms.

This woman—she seemed his destiny. If he did not harden his heart and remove her, she would bring disaster to his realm.

Yet, desire stirred within him.

“My king—!”
“My king—!”

Her melodious voice echoed between heaven and earth, as if it had wandered through lifetimes before returning. He remained indifferent and unresponsive, and Daidai’s voice faded, the last call so soft that even she could not hear it.

Dejected, she had not the strength to even force a bitter smile.

No one dared push her. Accompanied by her only friend, the imperial snake, she climbed the tall pyre. The logs were so hot she wondered if they would ignite without flame.

A strange mood settled over the square: though they had come to burn her, none dared speak. In their eyes was not only fear, but also a deep curiosity, as if waiting for her to display miraculous powers—summoning storms, turning beans into soldiers, transmuting stone to gold.

But she had no such powers—this was her secret, and it amused her, like the exhausted donkey in the old fable.

The pyre was piled high, and she climbed the wooden ladder to the top, as if the point was to let all the people witness the demon’s demise and restore a pure world.

Just then, from the city gate tower, a woman in silver-red palace robes approached the figure in yellow. Seeing Daidai so at ease, she was incensed—she was the tiger who saw through the donkey’s tricks, urging Ji Ye to proceed.

“Your Majesty, what are you waiting for? You owe the world an answer—a demon cannot be allowed to live. Your Majesty, let the sentence be carried out,” Lü Xiangjun demanded.

His lips were dry and cracked with the lines of fate, his eyes dull as glass, and as he closed them, he murmured unconsciously, “Have you understood?”

In that moment, he could not find his answer—did he hope she would awaken, or that she would continue to pursue him?

Daidai gazed at him from afar, suddenly reading his lips. A tender, seductive lotus of longing bloomed in her heart. Obstinate as ever, she replied in her heart, “No, I have not.”

Ten lives, ten worlds—always longing, never attaining. This was not the ending she wanted.

She was a spirit, a free and unfettered spirit, never knowing what it meant to yield.

No, she did not even know how to write the word “yield.”

She was a kite in the sky, its string cut, drifting through the void—no one could catch her.