Volume Two: The Mortal World Chapter Forty-Two: Immortals Who Refuse Immortality

A dazzling flash of sword light streaked through the air, and the head of a giant serpent spun away, trailing a geyser of blood. In an instant, the hot blood drenched Ye Mingke from head to toe as the headless body of the serpent toppled slowly before him, churning up mud and blood in its wake.

Ye Mingke, who had unleashed that astonishing sword strike, froze mid-motion. Blood surged afresh from the wound torn through his chest, and the dizziness of severe blood loss crashed over his mind once more.

With a dull thud, the wooden sword slipped from his hand and fell to the ground, and Ye Mingke's rigid body collapsed into the muddy pool of water and serpent's blood.

The last remnant of clarity faded rapidly from his eyes. His body still burned with unnatural heat, and the rain pouring over him rose in a mist around his fevered form. Lying amid the mud, his lips quivered weakly as he silently murmured to himself:

"Ye Mingke, don't die!"

"Don't die!"

His skin was flushed crimson, his eyes bloodshot; his consciousness was slipping away, and his world was shrinking to a single, desperate thought, a world awash in madness and blood.

"Don't die."

He struggled through the mud, inching toward the twitching remains of the serpent before him. His face, smeared with mud and blood, pressed against the gash he had carved into the snake's body. Without hesitation, he plunged his head inside, greedily drinking the blood mingled with rainwater, tearing at the serpent's flesh with his teeth.

He looked like a demon crawling out from the depths of hell.

Ye Mingke gnawed ravenously at the serpent’s body like a starving ghoul. His body only grew hotter, as if an insatiable black void had opened inside his belly, and a voice seemed to howl ceaselessly in his ears:

Eat—hurry, eat, eat your fill!

Still not enough—eat more! Haven’t you always been hungry? Why should others be allowed to eat their fill, while you cannot? You know the joy of eating—why not indulge?

Eat—eat until you’re full!

To most, eating one’s fill is a simple wish, but for him, it was something he had never dared to do since childhood.

But now, in the haze of unconsciousness, he forgot his strange illness, forgot the warnings from Uncle Jian and Aunt Long, and surrendered wholly to instinct, devouring whatever he could fit in his mouth.

As he fed, the wounds on his body gradually ceased bleeding, healing at a speed visible to the naked eye. Soon his injuries had markedly improved, but he didn’t stop. Tearing the serpent’s scales apart with his bare hands, he kept ripping and biting into its massive body.

His blood boiled hotter and hotter, bubbling beneath his skin until it began to seep from every pore, just as it had that year in the mountain temple, until he was transformed into a being drenched in blood.

Still he gnawed, mad with hunger, until at last there was hardly anything left of the serpent before him. He curled up amidst the pool of blood and scattered scales, forming a great, cocoon-like mass of blood.

A faint cracking sound came from his chest. The ancient jade pendant Uncle Jian had forbidden him ever to damage or lose had split with a fine fissure.

In his fevered slumber, Ye Mingke vaguely heard a gentle voice whispering by his ear.

"Brother."

...

Old Liu, the village fool, thought to himself that he should never have joined this sea voyage.

Life at home, though poor, was at least stable—an old wife, a son, even if that son was an incorrigible wastrel deep in debt, the family still managed to scrape by together.

So why had he, in a moment of madness, come out here to these haunted seas in search of wealth?

He lay face down on the small boat, not daring even to lift his backside, curling into the smallest ball he could manage.

Outside, in the pitch-black water, some unknown monster battered their storm-tossed, fragile craft over and over. All around, the others screamed, and every so often came the splash of someone falling into the sea.

Thunder crashed—amid the endless rain and darkness, the screaming grew louder, more terrible. The sound was so piercing that even with his ears covered, Old Liu could hardly bear it.

Fools, he thought, cursing half in anger and half in terror, screaming won’t help if you’ve run into ghosts! Want to die, don’t drag me down with you!

But after a while, though the screams kept multiplying, the splashes stopped, and the rocking of the boat—the movements of people—ceased altogether.

He couldn’t help but lift his head just a fraction, peering out, only to find a pair of pallid, lifeless eyes right before him, close enough for their eyelashes to brush.

He nearly screamed, but a strong hand clamped over his mouth from behind.

That corpse-like eye stared at him for a moment, then drifted back. Lightning flashed, illuminating a face so pale and rotted that flesh was still peeling away as it hovered in the air.

Old Liu nearly lost control again, but managed, together with the hand at his mouth, to stifle the scream.

The ghastly face gaped, revealing teeth dripping with viscous slime, and gave a blood-curdling shriek.

He knew that voice—it was a lifelong friend from his village, who’d been lying beside him on the deck before these ghosts appeared.

The face drifted away, attached to a formless white shadow. Old Liu’s eyes followed it upward, and he saw, suspended above the little boat in the rain-soaked night, a host of white phantoms and rotting faces, each screaming, as though providing a chorus for the slaughtered.

A deeper terror exploded in Old Liu’s heart. He ducked his head back down, but in that instant, he glimpsed the same ghastly faces under the surface of the black water, their dead eyes staring up at the sky.

I won’t look up, not ever again—great ghostly masters, I beg you!

He pressed his face hard into the deck, eyes squeezed shut, and muttered desperate prayers to Buddha, to his ancestors, to every god and ghost he could think of, swearing he’d never raise his head again.

Yes, even if it kills me, I won’t look up.

Shivering, he told himself this over and over, curling tighter and tighter into himself.

So the little boat, shuddering in wind and rain, drifted aimlessly with its shivering, terrified cargo.

At some point, the screams faded, receded into the distance, and even the wind and rain seemed to ease; the boat rocked less violently.

With his face buried hard against the deck, Old Liu gradually became aware of movement around him, the light of dawn filtering in, the sound of the sail being hoisted, and voices—people speaking again.

Still, he dared not lift his head.

"Liu, hey, Liu! Are you dead? Get up!" Someone nudged his shoulder—a familiar voice.

But what did familiarity matter?

Get up? Not a chance!

A true hero stands by his word. He’d said he wouldn’t get up, and he wouldn’t—who knew if it was a ghost talking?

Old Liu stuck out his backside, pressed his face even harder to the deck, nearly flattening it.

"It’s alright, it’s morning, the ghosts are gone," the man said, giving him another push, but Old Liu still refused to move, and the man could only mutter helplessly, "Truly a fool!"

Just then, someone called out from the boat.

"Look, there’s an island ahead! It’s a big one!"

"Let’s head over—if we can find what the Immortal wants, we can go back sooner!"

"Yes, let’s go. I don’t want to stay at sea any longer—last night was too terrifying!"

Pressed to the deck, Old Liu heard several familiar voices and felt a bit reassured, but still didn’t dare lift his head.

The others started chattering:

"Careful of the reefs—don’t damage the boat!"

"Don’t worry, with Brother Li at the helm, we’ll be fine. His skills are the best—no way we’ll crash!"

"Right, if Brother Li hadn’t covered my mouth in time last night, those white ghosts would’ve claimed me too!" This voice came from the man who’d been pushing Old Liu.

Old Liu felt the boat begin to turn and slow, gliding smoothly for a while, then thudding to a halt as if striking something solid.

Steady footsteps approached from the stern.

"We’ve landed. Gather your things, everyone, and get ready to disembark."

This man came near Old Liu, then called to the others, "Liu was scared out of his wits last night—help him up, try to comfort him."

"Alright, brother," two replied.

The man ignored the weeping, wailing Old Liu once he’d been turned over, and walked quietly to the bow, gazing out at the island ahead, his eyes heavy with thought.

The fate of mortals is like that of ants.

Dozens of living souls, and after just one day and night, only these few remained. How many would walk away in the end? Would any walk away at all?

He turned, slowly surveying the faces behind him, all etched with the terror of survival.

Counting himself, only seven remained.

Noticing his gaze, a tall, slender young sailor with a boyish face walked up to him, voice trembling with grief.

"Brother Li, I saw one of the other boats—it was dragged under by something in the water. I don’t know about the third, but if they ran into those white ghosts, it’s probably hopeless."

"Let’s hope they were luckier than us, and made it out safely," said the man called Brother Li, sighing deeply. Then he looked up, his expression solemn yet gentle as he met the young sailor’s eyes.

"Bamboo, if nobody saw what happened, let’s just say the other boats got lost in the storm. No need… no need to stir up the others any more."

"Alright, brother," the young sailor nodded, his eyes rimmed red, grief and a fierce, barely suppressed anger mingling in his face.

"But brother, I just don’t understand. The Immortals are so powerful—why don’t they come for the herbs themselves? Why must they send us mortals into this haunted hell?"

"How many from our villages have died for this?"

"If we don’t offer the herbs, they let the ghosts and monsters ravage our homes. What kind of Immortals are those?"