Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Forty-Three: The Barefoot Boy

“Bamboo Pole, stop talking! Matters of immortals are not to be spoken of!”
Brother Li muttered angrily at the young sailor before him, whose emotions had spiraled out of control. His gaze swept the sky in panic, as if fearing something might suddenly appear.
Fortunately, the sky was still shrouded only in lingering clouds and mist.
He lowered his head, about to continue admonishing the young man who knew nothing of caution, but noticed that the others behind had already packed up their belongings and were approaching.
So he merely lowered his head and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Bamboo Pole, you must never speak of these things again. Not in the village, not here, not anywhere.”
With that, his face cold and silent, he leapt from the bow into the shallows below, sending up a spray of water. The icy sea soaked him, but he merely brushed the droplets from his face and bent to haul the bow’s cable, dragging the boat toward the shore.
“Bang! Bang!”
The others quickly waded in to help, even the eldest, Stolid Old Liu, was no exception. Together, they shouted in unison, exerting all their strength to pull the boat onto the shallow sand.
Bamboo Pole stood behind Brother Li, pulling with the greatest effort. As the chant paused for breath, he whispered to Brother Li,
“Brother, I’m sorry. I know I was wrong.”
But Li Han before him gave no reply. Bent over, he heaved the cable, its grip biting deep into his shoulder. His square, resolute face was silent and weary.
The seven surviving fishermen secured the boat on the beach, tying the cable tightly to a massive reef. Only then did they turn toward the island’s interior.
They drew hunting weapons—machetes, steel forks—from their bodies, and proceeded cautiously into the jungle.
Apart from Old Liu, who was nearly fifty, the group consisted of young, sturdy fishermen in their twenties and thirties. Some were robust, others, like Bamboo Pole, were frail and thin.
The forest was filled with the soft patter of water droplets striking leaves and branches after last night’s storm, but otherwise, it was eerily silent. No sign of wild beasts, not even the ubiquitous insect chirring of dense woods could be heard.
Surrounded only by the monotonous sound of water drops, and with their view obscured by the omnipresent sea mist, they could see little ahead. Even armed and in a group, fear crept among them.
“Brother Li, you’re the only one among us who’s been to the Ghost Sea several times. Are there no wild animals on its islands? Why is it so quiet?”
One fisherman swallowed hard, unable to contain his dread.
“Fang Wu, keep your voice down. Let’s change our route. There may be something fierce in this area.”
Brother Li sensed something was wrong, cautiously leading them in a new direction. Yet even after some time, silence persisted all around.
“Brother Li, was it like this when you came before?”
Fang Wu, who had spoken earlier, couldn’t help but ask again in a whisper.
“Is the Ghost Sea unusually strange this time? We’ve barely entered, yet we’ve already encountered a storm and the white ghosts. There must be a limit to bad luck.”
His voice quivered, nearly in tears.
The others murmured quietly, only Old Liu, who’d been terrified half to death last night, kept his mouth tightly shut.
“Quiet! Don’t scare yourselves. Perhaps there simply aren’t any wild animals in this part of the woods.”
Brother Li scolded in a low voice, his eyes filled with helplessness.
Selecting men from the villages had become increasingly difficult. The earliest groups had been the best hunters and fishermen, but as deaths mounted, fewer and fewer were left to choose from, and their quality declined.
In such dangerous places, a single weak link could doom an entire team.
He lowered his head, recalling how, when the white ghosts appeared last night, the panic and screams had drawn them to kill. Had there been no screaming, perhaps the whole crew might have survived.
This was the worst team he’d ever led, yet they had encountered an unprecedented danger.
Just as he lowered his head, a huge white shadow flickered through the mist ahead.

He was about to urge the group forward when suddenly someone in the team cried out in terror. The nearest man turned back, catching only a strong scent of blood and a glimpse of a giant white shadow flashing past.
The terror brought by last night’s white demons surged back into their hearts.
“The ghost has come ashore!”
Someone shouted, and the already jittery group fell apart, scattered in all directions.
“Don’t run! It’s not a ghost, it’s a beast! A beast! Take up your weapons!”
Though only for a moment, the calm Brother Li recognized the white shadow as a wild animal. Grabbing his steel fork, he rushed toward the mist, calling out.
“Roar!”
But it was too late. As the group scattered, a beast’s roar sounded, and another man was dragged into the thick mist by the giant white shadow, leaving only a terrified scream and a trail of blood.
The victim was none other than Bamboo Pole, who had stood beside Brother Li.
“No!”
Brother Li shouted, reaching out to grab him. Bamboo Pole was his nephew, raised from childhood, as close as brothers.
But the white shadow was too huge, too swift; his outstretched hand grasped nothing.
Just as despair seized him, the mist ahead churned violently, and a piercing tiger’s roar echoed through the forest.
A moment later, a gigantic white tiger leapt from the mist, forging a clear path as it crashed through several trees.
The tiger shook its massive head and quickly scrambled to its feet, forepaws pressed to the earth, its huge head lowered, issuing a deafening roar.
Ahead, footsteps approached with steady calm.
A figure walked slowly in the direction the tiger had cleared.
Clad in coarse robes, barefoot, a wooden sword without a scabbard at his waist, and a huge iron case slung across his back.
He was a pale-faced youth, his long hair unbound, falling to his waist, lending him a strange, otherworldly aura.
His skin was unnaturally fair; whether his face shrouded in hair or his feet treading the muddy forest floor, he was white as jade, as if never touched by sunlight or newly born.
“Roar!”
The giant white tiger, over three meters long, growled low and menacingly, yet retreated slightly as the slender youth advanced.
“Huh!”
The pale, frail-looking youth approached the tiger, his throat rumbling with a beast-like growl. The others saw his eyes were blood red, and as he came closer, a pressure more terrifying than the tiger’s began to weigh upon them.
Between man and beast, it was as if two wild creatures faced off in the forest.
“Who rules this silent territory—the white tiger, or this strange youth?”
The trembling fishermen watching the confrontation couldn’t help but wonder.
“Roar!”
Unable to endure, the tiger leapt high, lunging at the youth.
“Bang!”
The youth’s step struck the ground, blasting a huge pit in the mud. His slow approach suddenly accelerated, colliding with the airborne tiger.
Some of the fishermen couldn’t help but cry out in shock at the sight.
Yet, contrary to expectations, the youth was not knocked aside or pinned beneath the tiger. The two figures—one large, one small—hung suspended in midair, evenly matched.

But only for an instant; the next moment, the pale youth twisted his wrists, seized the tiger’s forepaws, and dragged it down, slamming it violently into the earth.
“Boom!”
Mud and water sprayed, mist rolled, man and tiger fell one after the other, the tiger’s roar thunderous and mournful.
Mud churned, mist gathered, and the others dared not approach, hearing only the tiger’s wailing, the repeated thud of heavy bodies striking the ground, and the muffled sound of fists like drumbeats.
The battle lasted but a short while; after several moments, the barefoot youth emerged from the mist, splattered with blood, his feet still white as jade, standing in a pool of crimson.
He stood silently before the fishermen who had not managed to flee far, his blood-colored eyes gazing at them as if a newly born beast were sizing up its surroundings.
He appeared so frail and gentle, yet the fishermen felt as though they were being stared down by a creature more terrifying than the white tiger, its cold and savage aura freezing them in place.
Still, one among them, unable to withstand the pressure, staggered back, pale-faced, and screamed,
“Monster!”
Then he turned to flee into the jungle.
“Don’t go!”
The youth branded a monster suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse, yet oddly commanding. The frightened fisherman hesitated, his steps faltering.
“Fang Wu, wait!”
Brother Li grabbed him, fearing that fleeing might anger the eerie youth.
He turned, mustering courage to face the youth still staring at them, forced a polite smile, and clasped his hands in greeting.
“Thank you, young brother, for saving our lives. I am Li Han. May I ask your name?”
His words were courteous, but thick with the accent of the North Sea region. In truth, he hadn’t understood the youth’s words at all, merely guessed their meaning from his actions.
Just as Li Han had failed to understand the youth, so too did the youth, whose blood-red eyes held confusion, unable to comprehend Li Han’s language.
He tried speaking.
“Take me with you!”
“Hm? Young brother doesn’t understand our North Sea dialect—how about the imperial tongue of the Great Xia?”
Li Han was surprised; he had not expected the youth to be from outside the North Sea. He switched to the official language of the Great Xia.
Yet the youth’s eyes remained puzzled; he understood nothing.
Now Li Han noticed that the youth’s bloodstained, tattered clothing was of a style unfamiliar to him, ancient in design.
He recalled the retro fashion craze in the capital city of Chao Ge, but the youth’s attire was unlike anything he’d seen.
Neither the official language nor the local dialect, clothes with an antique air.
Could this youth be from some distant past?
The thought struck him with incredulity.