Chapter Text
Prologue
[November 1, 2023 | September 22, 2024 version]
Darkness curled like mist in the air, shrouding everything it touched. The stench of rot and death was stifling, like a thick blanket thrown over the ground. An unnatural chill was spreading in the air, and blackened, emaciated tree branches twisted as though shrinking from the cold. Here, at the heart of the Burial Mounds, where even the fiercest midday sun was powerless to penetrate, midnight was pitch black as though ink had been poured over the place.
A flash of rusted crimson sparked somewhere deep inside, pulsing, and the tendrils of darkness writhed like a voiceless scream trembling in the throats of many.
There hadn’t been anything to lend them a voice for years. Nothing to soothe their ravening, restless resentment. And they were reaching the end of their tether.
The very air seemed to shiver, vibrating with their growing furor. The dry earth cracked, dark viscous liquid seeping through like blood through broken skin.
Voiceless scream tore through the fabrics of the worlds, reverberating. When it reached the slumbering City of Yiling, it had turned into a gale powerful enough to rip through the streets, tossing objects into the air and smashing them on the ground like a child in tantrum.
Despite being long accustomed to the vicissitudes of living so close to the Burial Mounds, the residents of Yiling fastened their windows and cowered behind closed doors in an instinctive terror.
And the night howled on.
~*~*~*~
Mist twined its tendrils through the tree branches laden with glossy leaves. The fragrance of fresh pine needles and cedarwood permeated the air. White petals floated in the gentle breeze like dancing snowflakes. Every verdant leaf and blade of grass gleamed, catching the sun as the mist shifted like drifting clouds.
A beautiful pavilion stood overlooking a lush green valley. Inside, a woman dressed in pure white robes sat with eyes closed in deep meditation. She looked young at the first glance, but only to the undiscerning eye; even though her alabaster forehead was smooth and unlined, her face held wisdom and serenity that came only with the gift of long years. She sat completely motionless, barely even breathing, and if it wasn’t for the light breeze stirring the stray wisps of her hair, she might have been a statue carved by a master sculptor, a worthy representation for the venerable Goddess of Mercy.
Outside the pavilion, at the foot of its steps, a young man stood waiting, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age, also in white robes but dressed as though he was about to embark on a long journey. He had been waiting for some time, evidenced by the white petals covering his hair and robes, but there was no hint of impatience in his gentle countenance.
Inside the pavilion, a sudden spasm tightened the woman’s face. A moment later, her eyes opened.
“Master,” the young man greeted her.
At first the woman’s gaze was fixed at a distant point, unseeing, but gradually, focus returned to her eyes. “Xingchen,” she answered in a sigh.
“What is wrong, Master?”
In lieu of an answer, she inhaled deeply, then slowly released her breath. “You have not changed your mind about descending from this mountain?” she asked him. Her voice was quiet but strong, like the ring of an ancient bell.
“No,” Xiao Xingchen said, voice firm without being defiant. He met her eyes with a clear and unwavering gaze of his own.
She sighed. “Perhaps this is heaven’s will,” she remarked, and though her eyes turned sorrowful, her gaze did not falter. “You have my permission to go. However, I have a task I would have you undertake.”
Xiao Xingchen straightened at that. “Name it, Master, and I will see it done.”
Her eyes turned softer as she regarded him. “You have always been a trustworthy soul,” she said with a faint smile briefly curving the corners of her lips. But the next moment, seriousness returned to her mien. “Do you know Cangse Sanren?”
She did not mean personally; Cangse Sanren had descended from the mountain years before Xiao Xingchen was born, but she was a well-known figure even now.
“She was the last Lady of Yiling and passed away five years ago. During her youth, she studied here under your guidance,” Xiao Xingchen replied.
“And do you know why?”
Xiao Xingchen shook his head. “No, Master.”
“No doubt you have noticed that I only take disciples who have no living family, and are willing to forever forsake the secular world.” Xiao Xingchen nodded solemnly. “But the ruling family of Yiling has always been an exception: all of their heirs come to study under me when they reach fifteen years of age and leave after they turn twenty. And thus it was for Cangse Sanren.” After a short pause, she continued. “But her only son and heir was only fourteen when she died, and he never came here to study under me.”
This time, the pause was longer. Xiao Xingchen waited patiently without speaking.
“When you descend from this mountain, find the son of Cangse Sanren and bring him back here. This is the last duty I charge you with.”
Xiao Xingchen bowed. “Master, I will do as you ask.” When he straightened, however, there was a small frown marring his brows. “But Baoshan Sanren does not concern herself with the affairs of the mortal world,” he observed. “Why this child?”
“Baoshan Sanren has learned better than to meddle with the affairs of the mortal world,” she corrected him dryly. “A lesson you will learn in time. You are young, Xingchen, and inclined to paint the world only in broad strokes.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging. “I have heard that Wen Ruohan of Qishan has usurped the lordship of Yiling,” he stated. “If you allow Yiling’s rightful heir to enter your tutelage, it may cause trouble.”
“Had political unrest been the only thing to fear, I would have been content to leave the matter be,” Baoshan Sanren admitted. “But Yiling is unlike any other mortal state. Else, I would never have accepted its heirs as my students.”
Xiao Xingchen’s brows cleared, understanding coming to his eyes. “You speak of the Burial Mounds.”
Baoshan Sanren’s expression grew wry. “I see my students have been gossiping.”
Xiao Xingchen only smiled. “Little more than speculations, Master. This disciple would humbly seek the truth, if Master allows.”
Baoshan Sanren was silent for a long time. “What is said here today, you must be careful not to repeat outside,” she finally said, and her cutting tone brooked no argument. “You called Cangse Sanren the ‘Lady of Yiling.’ But that is not all she was.” Her voice came crisp and clean, each word pronounced clearly. “Far more of import is the fact she was the last Shenwu [神巫].”
Xingchen could not help a puzzled frown. Shenwu. The word usually referred to a shaman, one that had received divine favor of a celestial deity.
Or of a demonic deity. The word did not distinguish between the two.
“The Shenwu is the only one capable of calming the Burial Mounds and keeping its yin energy in check. Otherwise, the resentful energy from the Burial Mounds would have long since overrun all the lands, not just Yiling,” Baoshan Sanren explained. “The Burial Mounds is the site of an ancient battleground, long before even my time. There, countless dead were discarded like so much rubbish, until piles of the corpses formed great mounds that gave the place its name. The dead left there, murdered before their time and abandoned without any last rites, can never find peace, doomed to linger in this world in resentment and torment. The Burial Mounds became an accursed place, so full of yin energy and resentment that its poison started to spread to the surrounding lands.
“Centuries ago, several lords of the realm, each and every one a gifted cultivator, came together to attempt the cleansing of the Burial Mounds. But the resentful energy had sunk so deep there, it was impossible to cleanse the place even for the greatest cultivators of the age. They could do little except erect walls to encircle the Burial Mounds and forbid the living from approaching the place. Ever since then, the walls kept the living out of the place, but they couldn’t stop the resentful energy amassing within, growing ever stronger. Eventually, the resentment could be held back no longer. And so it was that the first Shenwu was chosen, to calm the resentful spirits of the dead and keep the Burial Mounds in check, a role undertaken by each successive Shenwu thereafter.”
Xiao Xingchen listened attentively, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Wen Ruohan is not the true Shenwu and cannot calm the Burial Mounds,” he guessed.
“No,” Baoshan Sanren confirmed. “Always, the Burial Mounds will choose the Shenwu, not the other way around. And the secrets of how the Shenwu calms the restless dead – those have never been revealed to anyone else, not even to the family members of the Shenwu.”
“If so,” Xiao Xingchen said slowly, “even if Cangse Sanren’s son is found, how can we be sure that he will successfully become the true Shenwu?”
“We cannot be sure of it,” Baoshan Sanren admitted. “I train the heirs of Yiling to ensure that they will survive entering the Burial Mounds, nothing more. But Cangse Sanren was special, and her affinity to the Burial Mounds was unmatched in all of Yiling’s history save for the very first Shenwu. It is my hope that her son inherited her gift.” She heaved a deep sigh. “There is little else I can do. I cannot train anyone else, only the rightful heirs of Yiling. And there is only one left in the world now. All I can do is find him and train him, and hope that he is the right one.”
“With due respect, Master,” Xiao Xingchen started, then hesitated. “Shouldn’t we have tried to locate him earlier, if that is the case?”
“I have been trying,” Baoshan Sanren answered, much to his surprise. “Without success. My sources have not been able to find any clues of his whereabouts.” Her expression grew rueful. “All I can tell you is that the child bears the surname Wei, after his father. The Shenwu is meant to cast off mortal ties, and most stop using their birth names after ascension to the position of Shenwu. Any children born to them would take the other parent’s surname.”
Cangse Sanren had famously married a common-born man from Yunmeng by the name of Wei Changze. An extraordinarily gifted cultivator despite his humble origin, Wei Changze had risen through the ranks of Yunmeng cultivators like a shooting star to become the right-hand man to the Lord of Yunmeng. Nonetheless, the rumors of her unusual choice for a spouse had reached even Baoshan Sanren’s hidden mountain.
The son of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze would turn nineteen this year. And if he was anything like his parents, he would be an extremely talented cultivator. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“I will not rest until I have found him, Master,” Xiao Xingchen vowed.
“I know,” Baoshan Sanren replied, but her voice was torn between relief and regret. “You have always been an outstanding student. In all my years, I have rarely seen potential like yours. I regret that you have chosen to leave, but you are the best chance we have at finding this child.”
However, there was one other possibility. “Master, if this child is no more, what happens to the Burial Mounds?”
Baoshan Sanren’s face was so still, it could have been carved out of stone. When she spoke, her voice was heavy with foreboding. “The ties between the line of Shenwu and the Burial Mounds are not so easily severed. Believe me, if there was no heir of Yiling left in this world, we would know. The child is alive. Whether he will be chosen as the next Shenwu is another matter. But of all the living, he is the likeliest to succeed.” Her voice dropped lower, as though weighted down by weariness. “For the sake of the world, we must pray that he will succeed.”
There was an ominous ring to her words. Xiao Xingchen bowed to her. “This Xiao Xingchen cannot give enough thanks for all that Master has done,” he said formally. “Xingchen will never forget until the day he dies. May heaven grant that I successfully complete the final task Master has set before me.”
Baoshan Sanren gave a gracious nod in answer. “It has been my joy to watch you grow. No matter where you go, never forget that you are my student, and conduct yourself accordingly. May heaven give its blessing.”
“So that no paths are bound,” Xiao Xingchen finished the traditional blessing. And he prostrated himself before Baoshan Sanren, every movement graceful and precise. Then he rose, took three steps back, and turned to leave.
Left behind, Baoshan Sanren watched until Xiao Xingchen’s white shadow disappeared from view.