Chapter 19: The Taoist Descends the Mountain

Chapter 19: The Taoist Descends the Mountain

Zhang Sanlu felt the blood in his veins turn cold, as if his head had been struck by a heavy hammer, ringing with a dull roar. Memories of last night flashed before him—he, Man Shan, and Qiu Ming crawling through the cave, losing their way, the centipedes, and all those projections he would rather not recall.

He struggled to keep his composure, fixing his gaze on every look and every expression on Su Qing's face, hoping to catch even the slightest sign that Su Qing was lying. He hoped—no, he desperately wished—that the other was weaving a lie, something absurd and easily exposed.

He searched for those subtle clues—the nervous flicker, the telltale uncertainty that so often betrays a liar—but found nothing.

Zhang Sanlu was no longer certain what was real and what was false. He stood in this world, at once familiar and strange, surrounded by scenes that felt both vivid and illusory. Every object, every face, every voice seemed shrouded in a haze, making truth and falsehood hard to distinguish. Doubt filled his heart—the entire world seemed like a vast maze, and he was lost in the search for the truth.

He began to distrust his own senses, even his memories. Things that had once felt solid and certain now seemed on the verge of collapse. He tried to recall events he knew to be true, only to find them fading and indistinct in his mind.

Suddenly, Zhang Sanlu's shoulders began to tremble violently. “Hahahahaha!” he threw back his head and burst into wild laughter, slapping his thigh with such force that his abdominal muscles began to ache. Clutching his stomach, he nearly rolled on the ground with laughter.

“Hahahaha—”

Seeing Zhang Sanlu laugh so uncontrollably, Su Qing seemed to be infected by it as well, a smile appearing on his face as he opened his mouth to ask a question.

In a flash, Zhang Sanlu’s hand, swift as a venomous serpent, seized the hilt of his short sword. With lightning speed, the blade shot from his waist, so fast it was almost impossible to track. The sword drew a deadly arc through the air, its tip gleaming coldly as it sliced through the silence, a faint whistle trailing behind.

Su Qing’s eyes went wide, his expression twisting instantly into terror. The sword had already pierced his shoulder with deadly accuracy. Blood welled from the wound, staining his clothes red. His body convulsed, a groan of pain escaping his lips, his eyes filled with disbelief and fear.

“You lied to me!” Zhang Sanlu’s eyes were bloodshot, his face twisted with rage, all his usual gentleness erased, replaced by a terrifying expression that seemed capable of swallowing a man whole. He looked like an enraged beast—anyone who saw him would instinctively feel a chill in their soul, a primal fear rising from within.

At that moment, neither of them noticed that the severed head on the ground had also opened its eyes, perfectly mimicking Zhang Sanlu's voice in an eerie unison.

“Senior… Senior brother, I didn’t, I didn’t lie to you!” Su Qing’s face contorted with pain as he grabbed the short sword.

“Qiu Ming and Man Shan were with me all last night—could that have been a hallucination?!”

Su Qing’s lips were pressed tight in agony, a muffled groan escaping him. “Senior brother, how could I lie to you? I… I really saw Master take Qiu Ming and Man Shan away after evening prayers. Later, Master said the elixir failed, and both of them died in the attempt…”

Cold sweat beaded on Su Qing’s forehead. His fingers clutched his wounded shoulder so tightly they turned pale, as though this might restrain the spreading pain.

Zhang Sanlu shook his head, yanking the sword free. Blood spurted onto his face. Su Qing cried out, stumbling back, the pain etched deep into his features.

“No, no, so it’s not a hallucination after all.” Zhang Sanlu licked the blood from the corner of his mouth—the salty tang of human blood, with an undertone of iron.

“No, no, but I can’t be sure it isn’t a hallucination either.” He wiped the blood from his face and suddenly chuckled hoarsely to himself, muttering, “Does it take chopping someone into pieces to know for sure?”

Hearing this, Su Qing’s expression changed. He turned and fled. “Senior brother, please, wake up! You’ve succumbed to madness!”

Zhang Sanlu’s mind wavered, his grip slackening so the sword dropped to the ground. He didn’t know what had come over him. Glancing down, he saw that the severed head, which had previously had its eyes closed, was now staring at him, its lips twisted in a mocking smile.

“Demon priest, you have taken my head, but lost your own life. Have you finally attained immortality?” Zhang Sanlu laughed at himself. “What’s the point in talking to a severed head? Right—last time I said, a man must rely on himself.”

Remembering the sharp stick he had found earlier, he reached for the severed head, grabbing its hair and lifting it up. “Let me affix a handle to you, so you may ward off evil and fulfill your wishes.”

Zhang Sanlu sat cross-legged, examining the best place to secure the stick—it would have to be at the broken neck. He braced the head between his legs, pulled out the sharp stick, and forced it into the hollow of the spine.

There was a crisp snap as the bronze tip sank into the vertebrae. He hefted it up and considered that, if swung too hard, the stick would still come loose. So he tore some cloth from the cabinet, winding it tightly from the base of the skull down to the root of the stick, knotting it several times to make sure it wouldn’t come off easily.

He gathered up the scattered silver pieces from the cabinet, packed them away, then took a bundle and wrapped the head in it, slinging it onto his back before heading out to look for Su Qing or Qiu Ming.

He searched the temple grounds, but not a soul was to be found.

“So it really was all a hallucination? Not a single person left.” His melancholy came and went swiftly; since last night’s experiences were impossible to believe, he decided to treat them as mere illusions.

Zhang Sanlu went to the kitchen for some dried rations, packing them along with the head, joking to himself, “Don’t you dare eat all the food by yourself—remember, I’m here too.” He laughed heartily, then pulled a burning log from the stove and, as he walked, used it to set fire to every lamp and oil jar in the rooms, finally setting the entire temple ablaze.

At last, he came to the main hall and set fire to the clay and wooden statues.

In the blaze, the statues’ outlines seemed to twist and writhe, as if struggling to maintain their dignity amid the flames. The paint and color peeled away in the heat, exposing the grain of the wood beneath. The fire devoured the wood with a crackle and a sinister hiss.

The flames shot into the sky, turning the night orange. Thick smoke billowed upward, stark against the darkness. The temple’s eaves and corners flickered in and out of sight in the firelight, the blaze spreading quickly with the wind, erupting with the sound of splitting wood.

Zhang Sanlu didn’t know why, but he stood there quietly, watching the smoke pour out of the burning temple. Then he bowed solemnly several times. Looking back, it seemed as if some unseen hand had guided him out of that terrifying, mysterious mountain.

Billowing smoke rose and twisted, swallowing all the temple’s shadows and strangeness, and vanished into the bright sky.

Zhang Sanlu threw back his head and laughed, slinging the bundle with the severed head on his back and the long sword at his waist. He turned and strode down the mountain path, sunlight warming his face, breathing in the fresh air, and felt his mood begin to lift. “It feels as if my sickness is improving again.”

Behind him, the burning temple writhed in the sky, casting a twisted shadow.