Chapter 7: Human Blood as the Catalyst, Life as the Elixir

Chapter 7: Blood as the Guide, Life as the Elixir

“Clang—Clang—”

Zhang Sanlu chatted idly with Tongxuan as he kicked two empty jars at his feet. The black jars struck the rock wall and shattered on the ground, scattering fragments everywhere.

Tongxuan and several young Taoist novices paused, staring in stupefied silence at Zhang Sanlu as he destroyed the jars.

“Go about your business; don’t mind me,” Zhang Sanlu said. With a satisfied clap, he finished breaking the last empty jar he could find, then sat down and pressed his aching toes.

“What in the world are you doing?” Tongxuan halted his cat-and-mouse game, suspicion etched across his face.

“I saw you needed these jars to cap people’s heads for your alchemy. Now that I’ve smashed them all, you won’t have any to use,” Zhang Sanlu stood up, dusted himself off, and grinned.

Tongxuan burst into laughter, as if he’d heard the most amusing joke.

“Senior brother… sob… If Master wanted to kill us, why would he need jars at all…” one novice collapsed, unable to stand, his voice lowered and mournful.

“That’s true!” Zhang Sanlu slapped his thigh, as if the realization had just struck him.

“Zhenfu, I never realized how entertaining you were. If you hadn’t already learned too much, I’d keep you around for amusement,” Tongxuan chuckled. “But don’t worry, my good disciple. They recite scriptures with insincerity and no wisdom; you are different from them.”

To slaughter disciples he had raised for years and forge an elixir to extend his own life—this ritual had become almost sacred to Tongxuan.

“Of course I am different,” Zhang Sanlu smiled, nudging a fallen short sword with his foot and picking it up.

“Oh? You think so yourself. Tell me, what makes you different?”

“Because I am real, and you are all fake,” Zhang Sanlu gazed at the sword in his hand. It was slightly heavy, slender, about one and a half feet long and two fingers wide. Its blade gleamed like frost, catching a faint chill in the torchlight. The hilt was carved with ancient cloud patterns, and inscribed with two archaic characters—barely discernible as ‘Clear Wind.’

Tongxuan chuckled quietly again, as if hearing another joke, then swayed and recited, “When false becomes true, true becomes false; when true becomes false, false becomes true… What is truth, and what is falsehood?”

“But, my good disciple, are you going to use this sword to kill your master?”

Zhang Sanlu did not answer. He stretched out his left index finger and flicked the blade with force.

The blade trembled, emitting a crisp, ringing sound.

“A fine sword, truly—farewell, everyone! Until fate brings us together again!” Before the words had faded, Zhang Sanlu swept the sword across his own throat.

The tip pressed against his neck; the cold metal touched warm skin, forming a strange contrast.

“Wait!” Tongxuan’s eyes blazed, and as the novices screamed, he leaped forward.

But Zhang Sanlu’s blade was already slicing swiftly across his throat. Pain flared, and a surge of warm liquid spurted onto his own face.

The force of the cut made him feel his neck muscles twist outward. Hot blood splattered to the ground in a rain.

He felt his life ebbing quickly. The wound on his neck wheezed, like a torn sack, his breath becoming rapid and labored. Weakness overtook his body; the sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

In a haze, Tongxuan appeared before him, rage gleaming in his single eye. From Tongxuan’s mouth darted a black shadow, lizard-like and alive, plunging into Zhang Sanlu’s mouth. The creature’s slick mucus splashed onto his lips, cold and slippery, making his stomach churn.

The shadow slid down his throat, filling it with terror and nausea. The foreign body made his already damaged throat harder to breathe, cartilage crackling under the pressure.

His consciousness blurred; everything around him faded into distance and darkness.

The pain was overwhelming! Even in illusions, he would never again use a sword to cut himself. That was Zhang Sanlu’s last thought. His body collapsed, blood flooding from his wound and staining the ground.

Tongxuan’s body, limp as a lifeless sack, fell face-first beside Zhang Sanlu and moved no more.

“It hurts!”

“Xiao Zhang—Xiao Zhang—”

“It hurts—!”

“He’s awake, call Doctor Zhou—”

“Xiao Zhang—”

Zhang Sanlu drifted, caught in hallucination again, but unlike the previous chanting, the voice calling him was somehow familiar.

“Tap-tap, tap-tap~” That sound was familiar. He remembered it.

It was Nurse Liu’s mechanical pen. The young nurse loved to click it when bored, listening to the tapping sound; her name was stuck on that pen.

“Ah—” Zhang Sanlu’s throat managed a hoarse sound.

“He’s really awake, really awake,” came excited voices around him.

“Don’t try to speak; your throat is injured.”

Someone pried open his eyelids with two fingers, and a beam of light flashed before his eyes. As his vision focused, he saw a middle-aged man with glasses and a mask, standing beneath a white grid ceiling. In the upper right corner, a brown stain he knew so well yet seemed so strange.

“Uh—”

“Xiao Zhang, can you hear me?” The man put away his medical flashlight and waved his fingers in front of Zhang Sanlu’s eyes.

Zhang Sanlu tried to reach for his neck, but found his hands tightly bound. Glancing down, he saw several layers of restraint clothing wrapped around him.

His neck burned with pain.

“Don’t move. Your neck is injured, and to prevent further harm, we had to put you in restraints,” Dr. Zhou said, straightening and addressing the nurse behind him. “Looks like he’s come to. Keep a close watch. Luckily the neck wound isn’t too severe, but don’t remove the restraints for the next two days. Besides the nutrition drip, add some chloral hydrate solution.”

Then Dr. Zhou leaned down and spoke gently, “Xiao Zhang, rest well. If you need anything, call Nurse Liu or the attendants.” He led the intern and nurses out.

Zhang Sanlu barely listened, his heart filled with joy and disbelief.