Chapter 9: A Dream of Millet—All Is Emptiness

Chapter 9: All Is Emptiness, Like a Dream of Millet

A guttural, rattling sound echoed.

Zhang Sanlu struggled to lift his head. Standing before him was ‘himself.’ The Zhang Sanlu in the blue Daoist robe, drenched in blood, stood swaying as if in the throes of a seizure, his whole body trembling rhythmically.

His doppelgänger’s belly was grotesquely swollen, round as a ball, resembling a woman about to give birth. The bulge beneath the robe seemed to squirm and shift, moving up and down. The wound on his neck was a gaping, crimson maw, the flesh turned outwards, resembling a mouth torn wide open. For a fleeting moment, a shadow flickered within that gruesome wound. The rattling sound emerged from his body.

The surrounding silence made Zhang Sanlu’s heartbeat thunder in his ears. Every rattle tightened the strings of his nerves.

Suddenly, a shrill, piercing screech shattered the oppressive darkness—a sound so chilling and ecstatic, as if howling up from the depths of hell.

Zhang Sanlu felt every hair on his body stand on end; terror gripped him at the marrow. The screech made his blood run cold.

Then, the swollen mass in the belly of the Daoist-robed ‘Zhang Sanlu’ began to unfold, as if something inside was stretching itself awake. With each fresh rattle, the festering mass expanded within the body, forcing itself outward into the limbs, as though someone inside were putting on a suit of skin.

Only then did Zhang Sanlu realize: that horrifying rattling—those snaps and cracks—were the sounds of bones and organs being crushed and broken!

From the trunk to the upper arms and thighs, then down to the forearms and calves, it was as if a person inside was donning the body like a garment. From the gash in the neck, a tangle of pitch-black hair was squeezed out.

The eyes of the Daoist-robed ‘Zhang Sanlu’ rolled back fiercely, exposing only the whites, the pupils nearly disappearing beneath the brow. In a terrifying instant, two pupils appeared, doubling, then twisting back around as if mocking his vision—a fleeting, nightmarish illusion.

Zhang Sanlu’s senses gradually returned, though his vision remained blurred, making it hard to judge distance.

He knew he had returned to that dreadful cave. The True Immortal Tongxuan was attempting to seize his body. He understood he had to act—now—even if it meant destroying himself.

Lying prone on the cold earth, he pressed his head to the ground, forcing his upper body up. Dust and blood mingled before his inverted gaze.

His chest heaved violently, each breath a struggle against invisible weight. His right hand, feeble and caked with mud, hung at his side, fingers shriveled like dead twigs. He could feel his left hand but could not see it at all.

With what little strength returned to his right hand, Zhang Sanlu dug his fingers deep into the dirt, bracing himself. His body trembled, but his will was forged to iron.

He began to push, muscles tightening beneath his skin, every spasm a battle against pain sharp as needles and knives. His body slowly rose, like a boulder being heaved upward by sheer will. First his right leg found purchase, then the left; though he could not see his left arm, the pain of bearing his own weight nearly broke him, but still, corpse-like, he crawled upright.

Gnashing his teeth, Zhang Sanlu staggered to his feet. Though he swayed, his twisted frame resembled a rock—unyielding. His gaze locked on the short sword embedded in the shoulder of the figure before him, its blade glinting coldly in the torchlight.

The withered muscles of his face clenched, forcing a twisted smile to his lips.

He hurled himself forward, like a lone wolf leaping in desperation!

Clutching the sword hilt with his right hand, he threw the full weight of his body onto the blade lodged in the shoulder, unable to judge the distance with only one good eye, relying solely on brute force to drive the hilt downward.

The gruesome rattling from the Daoist-robed ‘Zhang Sanlu’ suddenly ceased. The doubled pupils in those ghastly eyes spun around with a wet pop, fixing on his onrushing form. The mouth opened, but only a meaningless, guttural sound escaped the torn throat. The gloved-like hand hung limply in the air. He knew what Zhang Sanlu intended!

Suddenly, the neck bulged—something forced its way up from the belly. From the gaping mouth, a dark shadow shot out like an arrow.

The shadow whistled through the air.

A sharp pain stabbed Zhang Sanlu’s ear, but he did not falter. Before his body crashed down, his right hand seized the sword hilt and, with every ounce of strength, drove it down!

A sickening crunch—the air filled with dark blood, black ichor, and clear, viscous slime, splattering Zhang Sanlu’s face. The stench of blood and rot filled his mouth, making him retch.

He collapsed, tumbling past his foe, rolling across the ground in a broken heap.

A dull, rolling thud.

Twisting around, still prone, Zhang Sanlu saw his own face staring back at him, like a reflection in a mirror.

In those doubled eyes, countless emotions flickered: terror, rage, disbelief, perhaps even unwillingness and a silent plea. Yet, as the head rolled, the last glint in those eyes faded and vanished.

With a heavy thud, the headless body in Daoist robes finally fell, splattering blood across the ground.

A severed, blackened limb, oozing foul fluids, twitched a few times in the neck cavity before dissolving at last into a puddle of sticky slime.

Panting, Zhang Sanlu lay sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath, the reek of blood and decay rising to his brain, veins throbbing at his temples.

A hoarse, broken laugh escaped him, quickly devolving into a cough from the pain in his chest.

“Body-snatching? Attaining the Dao? Becoming immortal? Ha! Now you’ll become a ghost, old demon—let’s take that road to the underworld together, you three-hundred-year-old fiend! Good! Ha—cough—cough!”

Looking at the short sword embedded in his own chest, Zhang Sanlu realized that as he passed his enemy, the force that severed the other’s head had also driven the sword askew in his own body.

No matter. Demon, we’ll take this journey together.

It hurts—how it hurts! But soon, there will be no more pain.

Let me sleep, just a little while...

Just a little while...

Perhaps, in dreams, I’ll see Father and Mother again...

In a daze, Zhang Sanlu seemed to see a light.

No—a halo.

Like the sun shining on his face, so bright that it blinded all else.