Chapter Forty-Five: The Woman's Bones

In a flash, Liuchou and the other demons had already broken through to the outermost edge of the encirclement, on the verge of escaping. Suddenly, a fierce gust swept down from midair. Liuchou twisted mid-leap, thrusting his staff outward, while his peripheral vision caught Qingmei’s hand, gripping it tightly.

A dull clang resounded as the iron-rod soldier’s weapon collided heavily with the shield hurled by Xiageng. The massive impact traveled down the iron staff and surged into Liuchou’s body, forcibly sending him flying.

Just as he wished!

Using the momentum, Liuchou lifted himself and darted out, dragging Qingmei with him. Not only did they evade the bone halberd's sweeping strike that followed, but Liuchou also swung his arm, flinging Qingmei far ahead, then rolled upon landing and sprang up to flee at breakneck speed.

Xiageng landed, raising a cloud of dust. His collapsed shoulder was slowly rising, blocking the path about ten feet ahead of the two small demons. Terrified, they retreated in panic, only to be ensnared by the pursuing corpses, instantly falling back into the encirclement.

The two demons began to plead and wail loudly, but Liuchou dared not rescue them.

Liuchou and Qingmei were nearly twenty yards from Xiageng; it seemed far, but at their speed, it was only a matter of moments—there could be no hesitation. Liuchou gathered all his strength in his legs, wind coursing beneath his feet, his bundle stretched taut behind him.

Soon, he caught up to Qingmei, seized her hand to quicken her pace, though it slowed him a little.

Xiageng had no intention of letting the impudent demon escape. With a roar, he bent his knees and launched himself, the ground quaking as cracks radiated outward. He shot up like a cannonball, landing with a thunderous crash seven or eight yards away!

Bounding repeatedly, Xiageng’s speed matched Liuchou and Qingmei's; though he hadn't caught them, the gap could not widen any further.

Had Liuchou been alone, escape would not be an issue, but with Qingmei, it was more difficult—and this exhausting sprint could not last long. Yet he remained unflustered, scanning the distance, then suddenly veered southeast with Qingmei.

"The water marsh!"

Liuchou uttered just these two words; Qingmei, ever astute, instantly understood.

Thus, the chase continued for several miles. The two demons soon arrived near the marsh, a vast lake spanning several hundred yards. As they reached the shore, the water began to steam, wisps of mist rising and spreading quickly through the air.

This was the demon art Qingmei had mastered through the Ten Thousand Demons Manual—

Mist Weaving!

Without another word, Liuchou and Qingmei plunged into the water and vanished.

When Xiageng arrived, the entire lake was shrouded in mist, blocking vision beyond five yards. Frustrated, he stomped and kicked a massive rock, sending it flying deep into the fog.

He kicked again and again, stones sailing aimlessly into the lake, the splashing and his furious howls frightening the wandering corpses around the marsh, sending them scurrying in all directions.

Meanwhile, Liuchou and Qingmei seized the opportunity to swim across to the far shore, proceeding unhurriedly into the distance...

After nearly six hours of hurried travel, the two demons finally reached the edge of the wasteland. The path through the wilds had ended, and ahead lay nearly a hundred miles of continuous mountains, stretching to the easternmost end.

A day and a half had passed.

The hundred-mile mountain range would take Liuchou and Qingmei only three or four hours, but after their recent escape, both were exhausted. They split the insects Liuchou had gathered, took turns keeping watch, and slept for four hours; only then did their strength and demon power recover halfway, barely enough to continue.

Even so, neither expected the final stretch through the mountains to be so easy. Not only were there no corpses, but even the beasts they encountered were exceptionally weak. They reached the highest peak safely while other demons still searched for signs along the route. Gazing upward, they saw several cloud ships docked halfway up the mountain.

The peak was like a spear, rising straight up; the cloud ships hovered nearly three hundred yards above, with no road or path. To board, one had to scale the rocky cliffs and brave the raging mountain winds—a challenge for large-bodied demons, but trivial for those who could fly or climb.

So, after two days and four more hours, Liuchou and Qingmei reached the summit, boarding the cloud ships as the forty-third and forty-fourth arrivals, and received healing salves as their reward. The first thirty were all flying demons; Yuanqin was among them.

Nearly all the demons, upon reaching the cloud ship, did the same—ate their fill, then fell into deep sleep!

※

At the border between Xiniu Hezhou and Nanzhan Buzhou, countless fortresses and cities stood guard. Though the fires of war had died, the region still brimmed with the clang of armor and the scent of iron, much as it had during the old wars of the Investiture. For centuries, humans and demons had battled, every inch of land soaked in blood, death etched deep and inseparable.

The mighty Yangguan stood in the fading sunlight, tranquil and ancient, steeped in the passage of years. Though years had passed without war, nearly fifty thousand troops still garrisoned there. It was the headquarters of General Huang and his White Horse Army, forming, together with the northern Tiger Guards and Eagle Wings, and the southern Flying Bears, Blazing Leopards, and Underworld Kun, a steel defense of three hundred thousand troops across the western border of Great Zhou.

A hundred miles from this massive city, in a nameless mountain hollow, lay an abandoned fortress. Unlike elsewhere, bathed in sunset, here the air was thick with gloomy mist. Even at noon, sunlight struggled to pierce the dense clouds, leaving the place forever in darkness, damp and cold, never seeing the day.

The fortress had been abandoned for years—desolate and bleak. Bones had long been gnawed clean by wild dogs, and ruined war machines and armor lay rusted and moss-covered upon the ground. When the wind rose, many crumbled further, turning to dust and drifting away.

Even the "White Tiger" characters above the gate had all but faded.

Now, not even wild dogs remained; insect chirps and frog croaks had ceased. A palpable aura of death enveloped the fortress, devoid of any sign of beast or bug—a silence deeper than loneliness.

Suddenly, a shrill scream tore through the air, shattering the silence and solitude.

At the center of the fortress stood an ancient temple. Within, a tall shrine once housed the bones of fallen soldiers. The shrine, occupying several yards, was now half-collapsed, its doors broken and leaning, unable to conceal the thick layers of leaves and dust on its steps. Moss covered the shrine's body, yet the marks of blades and axes could still be seen. Outside, a massive incense burner had been hacked in two, adding a venomous edge to the eerie atmosphere.

Inside, remnants of the past lingered—only wreckage and dust after decades of turmoil. The altar had collapsed, draperies torn down, candelabras and incense burners rotted away, the wax-stained stone walls streaked with drips forming dark beads in the faint light filtering through the door crack, casting long shadows.

Yet, faint light shone from the stairwell door. Descending, one would see a figure seated on the floor of the bone chamber, his face obscured in shadow, unrecognizable save for his attire—an elder monk from the West, his coarse robe once stately, now wrinkled and stained with flecks of blood.

In his hand was a thick demon-slaying cudgel, its sharp tip brown and menacing in the dim light.

He sat unmoving. Before him lay a skeleton, assembled into a human form, surrounded by dozens of melon-sized bundles—some ancient and dusty, some still seeping blood from below, all shaped like human heads.

The aged monk sat thus for an unknown time, until finally he moved, gently lifting a piece of vertebra and caressing the knife-carved characters etched upon it, each stroke trembling, each word a tear!

Through the haze of memory, he seemed to see his daughter's anguish, her sobs as she was humiliated, the brutish, arrogant face of the officer, and even the moment he killed her, laughing maniacally as he carved those four characters, stroke by stroke!

"Good! Good! Good! You refuse to marry; I shall force it upon you. Not only will I wed your daughter, she shall be my wife, and this title shall be hers—alive or dead, she is my family, ha ha ha..."

For this, he had become a monk in the West, enduring shame and burdens for decades, ultimately tracking down his enemies one by one, severing their heads and offering them before his daughter's spirit, to soothe her soul!

His shoulders began to shake, faster and more violently, as if weeping in sorrow or trembling with joy. Just as the feeling reached its peak, he shuddered heavily, then stilled.

Gaden, gaden, gaden...

The shrine door creaked open. A young monk in coarse robes entered, stopping a yard behind the elder, palms pressed in reverence.

"Master, it is time to leave."

Within moments, the old monk regained his composure, his voice low and hoarse, muffled in the small chamber. "How much longer?"

The young monk pondered, then replied, "The elders’ cloud ship will arrive in at most an hour, but even at the fastest, it will take three quarters."

"We depart in one quarter. Prepare yourself, and have Mizhi bring the fiend here." His face turned slightly, exposing himself to the faint candlelight—a familiar face to Liuchou.

Guiju!

His voice was calm, his expression serene, yet compared to his meeting with Liuchou, there was newfound resolve, less pretense and disguise.

The young monk, Miwu, quietly departed. Within moments, Mizhi brought a dying demon into the chamber, placing it beside Guiju, bowing, and leaving as silently as he came.

After a brief pause, Guiju extended his hand, and the little demon rose into the air, suspended above the skeleton. Its throat suddenly split open, blood trickling onto the bones.

Guiju began a strange chant; the demon-slaying cudgel in his hand shone brightly, placed firmly beneath the blood and within the bones. As the blood flowed, the light gradually drained and seeped into the skeleton.

When the blood ran dry and the light faded, the bones remained unsullied, the entire skeleton milky white, translucent and radiant, as if carved from finest jade, no longer resembling human remains.

Yet Guiju’s face seemed to age decades in an instant—hair and beard turned white, his once smooth features lined deeply, as ancient as an old man at dusk.

But his gaze was peaceful, his long sigh filled with contentment.

At last, he glanced back, eyes settling on the four characters carved into the vertebra—now transformed from chaotic script into four ancient seal characters, edged in gold and silver:

"Lady White Bone!"

Guiju turned and departed, his straw sandals stepping onto the stone, playing a mournful yet hopeful melody, winding and lingering, destined to fade who knows when, who knows where...