Chapter Thirty-One: He Arrives with a Sea of Corpses

The blinding light from the ruined temple in the west of the city illuminated half the sky as bright as day, drawing bewildered villagers from their homes to witness the spectacle. At that moment, the young man was charging into the city on horseback, arriving before the freshly painted gates of the Commandant’s Mansion.

As the borderland commandant, Yang Yanlang’s residence was naturally imposing—the plaque of the Yang Residence hung high, its bold, blade-like script imbued with a chilling air of martial authority, no doubt inscribed by the General himself.

But Zhong Ming had no time to marvel at the mansion’s grandeur. He reined in his horse sharply, swung down, and looked back toward the ruined temple in the west.

“What on earth is happening?” he muttered in utter bewilderment, craning his neck to peer in that direction.

He saw a sweep of green light, which persisted for a long moment before gradually fading. As the brilliance ebbed, the ruined temple returned to silence, yet the full moon overhead was now tinged with a layer of crimson.

In the border town, beneath the blood-red moon, the wind rose—a soft night breeze, not a gale, but carrying a faint, sickly scent of blood.

The young man stood frozen, mind reeling from the shock of what he’d just witnessed.

The armored guards of the Yang Residence, shaken by the green light, soon recovered their composure. One hurried over, took the reins from Zhong Ming, and asked, “Young Master Zhong, what brings you here at this hour?”

Zhong Ming gathered himself and replied, “Someone tried to kill me—I’ve just escaped from the ruined temple in the west. I’ve come to seek refuge with my uncle.”

At this, the guard’s face paled. He glanced fearfully toward the west and urged, “Young master, quickly, come inside! I’ll report to the Commandant at once!”

Two guards: one led the horse away, the other escorted Zhong Ming into the mansion.

The Commandant’s Mansion was one of the largest in town. The front courtyard was for official matters; at this hour, Yang Yanlang was likely resting in the central quarters.

A walk that would usually take a few minutes now felt, to Zhong Ming, like a journey across mountains—without seeing the General, the youth’s heart remained anxious.

The guard led the way, Zhong Ming following close behind, both hurrying toward the inner courtyard. But as soon as they passed the shadowed walls, the stench of blood in the air grew stronger, and Zhong Ming heard something approaching on the wind from not far off.

Looking up, he saw a dark mass hurtling from the western edge of the city—a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, reeking so strongly of death that it made his head spin.

Peering closer, he recognized among the bodies the protector Chen whom he had seen earlier, as well as others long since withered to dried husks.

At the center of this gruesome tide stood a headless corpse, hands clasped behind its back, riding the crest of the corpse-sea as it landed before Zhong Ming.

Terrified, Zhong Ming shrank back, while the guard at his side drew his curved blade, shouting, “Who goes there?!”

The headless corpse did not answer. Instead, it raised a hand, and four corpses crawled from the heap, pouncing upon the guard and pinning him with unnatural strength—he had no chance even to draw his sword.

The mountain of corpses hovered two fathoms above Zhong Ming’s head, forming a staircase of bodies leading down. The headless corpse, hands still behind its back, descended slowly until it stood before the young man.

The guard beside him shouted desperately, “Fiend! Do not harm our young master! If you dare touch him, my lord will hunt you to the ends of the earth and see you destroyed!”

Though the corpse had no head, an ethereal voice sounded in the air: “Noisy fool!”

Instantly, a corpse crawled to the guard and began slapping him mercilessly, splitting his lips with a few heavy blows.

From that voice, Zhong Ming realized who it was—it was the very old immortal who had just saved him at the ruined temple. But seeing this mountain of corpses, he now doubted the being was any kind of immortal—“monster” seemed far more apt.

Summoning his courage, Zhong Ming knelt and cried, “This humble one, Zhong Ming, greets the Old Immortal. Thank you, sir, for saving my life more than once.”

“No need for such formalities,” the ethereal voice responded, and a gentle force lifted Zhong Ming to his feet.

When he was upright, the headless corpse approached and, with one hand, touched his cheek, murmuring, “So alike—so very much like Lin’er.”

Chilled to the bone at being caressed by a headless corpse, Zhong Ming dared not show any sign of displeasure or even fear; he forced himself not to tremble.

He was terrified—afraid that the slightest misstep would anger this demonic being whose nature he could not guess.

At last, the headless corpse withdrew its hand and asked, “Zhong Ming, tonight I must accomplish a great task and wish to borrow something from you. Will you lend it?”

The monster’s tone was gentle, and Zhong Ming, thinking quickly, realized this being did not seem hostile. And from his words, it seemed Zhong Ming’s own appearance was somehow connected to this “Lin’er.”

How could he refuse? He replied at once, “It would be my honor, sir. May I ask what you wish to borrow?”

“Your body, for a night.”

Zhong Ming’s face changed, his mind racing—he’d read many tales of souls seizing bodies and transmigrating; was this old fiend about to take his own flesh?

Yet the being’s attitude remained so benign, nothing like a murderer.

With the situation as it was, Zhong Ming had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he replied, “If the Old Immortal has use for my body, I surrender it willingly.”

Inwardly, though, he was cursing—who ever heard of borrowing a body? At least women had tales of lending their bodies to bear children, but for this old monster to want a young man’s body—could it be he had some unspeakable interest?

Sensing his unease, the headless corpse added, “Rest easy. I need it only for a single night. Afterwards, there will be a reward for you.”

Hearing this, Zhong Ming relaxed somewhat and replied eagerly, “Since you ask, sir, it is yours. There’s no need for any reward.”

So long as his body would be returned, he was content—what need for rewards?

“Very well!” the ethereal voice intoned, and a shimmering green wraith shot from the headless corpse into Zhong Ming.

A terrible pain lanced through his mind, nearly splitting his skull. After a time, he recovered his senses, only to find himself in a strange state: he could move his mouth and see through his eyes, but his body obeyed another’s will—as if he were a bystander in his own flesh.

Before him, the headless corpse collapsed, and Zhong Ming’s body stepped onto its back, ascending the mountain of corpses and standing atop it, hands clasped behind him.

Just then, the commotion in the courtyard drew Yang Yanlang’s attention. The general, in brocade robes and bearing his silver dragon spear, rushed into the front court.

Seeing this bizarre scene, Yang Yanlang’s face filled with astonishment. Thinking Zhong Ming was being held hostage, he leveled his spear and roared, “What fiend dares rampage in my mansion? Release my nephew at once, or I shall show no mercy!”

The silver dragon spear sang, its tip crackling with azure energy.

Zhong Ming cried out, “Uncle, don’t worry. The Old Immortal means me no harm—he only wishes to borrow my body.”

But before the general could reply, the ethereal voice spoke again: “Yang Yanlang, you are a loyal general of the empire. I have no wish to be your enemy. Zhong Ming will be with me for one night—at dawn he will return unharmed. Do not force my hand. Mind your own course.”

With these words, Zhong Ming’s body turned toward the heart of the city. The mountain of corpses rose into the air, carrying him away on the wind.

Yang Yanlang stood in the courtyard, spear in hand, his expression dark and uncertain.

The guard who had been struck sat in a daze, his hand trembling on his sword.

Behind Yang Yanlang, Sun Longhu’s face was equally grim. Drawing his blade, he said, “My lord, should we pursue? I fear that fiend will harm young Zhong Ming.”

“Prepare the horses! All guards, follow me—we ride in pursuit!” The general gripped his spear and dashed toward the stables.

...

High above the border town, Zhong Ming soared more than a hundred fathoms in the air, the wind howling in his ears.

Beneath his feet lay the mountain of corpses and the sea of blood, with armed bodies flanking him. From this height, the courtyards below looked like mere playthings.

Though filled with questions, Zhong Ming dared not speak.

After some time, the ethereal voice said, “Zhong Ming, let me tell you a story. Will you listen?”

“I’d be honored—please, sir, go on.”

But when he opened his mouth, the wind rushed in, making him cough. The voice laughed, “No need to call me Old Immortal. I am no immortal—at best, an old monster. My surname is Liu, given name Chengyin. We are related; by right, you should call me Granduncle.”

This revelation left Zhong Ming confused, but after a moment’s thought, he realized the relationship—his mother’s aunt’s husband.

Zhong Ming was clever. Seeing that Liu Chengyin wished to draw closer, he seized the opportunity: “Granduncle Liu, what tale is this? Your grandson is eager to hear it.”

Hearing this, Liu Chengyin waved a hand, dispelling the wind around Zhong Ming’s body, making him much more comfortable.

Then Liu Chengyin sighed, “You are so like him—so alike, even in temperament. No wonder you are of the Zhong family. Since you are, I should tell you of an old matter from over fifty years ago.”

His words were tinged with sorrow as he began the tale—a story long buried in the border town, guarded by all the great families, never spoken of.

Fifty years ago, there was no New Tang, nor was there war; the former Chen dynasty still basked in its final glory.

Back then, the border town was not divided among three surnames and ten houses, but five surnames and ten houses.

Among these ten great families was the Zhong family—Zhong Ming’s mother’s kin—one of the top three lineages in the region.

At the lower end of the ten, there was the Liu family—a branch of the Liu clan known as the Lower Liu. Among them was a youth named Liu Chengyin, illegitimate by birth but possessed of both talent and martial prowess, one of the rare prodigies of the border town.