Chapter 88: You Don't Look Poor

“Master—”

“I’ll be right back!” Wen Jinge struck downwards.

The “Nonexistent” had only appeared for a brief moment, yet she felt uneasy, as if something still eluded her, not just from the ghostly banquet earlier. She had missed something. But as to what exactly, she could only find out by retracing her steps.

“Elder Master, I’ll go down—”

“Don’t make trouble!” Lu Wei shook his head. He was now switching roles more and more proficiently, and often Yang Wennan no longer knew how to address this senior brother. Since leaving the mountain, this senior brother’s temperament had become increasingly similar to their master’s. Only when facing the master did he show a trace of his former foolishness, making him more inscrutable than ever.

“But…”

“There are some things we cannot help with.”

The monk cast him a few more glances. Lu Wei was unlike any of the demons he had encountered. He suddenly recalled a saying in his heart: What difference between demon and human?

Such profound reasoning was beyond him; perhaps only when the senior brother reappeared could he seek enlightenment.

“I am curious about one thing.” Yang Wennan looked at the Sorrow-and-Joy Buddha, as if he had hesitated internally for a long time. “You call my master an Immortal Teacher, but normally, your relationship would be…”

“My own master…” The monk paused in regret, as though mourning something. “Now, you may call me Brother Zhiylin. My monastic name is Zhiylin, and the title Sorrow-and-Joy is but a nickname others gave me.”

“Hmm?”

“My senior brother and I are both without a master. By years, I am fit to be called your senior brother.”

“Our master was expelled from his sect. The disciples were blameless, but are considered masterless as well.” Lu Wei, somehow having acquired a blade of wild grass, clamped it between his lips, and held a treatise on swordsmanship in his hands, though inside it was actually a Buddhist text.

Luckily the two sat opposite him, unable to see these small movements. There was no shame in scholarship, but it depended on the company—if Wen Jinge knew, he would feel embarrassed.

“What is it, what on earth is it? Why can’t I remember?” Wen Jinge muttered to herself as she walked.

The “Nonexistent” had tripped her up earlier, but by accident, it had given her a spark of inspiration. As for its aftersales service, it cared not at all.

The demonic zither hung at her side, its baleful aura intimidating many. The children had long become indistinguishable from wild beasts. The largest black crow had disappeared, and the children had begun to turn on each other.

At first, when they saw Wen Jinge, a living person, they had planned to come at her, but once the demonic zither hung in the air and exterminated several of them in the blink of an eye, the rest withdrew.

Here, the unprecedented disaster that played out earlier was repeating itself. Who knew how many similar victims lay buried beneath the ground?

Wen Jinge said nothing, letting the demonic zither clear the way ahead. Then she suddenly heard some panting—neither the sounds of beasts, nor the dying gasps of children.

She followed the source of the sound, a voice inside telling her that the way forward was just ahead, that something she needed awaited her there.

It was a child, his face filthy and unreadable, holding a black stone and raising it to his mouth. It was bitter, scratching his throat as he chewed.

Behind him, several other children were fighting. Noticing he was still alive, they surged forward, weapons in hand, stabbing at him.

The boy saw Wen Jinge, as did the others. Their eyes, dark and hollow, fixed on her as they advanced with stiff, unnatural steps.

Their feet pressed on the boy’s back, and the stone in his hand rolled into a bloodstained puddle. He stared at the black stone, then, once the others had passed, gritted his teeth and crawled forward, unwilling to leave the stone behind.

Suddenly, a fair wrist appeared before him. The person’s ash-blue sleeve hung low, and she snatched up the black stone before he could.

Soaked in blood, the black stone had grown swollen. Wen Jinge did not mind its filth. It was a hard, battered bun, its crust toughened by unknown trials, barely softened even after soaking in blood.

“Interesting,” she murmured to herself.

This child, after all her journey, was the only one she found who hungered for a bun instead of blood, though his eyes held no spark of life.

The boy looked at her, then at the blood on her hand, his gaze vacant, then turned to her face.

Under the frosty moonlight, her features were ethereal, divine—like an immortal descended from heaven…

An immortal…

His heart grew heavy. Once, he too had been called immortal by others.

But now, wasn’t he about to be eaten all the same?

“You want…” The words burned in his throat, and before he could finish, he lost his voice.

“Pah!” Wen Jinge took a bite of the bun.

She made the motion slowly, as if a scene played out in her mind—a memory from long ago, when she too sat like this with an unpalatable dough ball in her hand.

The coarse grain tasted bitter and astringent, needing much water to swallow—just like now, and she resented it.

But back then, so many people had stood behind her. Crowds and crowds gathered around. What were they doing?

By the firelight, her face was resolute, as if she wished to speak but felt powerless inside…

“Ah… ah… ah…”

“Heh heh heh… heh heh…”

The dead children seemed to come alive, forcing their broken bodies upright and crawling toward Wen Jinge.

The little boy squeezed his eyes shut, resigned to death.

He thought: This woman is strange—perhaps even worse off than him. Giving her the bun before dying might be his last act of kindness.

Wen Jinge did not spit it out; the earlier “pah” had only been for the grit. Unconsciously, she finished the bun, washing it down with bloody water.

Drip.

She looked in confusion at the back of her hand—a drop of water had fallen from the corner of her eye.

“Was it you?” Her voice faded into the wind, uncertain to whom she spoke.

The boy opened his eyes. The pain he expected did not come. The strange woman had collapsed beside him, eyes closed.

The ground was filthy, marred by blood and bodies, yet she lay there fully clothed atop the corpses, utterly calm, as if basking in the sun on a lounge chair.

The former companions seemed blocked by something—they could not move past the alley’s entrance, only howling, trying to provoke Wen Jinge.

“Demonic zither,” she murmured, her words as soft as a dream, “leave none alive—give them to A Cai.”

The zither, intelligent in its own right, flew off and did not return, now a sword of Damocles suspended above. With its master’s command, it was unstoppable.

The boy opened his eyes, gazed at the sword in the sky, and felt something missing inside. He looked at the strange woman a few more times, then closed his eyes again.

“Boy.”

“Hmm?”

“Any more food?”

“No… none left,” he whimpered, “You… don’t look poor…”