Chapter Forty-Four: The Miao People of Redwood Ridge

“Get back! He’s about to use the Self-Sacrifice Art!”

The bristling young man grabbed the long-haired middle-aged man, intending to flee.

“Wait!”

But the middle-aged man seized the young man’s hand in a firm grip.

“Let him chew it down!”

He stared unblinkingly at the man in green robes.

Seeing this, the green-robed man hesitated, hand halfway to his mouth, eyes glued to the two of them. Suddenly, a wailing shriek burst from his lips; his expression twisted into something even more vicious. With a savage motion, he bit through both the index and middle fingers of his left hand, then charged at the two in Redwood Ridge.

The older man in Redwood Ridge pulled the younger one back, retreating steadily—neither too fast nor too slow—always keeping the perfect distance, wary both of the toad’s escape and of suffering harm himself.

The one from Hundred Savage Mountain showed no sign of life; after gnawing down two fingers, it was as if he’d become addicted—he devoured the rest of his fingers in one go!

Soon, his belly began to bulge and contract, as if something writhed within.

At that, the elder from Redwood Ridge seemed certain the man was doomed. He seized the younger one and fled, retracing their steps.

“Hahaha! I may be dying, but you won’t escape either!”

The man from Hundred Savage Mountain’s mouth was smeared with blood—who knew how he could stomach it? He’d eaten most of both his hands. He roared,

“Sacrifice the body for kindling, forsake life for fuel, blood as the guide—Asura’s Bloodflame!”

As soon as he finished, a flash of blood-red light appeared from nowhere, descending from the sky to strike the crown of the mountain man’s head.

That bloodlight was like some unnatural flame; as soon as it touched him, it burned away all his robes, then began to consume his skin, turning him into a man of blood.

“Ah—haha—”

Wreathed in the bloodflame, he screamed, wracked by pain and ecstasy in turn.

The blood-soaked figure locked eyes on the two fugitives from Redwood Ridge and gave chase, moving several times faster than before.

He flung out his hand, sending two streams of bloodflame hissing toward them. The flames were too swift to dodge; instinctively, the two raised their arms to block, and the bloodflame struck.

“Ah—”

The bloodflame instantly scorched away their clothes and skin, searing toward the flesh beneath. The young man couldn’t help but cry out; gritting his teeth, he drew a short blade from his waist and sliced away the flesh consumed by the fire.

The middle-aged man acted even faster. As soon as the bloodflame touched him, he gouged away the flesh, then produced a short, red wooden staff from his breast—about the size of a chopstick. He pressed the wood to his bleeding arm and tensed his muscles, causing blood to gush forth, drenching the stick.

Seeing the blood-drenched fiend drawing closer, the middle-aged man, desperate, stabbed the wooden stick straight into his arm.

“Ah!”

He screamed in agony.

“Uncle!”

The young man’s heart twisted at the sight. “Let me do it!”

The man ignored him, chanting, “By blood as guidance, let the Redwood become a Flood Dragon!”

The staff, nearly piercing through his arm, began to glow with a crimson light; some strange force drew every drop of blood from his wound, not a drop falling to the ground.

Just as the blood-drenched fiend was about to seize them, the staff, now sated, slipped free from the man’s arm and shot toward the fiend like an arrow.

Finely inscribed along the stick was a dragon, rendered in black ink, the rest carved with minute characters. As it flew through the air, the dragon and the tiny script seemed to come alive—the dragon writhing free from the staff, the characters adhering to its body like scales.

The dragon, swelling to the size of a giant serpent, swooped down and swallowed the onrushing blood man whole!

The blood man was utterly consumed, vanishing in a burst of crimson light—without even a chance to scream.

But the red dragon, after absorbing the bloodlight, was clearly suffering. It twisted in the air; if one looked closely, the wooden staff within its body was already beginning to blacken and char.

The middle-aged man and the youth hastily cast several talismans, which affixed themselves to the dragon, gradually calming its turmoil.

The dragon spat out a tongue of bloodflame, but now its fierceness was gone; it soared away, carrying with it all the essence and blood of the one they’d called the Toad.

The dragon’s form dissolved; the staff fell to the ground, its dragon-head tip now marked with a charred black spot.

The youth helped the middle-aged man to sit, pulled a medicine jar from his breast, poured powder onto the man’s wound, then treated his own. He quickly retrieved the charred staff, blew on the scorched part with concern, and tucked it back into the man’s robes.

The middle-aged man secured the staff, gritting his teeth as he stood, and led his nephew back to the spot where the green-robed man had stopped.

“Uncle, what are you doing?” the youth asked, puzzled.

The man signaled for him to be patient. He glanced at the cave concealed by mist and vines. Raising his voice, he called,

“Friend, forgive us for disturbing your cultivation. Might you come out, so that we may apologize in person?”

Only then did the young man realize, and he immediately fixed his eyes on the cave’s mouth, gripping his blade tightly.

The middle-aged man shot him a glare, warning him not to act rashly.

Under their watchful gaze, a boy in blue Daoist robes, a long sword at his waist, stepped out of the cave, with a white dog at his heels.

At the sight of the dog, both men visibly relaxed; the young man blurted,

“Are you Miao? Which Daoist sect do you follow—the Immortal’s Cavern or the Azure Dragon Hall?”

The middle-aged man glared at him again, but then smiled and respectfully nodded to the young Daoist.

The young Daoist smiled as well, bowing his head to the two.

“Uncle! Brother!”

Even the middle-aged man now looked much more at ease.

“Young man, which mountain and which village are you from? We are from Banyan River Village of Four-Ring Mountain.”

The young Daoist shook his head. “Uncle, I am not Miao; I have only lived among the Miao for many years.”

Their expressions changed slightly. The man pointed at the white dog.

“If you’re not Miao, how is it you have a White Dragon? The Miao wouldn’t give one. Oh! You saved the Miao—saved a child’s life, perhaps?”

The young Daoist had not realized there was so much significance behind the White Dragon; the man had deduced much in a glance. He gestured to the wounds on their bodies.

“Uncle and brother, please, come inside and rest.”

With that, he led the way into the cave, the white dog wagging its tail as it followed.

The uncle and nephew exchanged glances, then entered as well.

All three sat; the white dog nestled close to the Daoist’s feet.

Though the young Daoist seemed the youngest, he was the calmest by far.

The two Miao men introduced themselves.

The middle-aged man spoke first. “Wolf Mountain Liu, Banyan River Village, Redwood Ridge, Four-Ring Mountain.”

The young man followed, “Tiger Gold Liu, Banyan River Village.”