Chapter 53: For a Friend, No Peril Is Too Great

Ever since this group returned, the other markets and small outposts were likely facing much the same situation. Fiery red command arrows darted back and forth through the curtain of rain, bearing urgent news.

The most crucial message among them was an accounting of the survivors.

Roughly an hour and a half after their return, an arrow topped with a cluster of blazing red rooster feathers shot through the rain toward Qili River Market.

Everyone knew—a decision had been made.

Someone picked up the rooster-feathered arrow, symbol of a solemn pledge. Upon it was written:

“At the hour of the Goat, meet on the west bank of Drunken Jiao Bridge at the mouth of West Valley. Those who can withstand the miasma, come. We enter the valley to recover the dead—about one hundred and twenty bodies.”

The arrow was passed from hand to hand.

Yunqi, too, read the message.

This outcome did not surprise him. The Miao people held the dead in greatest reverence, their devotion to burial rites nearly an obsession.

Yunqi recalled what Elder Munai had once said:

“Sometimes the rain falls for months on end, and in such times, the dead buried in the earth will come back to life.”

That was the corpse transformation.

Thus, the Miao practiced tree burials. The corpse would be wrapped in a special kind of reed grass unique to the southern border, then placed atop the crown of a young tree less than twenty years old—cutting off the yin energy and preventing corpse change.

But now, over a hundred and twenty Miao bodies lay in the valley of Rotten Peach Mountain, and the rain showed no sign of stopping. No one knew when a mountain flood might come and bury them all beneath the earth.

“I’ll go!” said the one-eyed man. “I’ve trained in Turtle Breathing, I can hold my breath for three hours.”

“But the peach-mud miasma doesn’t just kill by choking you. Your skin and flesh will rot away too,” someone reminded him.

The one-eyed man only smiled. “I should be able to last a while.”

“I’ll go as well!” said a Daoist from Qinglong Cave, his cheek bearing a patch of skin sliced away—a clear mark that, had he not dodged in time, his head would have been taken off. His battered appearance made it clear he’d only just escaped Rotten Peach Mountain, so naturally the others objected.

“I have cultivated the Lonely Star Chill Pool Miasma,” he insisted, “I can use it for protection. And I know what it’s like inside.”

He rose to stand beside the one-eyed man, leaving no room for further persuasion.

“Count me in as well!”

Everyone turned to Yunqi, surprised.

Yunqi, feeling low, forced a smile. “What? Do you all think I’m only good for drawing charms in the market, and afraid to risk my life in earnest? If I can refine filth for you all, I can protect myself in the miasma.”

They looked to one another, uncertain, until the one-eyed man spoke.

“Master Cheng, Daoist Cheng, it’s not that we doubt your abilities. But you’re not from the borderlands. You’re just a wandering priest who happened to stop here, earning a living with us. This trip is voluntary—no reward. If things go well, we bring our brothers’ bodies home; if not, we bury ourselves there too. Why should you join us?”

The others echoed the question, all eyes on Yunqi.

Yunqi formed a hand seal with his left hand—index and middle fingers joined and bent at right angles, thumb clasping the ring and little fingers, resembling a knock on a door. He placed his hand before his heart, palm slanted forward and right—this was the “Heart-Knocking Seal,” a pledge that what followed would be true to his conscience and the way of the Dao.

“My friends from the southern border fought the Demon Sect, and were ambushed by petty villains, dying beneath the peach-mud, unable to return home for burial. I am retrieving their bodies as a friend—what further reason do I need?”

At these words, the faces of the Miao changed. Someone else asked,

“Master Cheng, you’re Han, we are Miao—different blood, different doors. We met in this market only a few months ago. Is it worth risking yourself for our kin?”

Yunqi replied, “Is a few months not enough to become friends? Can Han and Miao not be friends? Are Daoists and heretics forbidden to call each other brothers? My parents and teachers never taught me such things.”

He glanced around at those standing and lying nearby.

“I know Tiger Jinliu—he sought ore for me, and led me to Qinglong Cave. I know Bai Heqiao—he practiced swordplay with me late into the night. I hurt his arm by mistake, but he pointed to his wound and taught me how to strike with force. I know Dong Tiandang—he grows flowing-leaf at home, and once brought it for me to taste. I know you, He Qiumo—you brought me three sword manuals to trade for talismans after seeing my sword practice. I heard you went to great lengths, bartering Demon Sect heads to get them. And you, Gao Shanxiang. And you, Hai Jinqi. You—all of you. Are you not my friends?”

The group listened, at first confused and skeptical, then grave and solemn, until smiles appeared and, finally, everyone burst out laughing.

“Indeed! Indeed! To retrieve a friend’s body is the greatest of principles!”

The one-eyed man—Hai Jinqi—laughed until tears welled in his only eye.

Yunqi laughed as well. In his youth, his father had taught him that a gentleman does not stand beneath a crumbling wall; before leaving the mountains, his elders had warned him not to court danger. He had always kept these teachings close. But risking one’s life to recover a friend’s body—this, he realized, was not forbidden by those rules.

Thus the matter was settled.

Only these three from Qili River Market would go; the others lacked the means and would only throw their lives away.

Yunqi left his dog behind at the market—the miasma was too heavy, and the animal, being mortal, would not survive or be of help.

The three packed simply, took their weapons and herbs, and departed straightaway for Rotten Peach Mountain.

—

Rotten Peach Mountain stood on the southwestern border between the Miao lands and the Southern Wilds, spanning two or three hundred li.

Its strangest feature was the endless peach trees that covered its slopes—apart from undergrowth and low grasses, no other trees grew. Such was the dominance of the peach trees.

Some claimed the forest was born of Ancestor Lü’s peachwood sword from the Tang dynasty; others said it was the walking staff of the ancient Kuafu; still others insisted it sprang from celestial peaches that fell from the heavens and took root.

Yet no matter its origin, the peaches here, though fragrant and sweet, possessed no powers of longevity. Few journeyed to these remote orchards to harvest them.

With no one to gather the fruit, and birds and beasts eating only a little, each year the peach trees bore and dropped their fruit by the thousands. Over centuries, the fallen peaches rotted into mud, old and new mingling, their sweet and foul scents intertwined. The damp, hot climate, combined with soaking and sun, eventually bred a potent miasma.

The mud, tainted by the miasma, seeped back into the peach trees, turning the entire forest toxic. Even the fragrance released during the peach blossom season became a deadly poison. The fruit itself transformed into a substance so noxious that even cultivators of the second realm dared not touch the mud, which became infamous as the Peach-Mud Miasma, rendering the place a land of death.

Thus the name “Rotten Peach Mountain.”

Only at the western mouth of the valley did a great river flow past. The river, carrying wind and water, diluted much of the miasma here—life’s breath countering death’s poison. This made the western valley mouth a coveted spot for those from Miao and the Southern Wilds who gathered miasma; every year, when the peach blossoms bloomed, rival factions would clash here for the best position.

Upstream from the western valley, on the Miao side, stood a bridge spanning the river, known as Drunken Jiao Bridge. Legend had it a river dragon, wandering the waters, was bewitched by the intoxicating fragrance wafting from Rotten Peach Mountain, lingered, and transformed into the bridge itself, wishing to remain forever—thus the name.

And so, on this day of bleak wind and cold rain, shadows emerged one by one from the southern forests, gathering at the head of Drunken Jiao Bridge.