Chapter One Hundred: Peng Meng, the Great Shaman of the Witch Tribe, Is Here

Nanluo did not know whether he ought to regret or to hate, yet either remorse or resentment were futile. Since Beiling had departed, he had fought desperately to break free from the Taiyin Stele. Yet the Taiyin Stele seemed to have fused utterly with his soul and spirit, joined to everything but his physical body. If he could cast aside half his soul to escape, he would not hesitate; just as Beiling said upon leaving, Dijun’s ambition was vast and his schemes deep—how could he allow anyone caught in his web even the slightest chance of escape?

The little red bird called Yaoyao had not seen her lord, Beiling, for quite some time. In days past, she would always bathe in the spirit lake beneath the moonlight, slaughtering any who trespassed by chance, turning the lake’s surroundings into a forbidden zone. Though on Nanluo's first day, Beiling assembled everyone and declared Nanluo their king, true fear remained with Beiling; even now, upon seeing Beiling, all still addressed him as lord. Yet since Nanluo had fulfilled his promise and taught her a cultivation formula, Nanluo's image soared in her heart.

Nanluo had only given her a formula; he never asked her to serve as a child attendant in the Spirit Cavern, nor could she, being a bird, ever do so. Thus, after receiving the formula, she hid in her nest with the little blue bird to cultivate together. Today, feeling she had made progress, she emerged for a stroll. Soaring through the mountains, she felt wonderfully confident; in her mind, those who had once scorned or ignored her now burned with envy upon seeing her. Growing ever more proud, her fiery wings beat the air with increasing leisure, her cries ringing crisp and clear.

Suddenly, she spotted a magpie flitting furtively through the woods. She sensed its sneaky movements, though this was merely her own impression. The mountain harbored many spirit birds, so a magpie was hardly unusual. The key was that she recognized this magpie. Once, Yaoyao had competed with it to see who flew faster and whose call was louder—each had their victories, but Yaoyao had been left uneasy. Yet this was not the main point: the magpie did not belong to this mountain, not to the Spiritfall Mountain’s monsters, but rather to Burial Soul Mountain, home of the Golden Sand King whom Nanluo had slain with a single sword.

“What’s she doing here, sneaking about? Clearly up to no good.” She prepared to confront and drive the magpie away, when she saw a five-colored auspicious cloud approaching from afar. The cloud flew slowly but steadily, exuding an air of immortality. Yaoyao immediately flew to greet it, for atop the cloud stood a woman in a sky-blue gown, her hair coiled high, unadorned by any ornament.

Were it any other woman, Yaoyao might have avoided her, lest she offend someone and court trouble. But this woman was different; it was thanks to her that Yaoyao had received her cultivation formula.

The newcomer was, of course, Quan Yin. It had been over a decade since Nanluo had rescued her brother, Quan Shi, and led her to safety. Though whenever she recalled, in the quiet of night, how she had appeared unclothed before Nanluo in Spiritfall Cavern, her cheeks burned and her heart raced, she had never thought to return to the mountain—until now, when necessity forced her hand. She had cultivated diligently, but effort alone could not solve everything; diligence was merely the foundation.

She had a niece, Quan Shi’s daughter, endowed with beauty and sweetness. For reasons unknown, a passing Wu tribesman took a fancy to her, demanding her hand in marriage. The niece wept and refused, and Quan Yin gently declined, citing her niece’s youth. The tribesman merely smiled and said nothing, but suddenly struck out with a fist. Though Quan Yin, after ten years of bitter cultivation under Nanluo’s tutelage, had reached the realm of Returning to Void, she was no match for the Wu tribesman; his blow sent her flying, wounding her organs and causing her to cough blood.

Her niece immediately sobbed, agreeing to marry the Wu tribesman. Yet Quan Yin, for some reason, suddenly claimed that an elder was secluded in her mountain, and that her niece’s marriage was not hers to decide, as the girl was soon to go to the mountain elder for cultivation. The Wu tribesman laughed loudly: “Go to your mountain then, tell them that Wu Grand Shaman Peng Meng is here. He’ll surely be more decisive than you lot. I’ll wait here one day; if you don’t return, I’ll take her away!”

Yaoyao’s keen eyes immediately noticed Quan Yin’s troubled expression. She led the way, boasting of her lord’s extraordinary powers, promising that any difficulty would be swiftly resolved if Nanluo intervened. Quan Yin listened, regretful for her impulsive claim. If the Golden Sand King had been a boulder weighing upon the Mist Dawn tribe, then the Wu tribe was a mountain, and their Grand Shaman was the greatest peak of all. Unlike the Golden Sand King—victory or not—one could not afford to offend them, for above the Grand Shaman loomed the Ancestor Wu.

Quan Yin pondered this all the way, growing more regretful, thinking she should have steeled herself and let her niece go. Yaoyao, meanwhile, stopped outside Spiritfall Cavern, not entering with Quan Yin—a clever precaution, for she never involved herself in matters that might bring trouble.

Upon reentering Spiritfall Cavern, Quan Yin’s feelings were complicated. She gazed at the unchanged furnishings from a decade before, and at Nanluo seated upon the jade bed, her heart beating faster for no reason. Nanluo’s voice sounded from the void: “Heh, your cultivation has reached the stage of refining spirit and returning to void; such rapid progress must mean you’ve worked hard. Judging by your troubled face, has your tribe encountered some difficulty?”

Quan Yin looked at Nanluo, unmoving upon the jade bed. Hearing his voice from the void, she wondered if he was practicing some arcane art, and thus briefly explained the Wu tribe’s forced marriage. Silence reigned; Nanluo did not respond at once. Quan Yin assumed he too was wary of the Wu tribe and was about to say her niece had already agreed to the marriage, when Nanluo’s voice sounded again, now tinged with a chill rather than its former warmth.

“Did the Wu tribesman attack you? Tell me every detail.”

Quan Yin paused, then recounted the events in full. Silence filled the void for a moment.

“I made a mistake in my cultivation; I cannot leave here to meet Peng Meng…”

Hearing this, Quan Yin was swept by mingled relief and disappointment—relief that Nanluo could not go, and so would not risk offending the Wu Grand Shaman and endanger his life; disappointment that upon hearing the Grand Shaman’s name, Nanluo had found a reason not to go.

“However, you may deliver a message to Peng Meng: say that Nanluo of the human race is here.”

Nanluo’s words stirred Quan Yin deeply; though the voice was not loud, it carried the same unwavering resolve as ten years ago, when he promised to accompany her to confront the Golden Sand King for her brother’s sake. There seemed to be an unshakable confidence within, making Quan Yin unsure whether to believe him, given the Grand Shaman’s fearsome reputation.

After saying a few more things, since Peng Meng had promised to wait a day, Quan Yin departed, riding the five-colored cloud Nanluo had specially crafted for her, returning anxiously to the Mist Dawn tribe.

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