Promise and Betrayal: A Mo Dao Zu Shi (the Untamed) Story

Chapter 16

Our plan's next step is interrupted by a report from a cultivator. He enters the tent, his face grave. "Clan Leaders, heirs," he says, bowing to us, "the scouts have reports of a trail of wicked energy. It leads to Wen Chao's residence."

We exchange looks, not sure what to make of the news. "From him?" Clan Leader Jin asks.

"They are not sure, Clan Leader," the cultivator replies. "The clan can't be determined from the energy. Only that it is there, but we haven't felt it anyplace else we've visited in Qishan."

"If it hasn't been seen in Qishan before, there's a possibility it isn't the Wen Clan," says Clan Leader Nie. "Which means whoever or whatever it is may not belong to the Wen Clan."

"That may mean they're on our side," Jiang Cheng says.

"We cannot be sure," Clan Leader Lan says. He turns to us, the four heirs. "You four, go investigate. Take a small escort with you, if you wish." We nod, looking at the messenger. He beckons for us to follow him. None of us take an entourage--this first mission is purely reconnaissance. With luck, no force will be needed.

The sun sinks low in the sky as the messenger, accompanied by two other scouts, leads us to a compound. Its gate is unhinged, and talismans dot the wall and flutter in the wind. As the last shafts of sunlight disappear below the horizon, a wave of potent wicked energy washes over me. I stumble back a bit, the force of it overwhelming. Nothing from the Wen Clan has ever felt as intense as this.

The others feel it too: Lan Zhan's eyes narrow, Jiang Cheng chokes, and Jin Zuxian blinks away watery eyes. I shake my head to clear it, taking a step, only to find Lan Zhan's sword blocking my way. I look curiously at him. "Wait," he says. Closing his eyes, he brings his hands close to his chest, drawing energy from within, then releases it with an outward thrust of his hands. A line of shimmering white light leaps from his outstretched hands, briefly lighting up the scene. I blink, and the light disappears. Lan Zhan nods. "It is free of traps," he says. "We may safely continue."

I resume my passage, cautiously scanning the grounds. Something crunches beneath my feet. I stop, realizing it is a limb. I peer at the ground, detecting the outline of a body. I squat to examine it more closely: the man bled from his nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. His face is frozen in a scream, and deep gashes mar his wrists.

Another body lays close, this one's head submerged in water. I lift it, observing the same phenomenon. He bled from his nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. Yet his wrists are unmarked. I move to another, similar bleeding pattern, yet this man's sword sticks out from his chest, his hands grasped around the hilt as if he thrust it in himself.

"They have all died of different causes," I shout to the others. "Yet they all bleed from every the hole in their head."

"They have all taken their own lives," Lan Zhan calls out, standing in the center of the courtyard, staring intently into one of the rooms. Colorful fabric ripples inside, but I cannot see the scene from my vantage point. I straighten, picking my way to where he stands. As I follow his gaze, I see Wen Chao's lover, the woman many called a whore, swinging from the ceiling. She appeared to have strangled herself with her own silk, the red, pink and black of the Wen Clan unforgivingly circling her neck.

"If the wicked energy resides here," I say, "and its source is what caused this, they are not on the Wen Clan's side."

Lan Zhan glances at me. "They may not be on ours either," he says, his robes rippling in the breeze. "We must proceed with caution."

I resume scanning the bodies, but I find the same pattern: suicides, all bleeding from every hole in their head. Their manner of suicide is seemingly random. Who or whatever caused this has a powerful resentful energy and clearly dislikes the Wen Clan enough to massacre the entirety of those stationed here, Wen Chao's lover included. The only strange thing is that we find no trace of Wen Chao himself. He may have escaped alive. Before I can voice my suspicions, however, I see Jiang Cheng beckon Lan Zhan over. I follow.

"This talisman," Jiang Cheng says. "It also has a wicked energy. But it's a spirit ward, isn't it?"

Lan Zhan studies the paper. He narrows his eyes, then returns to the talisman to the wall. "It is a reversed talisman," he says. "Its original purpose has been altered. It is a spirit lure, made with evil magic." He flips the fabric of his sleeve, turning away in distaste.

I gather the others, explaining my idea that Wen Chao may still be alive because his body is not with the others'.

"We should find him," Jiang Cheng says. "He will know what happened here."

"We follow the energy trail," Lan Zhan says. "They may lead to the same place."

The scouts wait at the entrance, their expressions somber. We tell them of the massacre, then ask them to relay the message to the council. We will find the culprit. Once they have gone, we gather around Lan Zhan. He repeats the ritual he performed before we entered the compound. A brief flash of white light blinds us, swiftly followed by darkness. "That way," says Lan Zhan, pointing to our right, down a branch-off of the main path.

He leads, stopping every so often to make sure we are following the correct trail. We reach an inn, a graceful structure on the intersection of two roads. Ours is one of them. Another wave of wicked energy hits us, and we know that we are in the correct place. Jiang Cheng and Jin Zuxian make for the front door, but Lan Zhan and I stop them. I shake my head at them. Lan Zhan points at the roof, and I nod in understanding. We fly up to the roof, landing softly on the tiles. Jiang Cheng follows, leaving Jin Zuxian behind on the road to stand guard.

We find a level area. Lan Zhan brings his hands together, writes something in the air, and presses the shining characters into the roof tiles. A shimmering window appears before us, humming with energy. We gather around it.

Below us lies a room, a room containing two figures. One is covered in a hood, quivering with madness or hysteria. The other is Wen Zhuliu, the Core-Melting Hand. He lays his hands on the shoulders of the quivering figure, murmuring something to them. He presses a bowl of liquid to the other's mouth, but the quivering figure spits it out. In Wen Chao's voice, it spits, "Why do you give me this? Take me to Wen Qing! She will fix this!"

"Young Master Wen," Wen Zhuliu replies, "we are on our way to her right now, but we cannot travel at night. It is too dangerous. Drink the medicine, it will help with the pain." Wen Chao scoffs, but quaffs the liquid anyway. He draws his hood up further over his face, back to quivering.

We glance at each other. Lan Zhan was right: following the dark energy brought us to the survivors, which must mean that the source of the energy is here as well.

We look back down as Wen Chao yells something, throwing back his hood. "You think I will live the rest of my life as this?" He gestures to his head, bald and grotesquely misshapen. Welts cover its surface, many open and seeping blood and pus.

Just as Wen Zhuliu opens his mouth to respond, the sound of a flute floats over the rooftops. It is a haunting melody, echoing of graveyards and vales, shadows and spirits. Lan Zhan whips his hands around again, encasing us in a bubble. The shimmering barrier lets the sound through, he explains softly, but it nullifies any effects it may have.

Wen Chao cries out when the flute plays, pressing his hands over his ears and screwing his eyes shut. He screams, then pleads. "No, not the flute, please, not the flute, anything but the flute," he slurs, continuing in that fashion until he is reduced to hysterical tears. Wen Zhuliu stands, gripping his sword. He turns abruptly, facing something or someone in the doorway, hidden from our view. His expression tightens. The flute continues to play, clearer now, as if the musician is closer.

Wen Zhuliu takes a step toward the door, but the flute music changes, and he is restrained, faint black smoke curling around him in spiritual shackles. The flute becomes clearer and clearer, until it sounds like we are standing right next to it. The next moment, the player steps into our field of vision.

I cannot stop myself from gasping. I cover my mouth in shock, scarcely willing to believe my eyes. Lan Zhan blinks in surprise, his gaze flashing with anger and a swiftly concealed glint of hurt. Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes, his face flickering through a mixture of fury, surprise, and suspicion.

For, standing below us, clad in flowing black silk, a bamboo flute held to his lips, is Wei Ying.