Chapter Fifty-One: The Yellow Dog Marks Its Territory

Zhang Daozhen was a man obsessed with immortality, constantly speaking of seeking longevity and practicing the ways of the immortals.

Zhong Ming, however, paid little heed to such notions. The world he yearned for was one of galloping across the martial realm, blade in hand, with beauties by his side, drinking fine wine, and, when bored, teaching lessons to hoodlums and bullies. If ever a cloud of vexation shrouded his heart, he would steal from the rich and give to the poor.

For Zhong Ming, the true essence of the martial world was to act freely, repay kindness and enmity alike without restraint. To become a wandering Taoist like Zhang Daozhen—living on a vegetarian diet, concocting pills, and preaching the Way—would be, in his eyes, a waste of precious years. What use was living to a hundred if it meant such a life?

Clearly, Zhong Ming had no wish to argue further with the old priest. Changing the subject, he said, “This so-called Immortal’s Stone—bewitching minds, intimidating the frontier, and displaying the might of Baiyu Pavilion—is it not simply a way to stake their claim, like a yellow dog marking its territory?”

The mention of “a yellow dog marking its territory” left Zhang Daozhen momentarily stunned, and even Zhang Nianchen, standing behind, wore a look of astonishment.

After a long pause, Zhang Daozhen burst out laughing. “What an apt analogy, Mr. Zhong! Indeed, just like a yellow dog marking its ground, Baiyu Pavilion merely wishes to carve out its domain.”

Zhong Ming forced a smile in response, but found nothing amusing. He had only spoken the plain truth.

Realizing the old priest was trying to dodge the issue with laughter, Zhong Ming decided to be direct. “Master Zhang, your visit to Muddy Village has been most enlightening and you have helped resolve many of my doubts. Yet one question remains unanswered. I would ask you to resolve it for me.”

Zhang Daozhen’s hollow eyes turned toward Zhong Ming, his face wrinkling into a tree-bark smile. He seemed to have expected this. “What troubles you?”

“Master Zhang, how am I to repay the life-saving grace you showed me before the Immortal’s Stone?”

Zhong Ming smiled as he pretended to raise his teacup, but his gaze never left the pair across from him.

At these words, Zhang Daozhen’s smile lingered, though in Zhong Ming’s eyes it had grown somewhat forced. The young Daoist, Zhang Nianchen, seemed nervous. Where moments ago he had struggled to suppress laughter, now his face grew stern and he dropped his eyes, unable to meet Zhong Ming’s gaze.

There are no free meals in this world. Since Zhang Daozhen had gone to such lengths to save Zhong Ming before the Immortal’s Stone, he must surely have his reasons.

The more cordial Zhang Daozhen acted, the more difficult his request was bound to be.

“Mr. Zhong, you are wise and discerning. There is no use in me speaking in circles...” Zhang Daozhen laughed again, but this time the sound grated on Zhong Ming’s ears. After sipping his tea, the old priest tugged at his sleeve and reached out his hand, palm open before Zhong Ming, his voice grave. “I wish to borrow something from you.”

Zhong Ming frowned and glanced at the priest’s dirty hand. “What is it you wish to borrow?”

“Your life.”

As soon as Zhang Daozhen finished, Zhong Ming slammed the table and leapt to his feet, kicking the table and springing back. His inner energy surged, sending the hair at his brow flying.

Though he was without his Yama Blade, Zhong Ming still had a folding redwood knife. With a swift motion, he drew it from his sleeve, the blade ringing as it snapped open. He stood poised, weapon ready, facing the master and disciple with icy vigilance. “Borrow my life? How shameless! I refuse!”

So focused was Zhong Ming on the old priest and his disciple that he failed to notice the surge of his inner energy into the redwood knife, causing the carved characters on the blade to flash with a fleeting crimson light.

Only Zhang Daozhen noticed the brief glimmer. His empty eyes turned to the dagger in Zhong Ming’s hand, and his brows knitted in thought.

Zhong Ming’s kick would have overturned the table, yet Zhang Daozhen merely pressed a finger to its surface and held it steady. This alone proved the old priest’s mastery in martial arts.

Tension filled the room. The young Daoist, Zhang Nianchen, seemed at a loss, and, seeing Zhong Ming enraged, tugged at his master’s sleeve, whispering, “Master, perhaps we shouldn’t borrow his life after all. I feel quite fine as I am.”

The old priest eased his grip on the table and folded his hands within his sleeves, sighing softly.

Zhong Ming, still gripping his knife, roused his inner energies, the two streams rampaging within his dantian, swirling wildly around the wood-element force. Were anyone able to see, they would marvel at the speed, ten times that of an ordinary person.

He had no idea what Zhang Daozhen intended, but the demand to “borrow his life” left Zhong Ming cold.

A man has but one life. If he lent it to Zhang Daozhen, he would be doomed—a fool would agree to that!

He only feared the old priest, living over a hundred years, might resort to force.

After a lengthy standoff, Zhang Daozhen finally spoke. “Mr. Zhong, there’s no need to be so tense. When I say I wish to borrow your life, I mean only to borrow your destiny for a time, not to take your life.”

Even as he said this, the words rang hollow. The young Daoist, Zhang Nianchen, tugged at his master’s sleeve, urging him to stop.

His master had told him before: with his destiny, to survive past eighteen, someone must die in his stead. And it must be done without a trace, so as to deceive the heavens and ensure a carefree future.

To substitute destiny meant someone’s death. The master’s claim that no harm would come was but a comforting lie.

Zhong Ming remained standing, sneering and on guard.

Zhang Daozhen seemed to have lost all intent to kill. With a sigh, he made no movement, but the jade gourd at his waist began to glow. He uncorked it slowly, and two beams of light shot forth and vanished in a blink.

Zhong Ming was startled, feeling only a gust of wind pass before his eyes.

When he came to himself, Zhang Daozhen placed a strand of hair on the table. “Mr. Zhong, if I wished to kill or restrain you, it would require but an instant. Rest assured, I mean you no harm. Will you not sit and talk?”

Seeing the strand of his own hair on the table—plucked, it seemed, by some strange Taoist art—Zhong Ming’s hand tightened on his knife, veins bulging.

For reasons unknown, Zhang Daozhen truly seemed to have abandoned any murderous intent. That had never been his aim.

With no choice but to yield in the face of such power, Zhong Ming clenched his jaw, sheathed his knife, and grudgingly sat once more at the table.

As he sat across from Zhang Daozhen, he nearly ground his teeth to dust.

At that moment, a sense of powerlessness washed over him, worse even than when he had first arrived and been seized by cannibal refugees.

To kill a man’s spirit is worse than to take his life.

Though his hands and feet were his own, his fate was firmly in the old priest’s grasp. His life seemed a gift from the other.

For the first time, a fierce longing surged within Zhong Ming. He wanted to grow stronger, to master the arts of Luanshui Moon and Sweep the Hills, to cleave mountains with a single stroke—not for glory, but simply so that next time, he might stand unbowed before such figures and speak as an equal.

Seeing Zhong Ming sit down, Zhang Daozhen also relaxed. Turning to his disciple, he said, “The tea has grown cold. Brew a fresh pot for Mr. Zhong.”

Zhang Nianchen, relieved that his master would not kill on his behalf, smiled and hurried to comply. “Yes, I’ll make tea for you and Mr. Zhong at once.”

As the young Daoist bustled about, Zhong Ming sat brooding, his gaze dark and uncertain. The old priest, meanwhile, turned away and murmured, “Do not look at what is improper, do not listen to what is improper, do not speak what is improper, do not move as is improper. My Taoist heart is steadfast; Mr. Zhong, you may be at ease.”

These words were strange, as though not meant for Zhong Ming at all.

Meanwhile, in the Li carpenter’s house next door to the Sun family.

Mistress Li cradled her infant in the inner room, with her second son, Li Wangye, playing beside her, trying to amuse his little brother. The eldest, Li Guangling, sat at the table, book of poetry in hand, tense and silent, his eyes fixed on the two figures before him.

Leaning against the table, the carpenter Li carved a block of wood on a long bench. He was sculpting two figures, already taking shape.

Both were clearly Taoists, their faces yet unfinished, but it was clear he was carving Zhang Daozhen and his disciple.

Standing before him was the hunter Hu Su, who carried an abnormally large longbow—over half his own height and much larger than any ordinary bow. It was wrapped in gray hemp, concealing the body, though at the joints one could see the bow was black.

The bowstring was made from unknown, thick sinews, appearing incredibly resilient. Only a person of extraordinary strength could have hoped to draw it.

Hu Su, however, had already drawn it to the full. Though there was no arrow, a black vortex spun rapidly between the string and the bow, like a short arrow nocked and ready to fly.

The vortex was aimed at the wall, and Hu Su’s eyes were as sharp as a falcon’s.

Though he seemed to be aiming at the wall, the arrow’s true path, should it pierce through, would strike Zhang Daozhen in the temple.

This shot was aimed at the old priest’s temple. At such close range, Hu Su was confident he could kill him in a single shot—faster even than the jade gourd’s strange aura from before.

When Zhang Daozhen turned his head, those hollow eyes gazing through the wall at Hu Su, the hunter almost thought the priest was only pretending to be blind.

That peculiar phrase the old priest had spoken was meant for Hu Su—he had sensed he was being watched.

After the priest finished, Hu Su lowered his bow and turned. “Master, the Daoist has noticed me, and even warned us not to eavesdrop. It appears he has no intention to harm Mr. Zhong.”

The carpenter paused in his carving, blowing away the sawdust. He had not yet finished the faces.

“That’s for the best—let us avoid trouble,” he said, his tense expression easing as he glanced at the stack of wood scraps in the corner. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the half-carved figures onto the pile.

“Hu Su, bring the board—let’s play a game. It’s been too long since we last did.”

“Yes, sir!” Hu Su set aside his bow and went to fetch the board.

Seeing his father smile, Li Guangling smiled too, and turned back to his book, rocking as he recited poetry.

In the thatched cottage, the sound of reading rang out. A carpenter and a hunter enjoyed a quiet game together.

...

Back at old Sun’s house.

Zhang Nianchen had finished brewing a fresh pot of tea, bringing steaming cups to his master and Zhong Ming.

Zhang Daozhen turned away from watching the carpenter’s house and took up his teacup. “Mr. Zhong, let us return to the matter of borrowing your life. I promise your safety and will also help you avert the great calamity that lies ahead.”

Zhong Ming remained unmoved, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched so hard his gums bled.

With a sigh, Zhang Daozhen continued, “The coming disaster, Mr. Zhong, you may not yet know of it. Allow me to inform you—it will strike tonight. If I do nothing, more than half the hundred souls of Muddy Village will perish.”

At these words, Zhong Ming’s head shot up, his eyes blazing with fury. “What calamity?”