Chapter Fifty-Two: When Peach Blossoms Bloom, the Air Is Thick with Blood

“Someone! Someone, come quickly!”

“Healer! Alchemist!”

“Everyone, come!”

…

A sudden chorus of shouts rang out through the rain. Something had happened! All work was abandoned at once; Yunqi stopped his sword practice and, following the voices, hurried toward the commotion.

Through the shifting silhouettes of trees and the curtain of rain, one could just make out a group rushing in from the south. A chill sank into everyone’s heart.

These people were stumbling and crawling, their bodies marked with blood; some carried others on their backs. Two mounts ran ahead—it was hard to miss them, each the size of a water buffalo. Yunqi recognized them: a tiger named Huang Ying and a blue wolf called White Tail. Both were owned by long-term residents of the market town. But now their wounds were so deep the bone was visible, as if all their blood had drained away, and no one rode them. Their backs were crudely lashed with rope, carrying what seemed—what seemed to be a heap of corpses…

And there should have been more who left five days ago; there was also the Tiger-Striped one, a massive mountain python…

Yunqi had been practicing his sword downstream by the river only moments before, but now, using his footwork, he was already at the forefront of those running to meet the arrivals.

“Master Cheng!”

Someone spotted Yunqi, relief washing over their face as they recognized who had come. At once, they collapsed to the ground, and as if this were a signal, the others too lost their strength. The two mounts as well, fell where they stood, the bodies on their backs scattering lifelessly.

“Quick, get them inside! I’ll check if there are pursuers!”

Yunqi, sprinting ahead, shouted loudly, stepping over wounded and dead alike, and pressed onward. White Dog, without need for command, ran parallel to Yunqi, ears pricked high, searching the direction from which the group had come.

Mid-stride, Yunqi gathered himself and leaped four or five lengths into the air. “Dragon Carriage” appeared beneath his feet, lifting him skyward as he scanned the surroundings.

He searched twenty or thirty miles out but saw no sign of pursuit. Yunqi understood—if those people hadn’t been sure they’d shaken off their pursuers, they never would’ve returned to the market. He was only being cautious.

The rain would soon wash away the bloodstains on the ground, erasing all traces.

White Dog barked a few times below, signaling the absence of enemies and pointing out something else. Upon inspection, Yunqi found that, in their haste, some had lost shoes and armor. He picked up the scattered items, called the dog, and returned to the market.

He hurried to the largest shelter in the market—a tent or, rather, a great pavilion made by joining tree crowns together with wood and straw mats, creating a vast roof.

The air inside reeked of blood and medicine. A row of bodies lay on the ground—Yunqi knew these were the dead, but he hadn’t expected so many. A rough count revealed over twenty! And there were only about a hundred permanent residents in the Seven Mile River Market.

At a glance, Yunqi’s steps suddenly faltered. He stared, wide-eyed, at one of the bodies.

It was a young man with a head of thick red hair, which ought to have been wild and unruly like a bird’s nest, but now, soaked by rain, it clung to his face in sticky strands.

“Brother Lang…”

It was Hu Jinliu!

The youth who had once greeted Yunqi in the snow now lay here, cold and lifeless!

Yunqi could hardly believe it.

Ever since he’d heard—he didn’t even remember from where—that Yunqi had set up a stall at Seven Mile River Market, this young man would always come looking for him after returning from the front lines. He spent more time at Seven Mile River than at his own assigned West River Market. He knew Yunqi liked to collect fine gold ore, so he would always bring him small pieces he’d seized at the front.

He was endlessly talkative, always recounting stories from the front lines. Yunqi would listen with a smile, and when the young man left, Yunqi would always tuck a few talisman papers or talisman arrows into his hands.

But now, this fiery youth lay cold upon the ground.

“This time, it wasn’t just our marketfolk who were caught. People from every clan, every stronghold, every market were involved. When we escaped, we did so together, but chaos broke us apart, and so we threw together whatever groups we could.”

A few wounded could still speak. Seeing Yunqi standing dumbstruck before Hu Jinliu’s body, one explained.

“Where’s Old Man Langshan?” Yunqi asked quietly.

The man shook his head. “He was wounded and, in the confusion, ended up with another group. I don’t know if he made it out.”

“How did it come to this?” Yunqi pressed.

The man glanced around the pavilion; most everyone was present, so he spoke.

“It was at Rotten Peach Mountain—cough, cough!” The man was injured internally, his speech halting. He glanced at Yunqi, realizing he was an outsider, and explained further.

“The peach blossoms are about to bloom. The miasma from Rotten Peach Mountain’s peach blossoms is the finest there is. Both our Red Wood Ridge and their Hundred Barbarians Mountain have secret arts for refining miasma, but though the peach blossom miasma is precious, the peach-mud miasma there is deadly poison. None of us first-realmers dare even breathe it, and even those of the second realm dare not trifle with it.

“Only the western valley entrance is safe—the Peach Blossom River runs there, the living water and river wind thin out the peach-mud miasma. That’s our only spot to harvest the blossom miasma. Each year, the two sides fight over harvesting spots, and this year, with the war, it’s even bloodier—cough, cough!”

“But there have always been rules to these contests for the miasma. If you can’t win, you withdraw. How could so many die, fleeing for their lives like this?” someone asked. It was the one-armed man who had critiqued Yunqi’s swordplay earlier. He specialized in weapons, not the miasma arts, so he hadn’t gone to Rotten Peach Mountain.

“There were too many twists!” The man, though burly, now wept. “Never before has there been rain like this in spring! The downpour brought flash floods, churned up the peach-mud below ground, and swept it out the valley. The flood carried the peach-mud miasma out with it! The rain suppressed its potency, but it was still deadly. We all suffered—some went blind, some fainted, some vomited until their lungs nearly came out. Those directly in the low-lying valley mouth died on the spot!”

“And these sword wounds?” someone asked, pointing at their injuries.

Those who escaped flushed red with anger.

“It was the people from Western Shu! We had no idea when they arrived. When the peach-mud miasma burst out, we wanted to flee at once. Both our people and those from Hundred Barbarians Mountain knew how deadly it was—no one would fight at a time like that.

“But just then, a group of Daoists burst in. Not from Miao Country, not from the Southern Wilds—you could tell by their clothes, they were from Western Shu. They went straight for the Hundred Barbarians Mountain side. Caught off guard, those people fought back, cursing us Miao folk for ambushing them. We’d always had an agreement: when miasma overflowed, everyone would escape and not fight. They accused us of breaking our ancestors’ rules.

“Of course we said they were mad, told them to make the Western Shu madmen stop, and warned them to flee before the peach-mud miasma spread further. But those lunatics claimed we had allied with the demon sects and wanted to kill us too!”

“Madmen! Bastards!” curses erupted in the pavilion, while Yunqi narrowed his eyes, a cold glint hidden within.

“How many of them were there, to slaughter both sides like this?” someone asked.

The man shook his head in pain. “Not many came. But the leader was a woman wielding a crimson flying sword. I don’t know what treasure that sword was, but even the miasma wouldn’t go near it. She moved through the poisonous fog unscathed, and with that sword, she cut us down like weeds.”