Dragon Vein Storyteller

In the shadows of the southeast corner of the lobby, a person was huddled up.

The first thing I noticed was his mouth… His tongue had been cut off, his chin was covered in dried scabs, his lips were cracked and peeling white, and he could only gasp for breath with his mouth open, each breath accompanied by a wheezing, bellows-like sound from his throat. He was covered in blood; his right arm was gone from the shoulder down, the wound charred by fire, the flesh rolled up like rotten cotton, layer upon layer of dark red scabs forming. In his left hand, he clutched half a dry biscuit tightly, the biscuit as hard as a rock, covered in teeth marks, as if he had tried to bite it hundreds of times without success. His eyes were fixed on the torch in my hand, without fear or hatred, only a desperate, almost unbearable despair… like a fish dying of thirst staring at its last drop of water.

He didn't look like some kind of expert or important figure.

But his life was tragic!

That resentment was more terrifying than the combined killing intent of all the masters.

The group closest to the entrance was dressed in tattered khakis, with shovels, crowbars, and iron shovels at their waists… they were tomb raiders. They glanced up at us, their eyes sweeping over the shovel in my hand and the one on Sanjin's shoulder before lowering them again, as if to say: Oh, another group of fellow tomb raiders. One of them, an old man squatting at the very edge, leaned on a flat shovel, his lips twitching slightly, as if calculating what we were carrying that could be stolen. Behind him squatted seven or eight men, all clutching weapons—some with iron shovels, others with short-handled hammers. A tall, thin man twirled a half-sharpened crowbar, its tip sharpened like an awl, gleaming coldly in the night-shining pearl.

Not far from the corner on the left, three monks sat cross-legged. They wore gray robes and sandalwood prayer beads around their necks. The eldest monk, a gaunt old man, had a kind and benevolent face. He closed his eyes, twirling the prayer beads and muttering incantations, a faint smile playing on his lips, as if he were smiling for someone else. Behind him sat two middle-aged monks, robust in build, with veins as thick as earthworms on the backs of their hands. One had his fists clenched on his knees, his knuckles calloused from practicing external martial arts; the other had one hand raised to his chest, the other hidden under his robe, occasionally gleaming with a metallic sheen. Behind the three monks were seven or eight people, all with emaciated faces, lips deathly pale, their eyes fixed on the water jug ​​like those of animals dying of thirst.

To the right, a group of people lay scattered in the distance, dressed in a haphazard manner, clearly a motley crew of all sorts of江湖 (jianghu, the martial arts world) figures. Leading them was a middle-aged man in a black short jacket, a scabbard of hidden weapons and a short knife at his waist. He sat on the ground with a menacing air, appearing to be a forthright and generous figure… but his generosity was too much, like something out of a theatrical performance. Beside him sat a thin man wielding a sword, repeatedly polishing the blade with the corner of his robe. Each time he polished, a silver needle would slip from his sleeve, be twirled between his fingers, and then be slipped back into the sleeve—clearly a ruthless character who concealed his wealth. Behind them sat fifteen or sixteen people, some sharpening knives, some picking their nails with daggers, and some simply staring blankly at us, their eyes devoid of fear, filled only with hunger. This hunger wasn't the hunger of a stomach, but the hunger of someone about to kill and plunder, the look of wolves surrounding a lone lamb.

A few lone travelers lingered in the corner. An old Taoist priest sat cross-legged on a protruding stone slab, his whisk resting on his lap, his robe stained with dried blood, whether his own or someone else's, was unclear. An old woman in hemp clothing huddled in a corner, clutching a wooden staff wrapped in black thread, her lips trembling incessantly, as if talking to someone, or perhaps counting. A one-eyed giant sat cross-legged on the ground, a large, ghost-headed sword lying across his lap, its back inlaid with seven copper rings that jingled sharply with each swing, a particularly jarring sound in the deathly silent hall.

As I surveyed the scene, Baldy Liao and Crippled Feng began to count in hushed tones. Baldy Liao took a step forward, squinted at the monks, his expression changed, and his voice was extremely low: "Master Liaoyuan. That old man is Liaoyuan. The two next to him are Huinan and Huijue. These three old bald monks used to run a ritual altar in Beiman Mountain, specializing in performing rituals for the deceased at large tombs. To put it bluntly, they would perform the rituals first and then plunder the victims. I heard they were very ruthless. Huinan practices the Tiger-Taming Arhat Fist; one punch can shatter a tombstone. Don't go head-to-head with him. Huijue hides a Vajra in his sleeve, a short-handled one, specifically for striking people's temples; one strike leaves a dent."

Feng the Cripple nodded, tilting his chin to the right: "That one over there is Zhao Ming. Known in the martial world as the righteous and loyal Fifth Master Zhao. The one next to him with the sword is Yan Kuan, his sworn brother, the eighth in his family." He paused, his voice lowering further, "These two have been operating in western Sichuan for many years, and have dozens of lives on their hands. Zhao Ming's swordsmanship is eclectic, unpredictable, but he always strikes only vital points. Yan Kuan is even more cunning; he openly uses a sword, but secretly uses poisoned silver needles. The fifteen men behind him are all desperate criminals who follow him to beg for food; some are old bandits from the Sichuan salt route, ruthless killers."

Sanjin didn't say anything, but simply switched the shovel to his left hand, freeing his right hand, ready to grab the other half of the broken earthworm claw from his waist at any moment.

I mentally went through all those names and was about to walk inside when my gaze was suddenly drawn to someone in the corner.

The man sat at the far end of the hall, leaning against the cold stone wall, holding someone in his arms. He wore a gray-white Taoist robe, stained with dried blood, some parts blackened, others slightly flushed. His hair was disheveled, and his face was covered in blood, obscuring his features, but I saw the token hanging at his waist… square and neatly engraved with the Five Thunder Talisman of the Celestial Master's Mansion.

"Senior brother?"

The two words popped out of my mouth, much louder than I expected, echoing around the lobby several times. Everyone turned to look at me, even Liao Yuan, who had been silently fiddling with his prayer beads, lifted his eyelids slightly, his cloudy eyes glancing at my face before slowly closing again.

Zhang Linghe looked up. The moment he saw me, a faint smile appeared on his blood-stained face, and his lips moved as if he were calling my name, but no sound came out.

I rushed over in a few strides. The little chick ran after me, and the wet mud in my arms almost fell out, but I caught it and stuffed it back in.

As he drew closer, I realized that Zhang Linghe wasn't carrying any luggage, but a person. Chen Dong. Also a disciple of the Celestial Master's Mansion. His face was deathly pale, devoid of any life. The front of his Taoist robe was stained crimson, clearly indicating severe internal injuries. Blood was still seeping from his mouth. His eyes were still slightly open, the pupils already dilated, the whites of his eyes filled with fine blood vessels. With each cough, blood gushed from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin onto his robe, the blood so pale it was almost transparent… He was almost completely drained of blood.

"Senior brother, when did this happen?" I squatted down and reached out to feel Chen Dong's pulse. It was ice-cold to the touch, and the pulse was so thin that I could hardly feel it, as if it was about to break at any moment.

"An hour ago... I was attacked by Zhao Ming's men." Zhang Linghe's voice was hoarse, and his lips were bleeding. "He said he wanted to join forces with us to find the mechanism, but when we weren't paying attention, he stabbed Dong Ge in the back. I carried him back here... back to this corner, but they blocked the way, and we can't get out."

As he spoke, he glanced down at Chen Dong in his arms, his voice trembling, "He can't hold on much longer."

The little chick pulled a dark, grimy thing from his pocket—half a lump of wet mud left over from sealing Cui Dake's soul—and carefully handed it to Zhang Linghe: "Put it on... on him." His little face was full of seriousness, as if he were doing something that could save a life.

Zhang Linghe paused for a moment, glanced at the chick, and there was something indescribable in his eyes.

The child's intentions were good. Mud can mend a soul, but it cannot mend entrails pierced by a sword.

"Little chick," my voice was hoarse, "this can't save him."

He paused for a moment, then obediently put the wet mud back in his arms and lowered his head.