Dragon Vein Storyteller

I clenched my fists. There's a story behind Zhang Linghe and me. Years ago, the Celestial Master went south to select disciples, and he chose me by the Wei River. How old was I then? I can't remember, only that my Taoist robe looked like a sail on my shoulders, the sleeves rolled up three times and the trousers rolled up five times. Later, because of a bunch of family troubles, I couldn't go to the Celestial Master's Mansion. Later still, I became a grave robber, and the Celestial Master crossed me off the list, saying only one sentence… "It's fate, let it be." But Zhang Linghe never treated me like an outsider. Every time we met on the path, he would call me "Junior Brother," as if we were family. Back then by the Wei River, he was the one who held my hand, showed me his swordplay and his palm strike, saying, "Our master's hands are ruthless, don't be scared away!"

I am his junior brother who hasn't officially joined his school. He is my senior brother who hasn't officially joined my school.

There's only one person.

"Where's the medicine? Does anyone have any wound medicine?" I shouted as I turned around.

No one answered. The lobby was silent for a moment, broken only by a few cold laughs.

"Healing medicine?" Zhao Ming's lazy voice drifted over from afar. He was playing with the red tassel on the hilt of his knife, from which hung a polished wolf fang, its tip still stained with dark dirt. "In the place, water is more valuable than healing medicine."

Master Liaoyuan did not open his eyes, but his fingers, which were twirling the prayer beads, inadvertently stopped on the ninth bead.

I gritted my teeth, about to speak, when a very faint metallic scraping sound came from behind me. It wasn't the clash of weapons, but the sound of a kettle lid being unscrewed. The sound was extremely soft and subtle, but in the deathly silent hall, it was like a needle dropping into an iron basin, making everyone's ears prick up.

I turned around.

The little chick had somehow crouched down next to Chen Dong and pulled a water jug ​​from his bag. He unscrewed the lid, held the jug in his little hands, and carefully handed it to Zhang Linghe. His expression was normal, as if he were doing something perfectly natural. The water shimmered at the spout, and the cool, sweet steam dissipated in the stenchy air.

"Give...give him some."

Before the words had even finished, the atmosphere in the entire hall changed completely. The monk Liaoyuan, who had been silently twirling his prayer beads with his eyes closed, suddenly opened his eyes… He wasn't looking at me, nor at the chicks, but at the pot of water. A glint of light flashed in his cloudy eyes, and the compassionate smile on his lips hadn't faded, but the greed in his eyes was now impossible to conceal. The prayer beads in his hand stopped at the ninth bead, his thumb gently rubbing the surface of the bead, as if calculating when to crush it. Behind him, the monk Huinan clenched his fists, the veins on the back of his hands bulging, the calluses on his knuckles gleaming a deathly white under the cold light of the luminous pearl; the monk Huijue's hidden right hand moved slightly, revealing half an inch of a copper handle from under his robe—the short handle of a vajra, the head still bearing dark brown old marks. The seven or eight starving people behind the three monks had their eyes green with rage. Some of them had their Adam's apples bobbing up and down, and they made dry, hoarse "hoarse" sounds, like a pack of wild dogs that hadn't eaten for three days.

The man on the right, Zhao Ming, with his burly face and swaggering posture… just moments ago he looked like a chivalrous江湖豪客 (jianghu haoke, a term referring to a chivalrous and unrestrained figure in the martial arts world), but now all that chivalry was gone, replaced by a cold, murderous gaze fixed on the water jug. His fingers tapped lightly on the hilt of his knife, the red tassel swaying in the darkness, the wolf fang hanging from it, dangling like a real wolf baring its fang at its prey. His gaze wasn't one of fighting for water, but rather one of placing a bet, observing, waiting… waiting for a legitimate reason to kill, waiting for an opportunity to seize the "sacrifice qualification." The fifteen desperados behind him simultaneously stopped what they were doing… the one sharpening his knife stopped the whetstone, the one wiping his sword stopped the hem of his garment, even the one clipping his nails held his dagger in mid-air. Yan Kuan, standing next to him, stopped wiping his sword. His thin face was expressionless, but silver light was already swirling between his fingers in his sleeve. A silver needle was being twirled rapidly, its tip flashing in the cold light, as if counting heartbeats.

The one-eyed giant lifted his broadsword from his lap, the seven copper rings clanging crisply as they spun around in the deathly silent hall before bouncing back. The old Taoist priest in the corner opened his eyes, his whisk sliding from his knees to his hand, the whisk strands standing on end like the tail of a silver fox that had caught the scent of blood. The old woman stopped trembling; she gripped her black wooden cane tightly, and her lips ceased their trembling… she was smiling. Her missing front tooth parted, revealing dark red gums, a smile more chilling than a grimace.

The moment I saw that look in their eyes, a chill ran down my spine. It felt like a cold hand had suddenly clenched my heart, and an indescribable nausea rose in my stomach… not from hunger, but from fear. I wasn't afraid of their martial arts skills, nor of the gleaming swords in their hands, but of the light in their eyes. It was greed for a pot of water, a desperate desire to survive, the fangs revealed after the last vestige of humanity had been torn away. I'd seen that light before. The girl at the mass grave had looked at me with the same light. It wasn't hatred; it was the animalistic instinct of someone driven to desperation, having abandoned morality and conscience, leaving only the word "live."

This group wasn't just pitiful victims trapped here; they were wolves. A pack of wolves, trapped in this death row for who knows how many days, their water and rations nearly exhausted. Each one was eyeing the supplies on the others, waiting for the first to strike… then they would swarm, tear their prey to shreds, and then tear each other apart. The last one standing would be the winner. The little chick didn't understand any of this; he only knew that Chen Dong was dying and that he needed to give water to the dying man. But he didn't know that showing off a water bottle in this place was like throwing a piece of fat meat into a pack of hyenas.

"Baldy, move the chicks back." I lowered my voice, squeezing the words out between my teeth.

Without a word, Baldy Liao grabbed the little chick by the back of the neck and dragged him toward the stone wall. The little chick, still confused, clung to the water bottle and cried out, "He hasn't drunk any yet..." Baldy Liao slapped him in the mouth, tucked him under his arm, and pressed him against the stone wall.

"Three jin." I looked at Three jin.

Sanjin had already torn the severed half of the earthworm's claw from his waist and was holding it in his left hand. The tip of the claw was still stained with silvery-gray blood, from when he broke it off from the earthworm in the tunnel. The claw tip had barbs, and a single swipe could tear through its scales. He held a shovel in his right hand, the shovel blade angled in front of him, his feet slightly apart, the soles of his feet pressing firmly on the bluestone slab, his knees slightly bent, his center of gravity low. He didn't say a word, but all the muscles in his body were taut like iron plates. With him blocking this door, three or five strong men couldn't rush in.

Feng the Cripple had somehow managed to turn his walking stick sideways. That old jujube wood stick had been with him for decades, its head wrapped in a copper band, covered in dents and scratches. He limped a step into the gap between me and Sanjin, his left hand on the stick, his right hand gripping the end, the tip slightly upturned, facing the densest part of the crowd. He squinted, the space between his lips and his pipe empty… the pipe had fallen out while they were crawling through the hole… but his lips still held the curved shape of a pipe, slightly turned outwards, as if he were smiling, or perhaps cursing.

"Did I give you face?" Feng the Cripple's voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to be ground out from between his teeth, carrying the shrewdness of a jujube wood cane. "If anyone takes another step forward, I'll crack their skull with this cane."