15 Two Dreams (2)

In her dream, Ti Ying was terribly anxious.

But her anxiety did not last long, for soon she saw the dream-version of herself regain control of her body.

That Ti Ying seemed perplexed, pausing as if she, too, could not understand why she had called Jiang Xuehe by the wrong name.

Yet the dream Ti Ying had no time to dwell on it.

She had been about to tease her senior brother again when she heard the low, wandering howls of lesser demons outside the cave.

The Ti Ying who entered the dream was lost and afraid, and to her astonishment, she could understand the meaning behind the demons’ sounds: the lesser demons had discovered traces of the immortal sect disciple whom the Demon King had always watched, and had come to report.

Suddenly, the dream Ti Ying lost all interest in her senior brother.

She rose to leave, but a hair ribbon flew from the bound young man’s wrist and wound around her waist.

Ti Ying was yanked backward and fell.

Her temper as foul as ever, she snapped, “You’re bullying me!”

Dragged back, she landed kneeling on the rush mat, face-to-face with her bound senior brother. The ribbon, after pulling her down, hung limply between them, lying on the slightly wrinkled folds of their robes.

Ti Ying seethed with anger.

The young man’s hand reached out, brushing her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear.

A quiver ran through Ti Ying’s heart, as if a feather had softly traced her soul. Dazed and bewildered, she watched as the dream-version of herself had her chin lifted by the youth.

So close—she could see every detail of his lashes, the color of his eyes.

How flustered she was.

She heard her senior brother speak slowly, “Did you not say, if I stayed to keep you company, you would not go and slay the disciples of the immortal sect?”

At that, the dream Ti Ying burst out laughing.

She turned her face away, mocking him, “Hmph, I was just coaxing you. You, an immortal, so virtuous and pure, want to save a demon like me, don’t you? I’m a demon, I have no human feelings. I don’t like you, I don’t care about you. Does that make you sad?”

Her words were sharp and cutting: “Serves you right.”

The Ti Ying who had entered the dream had not yet grasped what “like” even meant, but she saw her dream-self’s young face, the sweet smile, and in those eyes, a growing, shadowed cruelty.

Demonic aura swirled coldly around her.

The real Ti Ying, trapped within her dream-self’s body, whimpered.

She was a little frightened by this version of herself.

Her senior brother simply gazed at her in silence.

Even Ti Ying, observing from within, thought her dream-self seemed unusually wicked… perhaps even crueler than she was in reality.

Lost in her thoughts, Ti Ying heard her senior brother’s gentle voice, “Even if you have entered the path of demons, the Great Dao is not barred to you. As your brother—”

The Ti Ying who had entered the dream was just thinking how pleasant his voice sounded, when her dream-self abruptly slapped his hand away.

Arrogant, Ti Ying declared, “I will kill all the immortal sect disciples, I will slay those who destroyed my sect… If you want to kill me, then do it! Who cares about cultivating the Great Dao? Give up—I never will!”

She shoved him aside, eager to go and set her killing plans in motion.

In her heart, she calculated whom to kill today, whom tomorrow; as for whether the killing would drag her deeper into demonic ways, she no longer cared.

But her senior brother once again raised his sleeve.

Because they were so close, this time he did not use the hair ribbon, but simply reached out with a cool hand and held her waist.

Ti Ying fell back against him, twisting in anger and glaring at the young man.

Impatiently, she said, “Do you really think I wouldn’t—”

“Little Ying,” Jiang Xuehe’s voice was calm and steady, “your senior brother will stay with you.”

Ti Ying froze.

Both the dream-self and the Ti Ying lost inside her own body raised their heads together, gazing at the young man before them.

Ti Ying saw him lift his wrist.

There, wrapped around it, was a hair ribbon.

Soft, rosy in color, made of light gauze—something delicate and feminine, that did not belong on him.

He untied the ribbon, bit by bit.

He took her slender wrist in his dry palm, and, eyes lowered, tied the ribbon gently around her.

Ti Ying’s soft, fine hand rested in his, his aura wrapped around her, making her head spin with vague, inexplicable fear and confusion.

Inside the cave, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

His fingertips brushed across the back of her hand.

As light and unintentional as drifting clouds.

Ti Ying’s earlobes were soft, her lashes lowered and trembling, lips pressed tight.

She heard her senior brother say quietly, “The day you fell to the demonic path, I was not by your side. That will never happen again.”

“Little Ying.”

She sat there, dejected and silent, staring at the ribbon coiled around her wrist.

Her young self, caught in this nightmare, was only dazed, bewildered, terrified—a jumble of emotion.

As he lowered his head, dark hair fell across her wrist, and a voice as clear as mist whispered in her ear—

“Your senior brother favors you above all.”

The hair ribbon was now firmly bound around her wrist.

Rain and wind battered outside, the multitude of demons howled, thunder crashed, but she knelt before him, listening to the trickle of water, looking up to see the one as flawless as jade.

Looking down, looking up—both were breathtaking sights.

When lightning flashed again, Ti Ying was cast out of the dream.

--

Drained of her spiritual energy, Ti Ying suffered through not one but several nightmares that night.

In reality, when Jiang Xuehe returned to the inn, lifting the curtains to test the girl’s temperature with the back of his hand, Ti Ying slipped into her second dream.

So cold, so silent, so painful.

Shivering in her dream, Ti Ying heard chaotic, excited voices around her—

“Master, with this, can we strip all the spiritual power from the little shaman girl—take her spiritual root? She’s our shaman. Her spiritual root should fetch a good price, get us lots of nice things, right?”

“If so, our village will be wealthy for generations, blessed with talent and luck, won’t it?”

“Master, be careful, our little shaman is very powerful… Ah, she’s awake!”

Ti Ying opened her eyes.

The sky was like spilled ink.

The first thing she saw was a sky heavy with dark clouds.

Incantations rose and fell like distant, mournful chants, encircling her from all sides. She was unable to move, agony needling through her body, running along her meridians, growing worse and worse…

She was dazed.

She realized she was lying flat on something that resembled an altar. It was covered in talisman papers, smoke from the village fires curling faintly, yellow talismans fluttering like withered moths.

Below the altar, villagers knelt in droves. They resembled fervent animals, or perhaps worshippers, gazing up at the little girl on the altar with fear in their eyes.

Ti Ying tried to move her limbs, glancing down at her chubby child’s wrists, red and raw where ritual implements had bound her…

The chanting continued without pause—villagers’ voices.

Thunder rumbled above.

The first drop of rain fell, striking Ti Ying’s brow.

She flinched, and the sensation was so sharp, so rending, that she screamed—“Ah!”

But the little girl’s shrill cry could not escape, for her mouth was stuffed with cloth.

Her struggles made the villagers chant even more urgently: “Quick, quick, keep chanting. Don’t let her break free, don’t let her speak and offend the spirits!”

As the chanting grew, wraiths began drifting out of the darkness, gathering near the altar, drooling hungrily as they stared at the little girl.

In some places, shamans are sacrificed in rituals like this.

For a long, long moment, Ti Ying could not tell if this was reality or nightmare. It was as though she had returned to the village where she had lived as a child, returned to the age of ten…

She was ten again.

She was trapped in the “Curse of Obliteration from Ten Directions.”

This must be the cruelest forbidden spell in all the Daoist world—summoning all resentful, unquiet ghosts from a hundred miles, binding them to the one cursed, channeling all hatred and malice into the living victim.

From that moment, those ghosts would cling to the victim day and night, never letting go.

The victim must remain conscious upon the altar for ten days and nights as each ghost imprints its mark. When the curse is fulfilled, it brings a doom beyond redemption.

All who bear the Curse of Obliteration from Ten Directions are stripped of everything precious—sight, voice… not dead, but driven mad.

Such a vicious spell, so much malice and resentment visited upon a single person—and in a way, it was a ritual with a wish for good.

One life sacrificed, in exchange for a wish—a wish of perfect happiness.

Ti Ying was in excruciating pain, her spiritual root being torn away bit by bit, the cold of the curse chilling her to the bone…

And those wraiths, numb and grim, each lunged for her.

She cried, “Go away! Go away! All of you, get away from me!”

But her mouth was gagged—no sound escaped.

In the dim hut with its thatched roof, the ghosts made her break out in cold sweat, her vision swimming with sparks of pain, as she watched them crowd forward, entering her body, tearing away her spiritual root from her sea of consciousness…

It was as if she were ten again.

Lying on the altar, enduring the curse of utter extinction…

Lost in agony, she heard, amid the chanting around her, the villagers’ frantic, pious wishes:

“May our village become a golden land, beautiful and prosperous, the men promoted and rich, the women happily wed, our descendants talented and thriving for a hundred years!”

“May the little shaman die swiftly, spare herself and us any more suffering.”

“Quick, paste on more talismans the Daoist gave us!”

Ti Ying’s face was wet.

She did not know if it was tears or sweat.

Countless yellow talismans drifted down upon her from the darkness above, their power binding her tight.

A bargain with ghosts.

But the price was her.

The ten-year-old Ti Ying.

The wraiths swarmed her like locusts. In terror and agony, she could not tell truth from dream, nor reason from madness.

She wept aloud:

“Master! Master, save me! Why didn’t I leave that village, why am I still trapped by this curse? Master, didn’t you already rescue me?”

“Master, Little Ying will be good, will listen to you, won’t argue or be willful again… Save me, save me!”

The sky was black as pitch, thunder crashing.

The ten-year-old girl waited and waited, but no one came to save her.

Rain fell cold, the wind moaned, and in her panic, an image flashed through Ti Ying’s mind—a clean, graceful figure beneath a hood, standing in the mountain mist, dark robes dusted with snow.

A faint hope stirred in her heart.

At the edge of the dream, voiceless, the little girl cried out within:

“Senior brother, senior brother!”

“Save me—”

“Save me—”

--

In the waking world, Jiang Xuehe, sitting in meditation, heard faint sobbing.

He rose at once, left the outer room, rounded the screen, and lifted the bed-curtain. “Junior sister?”

He knelt on one knee beside the bed, finding the girl trembling under the covers, her breath labored, drenched in sweat.

Fearing the worst, he leaned in to check her temperature, but Ti Ying, caught in nightmares, suddenly seized his arm, clinging as if to driftwood.

She whimpered, “Senior brother…”

Confused by the tangle of her two nightmares, she wept as if her soul would break in sleep: “Didn’t you say you would always favor me?”

Jiang Xuehe looked at her tear-streaked face; his heart, always so calm, shrank as if struck by a heavy blow.

His hood lay discarded at the bedside—the youth paused for a long time.

Candlelight flickered, silence fell; he leaned in slowly, the long, wordless struggle of propriety between man and woman taut as a drawn bow.

His hair brushed her trembling wrist.

“How should I favor you?”

“Tell me.”

The blue curtains fell; the moon hung high in the sky.