Chapter Sixteen: Mist Shrouds the Faded Gold, Part Two

Cold, viscous mud coated his entire body and face; when water seeped into the wound on his back, searing pain exploded instantly, making Lin Mo stifle a groan. Zhou Xiaoxiao’s mud-stained hand clamped his arm like an iron vise, nearly crushing the bone, and without a word, she hauled him up from the mire of the herb garden, half dragging, half carrying him back.

“Move! Get your worthless hide out of here! One more moment in this cursed place and I’ll lose years off my life!” Zhou Xiaoxiao cursed, her voice echoing through the thick mist, deliberately raised to drown out Lin Mo’s suppressed panting. She slapped the mud off him with rough force, careful to avoid his injuries but each blow sent waves of agony through his wounded back.

Lin Mo was nearly carried, his feet barely touching the ground as Zhou Xiaoxiao dragged him. He struggled to look back; the rolling fog had swallowed the chaos of the herb garden and the sheer cliff, along with those deadly flecks of dark gold, all sinking into the cold, muddy depths. The icy “stone” in his chest, which had thrashed wildly after Su Li’s spiritual sense vanished, now gradually settled, returning to its sluggish, heavy rhythm. Yet the forcibly suppressed “hunger” remained, smoldering like embers beneath ash, burning his organs with every beat, dragging forth a deeper sense of stagnation.

Zhou Xiaoxiao’s noisy tirade never ceased, cursing the wickedness of the back mountain, the heartless Wang Skinner, and the “blind” stone. Lin Mo kept his mouth shut, letting muddy water drip from his hair into his eyes, stinging with grit. He allowed Zhou Xiaoxiao to drag him, his body rigid, like a puppet on strings. His mind was a muddled haze, terror not yet faded, the aftershock wrapping him like cold vines, strangling his breath. Su Li’s spiritual sense… how much had she seen? Was Zhou Xiaoxiao’s thrown stone mere coincidence or a precise intervention?

Back in the familiar stench of the menial servants’ courtyard, Steward Wang stood at the gate, berating a hunched servant, flecks of spit flying in the gray dawn. Seeing Zhou Xiaoxiao hauling the mud-caked Lin Mo, his triangular eyes rolled, and his greasy face twisted with undisguised disgust.

“Oh, what’s this now? I told you to watch the herb garden, not roll in the mud! Look at you! All the new herbs ruined!” Wang shrilled, finger nearly poking Lin Mo’s nose. “Bad luck! Damn bad luck!”

Zhou Xiaoxiao immediately let go of Lin Mo, plastering a sycophantic smile on his face and bustling forward. “Steward Wang, please calm down! It’s all my fault, all mine! I didn’t keep an eye on him! The boy’s still injured, can barely walk—back mountain’s slick as oil, you know! One slip and he landed in the mud pit! Punish me instead! I’ll haul night soil ten more times for him!” As he spoke, he made to grab the night soil bucket in the corner.

Wang waved him off in disgust, as if shooing a fly. “Get lost! Don’t get in my sight! Clean him up! If he gets muddy again, I’ll throw you both to the wolves!” He turned and left, leaving the other servants to cast glances, some indifferent, some gloating.

Zhou Xiaoxiao’s ingratiating smile faded the moment Wang turned away. He pulled Lin Mo to the water tub behind the communal sleeping quarters. Deep autumn’s well water was icy, and Zhou Xiaoxiao dipped half a ladle, dumping it over Lin Mo’s head.

Splash!

The cold water made Lin Mo shudder, teeth clattering, the pain in his back wound numbed for a moment by the ice. Mud and blood mixed, trickling down his torn clothes.

“Are you awake now?” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice was low and hard, utterly different from his earlier slickness. He held a rough rag, scrubbing Lin Mo’s face and neck with crude force, his gaze sharp as a blade, fixed on Lin Mo’s vacant eyes. “What were you doing in the herb garden, lying in the mud?”

Lin Mo’s body stiffened; cold water dripped from his hair into his eyes, gritty and painful. He lowered his gaze, avoiding Zhou Xiaoxiao’s piercing stare, his voice hoarse and dry. “…Slipped… I slipped.”

“Slipped?” Zhou Xiaoxiao sneered, scrubbing harder, the rough fabric scraping his neck with sharp pain. “Slipping makes your eyes bulge? Makes you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” He leaned in, nearly whispering in Lin Mo’s ear, his breath icy from the well water. “What’s at the bottom of that cliff, hmm?”

Lin Mo’s heart clenched as if seized by a cold hand. He looked up abruptly, meeting Zhou Xiaoxiao’s fathomless eyes—no usual laughter, only icy scrutiny and piercing insight. He knows! He must have seen something! Saw his stiffness before diving into the mud, saw his horror staring at the cliff!

“N-nothing…” Lin Mo’s voice was parched and taut, trembling uncontrollably. “The fog… too thick… I misjudged…”

“Misjudged?” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s lips curled in a cold arc, his gaze poisonous. “Lin Mo, do you take me for that fool Zhao Qing?” He dropped the rag, his fingers seemingly casual but crushing, pressing hard beneath Lin Mo’s left scapula, close to his heart—the very spot where the faint dark imprint and fragments of the Void Heaven Scripture resided.

“Ugh!” Lin Mo groaned, body convulsing. A surge of icy, violent resistance erupted from the depths of the “stone” in his chest! Zhou Xiaoxiao’s fingers recoiled as if scalded by invisible ice, his fingertips instantly bruising deeper shades of blue. Yet the coldness in his gaze only intensified, sharp as a drawn dagger, pinning Lin Mo’s now pallid face.

“What’s hidden there?” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice was pressed low as a whisper, each word stabbing Lin Mo’s eardrums like an ice pick. “The fog of the back mountain devours people—it’s not just a myth. Those seven missing servants, you really think they fell to their deaths?” He stepped closer, the slick merchant’s air gone, replaced by a heavy, suffocating pressure. “If you don’t want to become the eighth, behave yourself!”

His cold gaze scraped across Lin Mo’s face, an unmistakable warning. Zhou Xiaoxiao asked no further, only giving him a deep, complex look—scrutiny, warning, perhaps even a faint trace of… impatience? He turned, tossing the filthy rag into the water tub, splashing muddy water, then walked away without a backward glance, as if the icy confrontation had never happened.

Lin Mo stood frozen in the puddle, soaked through, cold seeping from his bones. The wound on his back throbbed numb and sharp, the “stone” in his chest pulsing with lingering rage after Zhou Xiaoxiao’s touch. Zhou Xiaoxiao’s words slithered into his ears like venomous snakes, coiling around his heart.

Those seven servants… not accidental deaths? The forbidden land behind the mountain… fog that devours?

A chill shot up his spine. He remembered that night he tumbled into the ravine, the soul-tearing cold when his fingers brushed the black fragments. He recalled the agony of the mountain array, as if a million icy needles pierced him. He remembered the insatiable greed of the beast in his chest for life, and its irresistible pull toward the back mountain…

Could it be… those seven, like him, accidentally touched the taboo of the Burial Immortal Abyss? Consumed by this evil thing—or some other force guarding the forbidden ground?

The thought sent him plunging into icy dread, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. He looked down at his mud-stained, bloodied hands, rough and dark, grime embedded deep under the nails. These hands, soon to touch something far more terrifying than Zhao Qing’s whip or Wang Skinner’s scolding—the abyss.

Fear washed over him like a cold tide, drowning him. Leaning against the icy water tub, he trembled uncontrollably, like a dead leaf in winter wind.

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Just past noon, the meager sunlight was swallowed by leaden clouds. Cold wind whipped dead leaves in the servants’ courtyard, wailing like countless vengeful souls.

Lin Mo had changed into the only somewhat dry, though equally tattered, coarse shirt he owned. His back wound, shocked by cold water and chilled by damp air, now ached with a fine, needling pain beneath its numb burn. He crouched in a corner, nibbling at a cold, hard crust of cornbread Zhou Xiaoxiao had somehow procured, his stomach feeling as if stuffed with icy stones.

Steward Wang’s raspy voice thundered at the gate, unusually irritable. “Lin Mo! Where are you? Get out here!”

Lin Mo’s heart sank; he forced down the dry crumbs and stood. Steward Wang stood at the gate, belly protruding, beside a young inner sect disciple, arrogant and cold-faced—one of Zhao Qing’s lackeys. The disciple crossed his arms, glancing at Lin Mo as though he were trash.

“Zhao Senior is refining a batch of ‘Bone Tempering Pills’ and needs ‘Shadow Mist Grass’ as the main ingredient.” Steward Wang frowned, his tone impatient but with a hint of evasive glance. “That stuff only grows at the edge of the forbidden back mountain, in the ‘Ghost Cry Ravine.’ You’ll go now! Deliver it before dark!”

Ghost Cry Ravine!

Those three words stabbed Lin Mo’s ears like icy needles. It was the most dangerous spot at the edge of the forbidden mountain, shrouded in fog all year, its depths said to be bottomless, the wind sounding like ghosts wailing—hence the name. Of the seven missing servants, at least four vanished while gathering herbs near Ghost Cry Ravine!

Cold dread seized Lin Mo, freezing his limbs. He looked up at Steward Wang, who avoided his gaze, his fat face full of impatience. The inner sect disciple snorted. “What are you waiting for? Zhao Senior needs it now! If you delay the pill refining, can you pay with your worthless life?” The threat was clear.

A trap! This was Zhao Qing’s revenge—murder by proxy!

Lin Mo’s heart pounded wildly, cold sweat soaking his back. He wanted to refuse, to scream, but his throat was gripped by icy iron, unable to make a sound. Refusal would only bring more direct, inescapable torment from Zhao Qing. To go? Ghost Cry Ravine… was truly a death sentence! It had claimed seven lives already—now he was to be the eighth sacrifice.

As he stood paralyzed, as if roasted over open flames, Zhou Xiaoxiao’s familiar, slightly slick voice cut in:

“Oh, Steward Wang! Zhao Senior wants Shadow Mist Grass? That’s not easy to find!” Zhou Xiaoxiao had sidled over, smiling as usual, holding an empty bucket as if just back from night soil duty. He glanced at Lin Mo’s paper-white face, then at Wang and the disciple. “Ghost Cry Ravine is wicked slippery, and Mo’s injuries… look, he can barely walk straight. If he falls in and needs rescuing, that’ll trouble the patrol brothers—such bad luck! Maybe… send someone else?”

“Send someone else?” The disciple’s eyes widened, tone sharp. “Who do you think you are? Zhao Senior named him! His worthless life is nothing—if he dies, he’ll fertilize the back mountain!” He turned to Wang. “Steward Wang, he’s yours. Before dark, the Shadow Mist Grass must be delivered to the pill room! Otherwise—hmph!” He snorted and strode away.

Wang’s face grew uglier, barking at Zhou Xiaoxiao. “Heard that? Zhao’s orders! Who dares switch? You want to go instead?” He jabbed at Lin Mo, spittle flying. “Go now! If you don’t find it, don’t come back! Save me the bad luck!”

Zhou Xiaoxiao’s smile faded, his gaze flicking between Lin Mo and Wang, finally settling on Lin Mo’s bloodless face. In the depths of his eyes, a flash of emotion—helplessness? Anxiety? Something else?—passed too quickly to catch. He said nothing more, only set the empty bucket in the corner, the movement oddly heavy.

Lin Mo looked at Wang’s face, written with “go die,” then at Zhou Xiaoxiao’s silent back, finally at his own trembling hands, crumbs still clinging. No choice. Never any choice.

He went to the corner, picked up the battered old basket and herb hoe. The handle was icy, its rough grain biting into his frostbitten hands.

Zhou Xiaoxiao watched him pick up the tools, lips moving as if wanting to speak, but in the end he only muttered, “Damn it… be careful… don’t go too deep.” The words were dry, weighted with a heaviness Lin Mo had never heard before.

Lin Mo didn’t reply, nor did he look back. Head lowered, dragging his still-numb right leg, he stepped out of the servants’ courtyard toward the back mountain, shrouded in mist and leaden clouds. Cold wind and dead leaves battered his thin frame, as if countless icy hands pushed him onward.

Each step took him farther from the gate of the so-called Green Wood Sect.

Each step brought him closer to the life-devouring fog.

The icy “stone” in his chest, as he neared the back mountain, began to pulse clearer—and with excitement! Beneath the heavy stagnation, that irresistible pull toward the depths of Burial Immortal Abyss burned like ghost-fire in the darkness.

The mist ahead churned silently, like the jaws of a great beast slowly opening. Lin Mo’s thin silhouette, in the bleak light and howling wind, was as insignificant as a speck about to be swallowed by the dark.