Chapter 48:
Peach Blossom Spring (Part 5):
“This Time, the Sacrifice Is My Granddaughter…”
Granny Zhao returned late. Zhao Cuicui had prepared hot water for them to wash up, their dirty clothes hanging outside to dry. Chen Henian, his hair loose, his silver ornaments removed, sat by the open window in a thin undershirt, a fan in his hand, creating a gentle breeze. He heard the tap of Granny Zhao’s walking stick just as the last stars faded from the sky.
“My ancestors were defeated in a war, forced to hide in these mountains to survive,” Granny Zhao said, settling down with a cup of tea, her voice calm as she began her story.
Her words answered most of Chen Henian’s questions.
The Chinan tribe’s history stretched back a thousand years. Their ancestor, Zhao Yinyang, had been the High Priest in the court of the Jiang Dynasty, responsible for rituals and divinations. Shamans held a respected position in those days.
But when King Wu of Jiang fell ill, Zhao Yinyang was imprisoned, accused of treason, and the court began persecuting shamans. The Chinan tribe, to protect themselves, abandoned Zhao Yinyang and fled south, preserving their ancestral witchcraft and Gu techniques, their skills with insects and snakes, surviving for centuries in seclusion.
Then, a war had ravaged the land, bringing chaos and famine, forcing the Chinan people to flee again, seeking refuge in these remote mountains, a natural barrier against the outside world. They had severed all ties, cultivating the land, building their village, their descendants living in peace.
They were the Gu people, but, as Granny Zhao said, “Even the most skilled Gu master can be consumed by their own creations.”
“What happened?” Chen Henian asked.
“Our tribe was almost destroyed,” she closed her eyes, her voice heavy with grief. “Because of a madman, he cursed us all, seeking immortality. He created a Gu King.”
The madman, Zhao Changgong, rumored to be the reincarnation of Zhao Yinyang, was a prodigy of Gu techniques, his poisons unmatched at twenty. By thirty, he was the village’s Gu master, teaching the next generation.
One day, he had found an old book on yin-yang techniques, a record of exchanges between their ancestors and Daoist practitioners. He had scoffed at the Daoist pursuit of immortality through spirits and deities, believing insects held the true path. He was a genius, he believed, destined for greatness, his ambition growing, his desire for immortality consuming him.
He declared he would create the ultimate Gu, and the villagers, trusting his skill, didn’t question him.
He had found a poisonous cave in the mountains, filling it with venomous snakes and insects, adding their tribe’s carefully cultivated Gu worms, letting them fight and devour each other, until only one remained, the Gu King.
He had succeeded, creating a Gu worm so potent, its poison so powerful, it surpassed anything they had ever seen.
“Raising Gu for immortality?” Chen Henian’s interest was piqued.
“Perhaps,” Granny Zhao chuckled coldly. “But he failed. He fed the Gu worm his own blood, believing it would become his loyal servant, wanting to cultivate it within his body, to achieve immortality. But the Gu King devoured him, consuming his organs, turning him into an empty shell.”
“Our tribe forbids using human flesh and blood to cultivate Gu. He broke the greatest taboo, cursing us all.”
The Gu King, having consumed Zhao Changgong, used his body to breed offspring.
A mother-child Gu, the mother controlling its children. The offspring infested the Chinan tribe, no one spared.
The Gu King’s poison was potent. Killing it would release the poison within its offspring, killing the entire tribe. They had no choice but to imprison it in the poisonous cave. But even in captivity, it could control its offspring, using them to obtain food.
It craved human flesh. The villagers, controlled by the offspring, would unknowingly walk into the cave, becoming the Gu King’s next meal.
In their desperation, someone had appeared, offering a solution, a blood Gu he had cultivated, claiming it could put the Gu King to sleep for seventeen years.
They had no other choice. But the Gu King had tasted human flesh, and it craved more. The Chinan tribe had to choose a sacrifice, someone to cultivate the blood Gu within their body, to become the Gu King’s next meal.
The sacrifice had worked. The Gu King fell into a deep slumber, giving the Chinan tribe a reprieve.
But it would awaken again. And the offspring, tragically, didn’t die with their hosts. They were passed down to the next generation, a curse with no cure.
“Everyone in this village carries the offspring. Even with the Gu King asleep, no one lives past thirty-two. And because of the Gu, we can’t leave this place,” Granny Zhao said, her voice filled with sorrow. “This is how our tribe has survived, in constant fear and pain.”
“Then why are you still alive?” Chen Henian asked.
“Because of your master, Zhou Xianzhi,” she replied. “I was sixteen then, having just lost my family…”
A child in their village became an adult the day they buried their parents. That day, she had covered their graves with flowers, then walked alone, a long and solitary journey, singing the songs her grandmother had taught her, her tears endless.
She was an adult now, with a large, empty house, no one waiting for her. She would marry someday, have children, but now, she was alone.
The Chinan people liked to sit on the hills, enjoying the soft earth, the tall grass, the wind. She sang, her voice carrying through the valley, until dusk, her throat sore, her body tired, but she continued, her voice hoarse and cracking, as if she wanted to sing the sun down.
She coughed, her voice breaking, and a man’s voice came from behind her. “Little girl, rest your voice, you’ll damage it if you keep singing.”
She was startled, her tears forgotten, the voice unfamiliar, weak and hesitant.
She was bold, turning to see a man, old and frail, his clothes ragged.
She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Who are you? How long have you been here?”
“A long time,” the man lay on the ground. “I was sleeping, you woke me up with your singing. And your crying.”
She blushed, embarrassed. “Why didn’t you say anything! Sneaking around like that!”
“It’s bad luck to disturb a crying girl,” he replied.
“I… I don’t care,” she said. “Forget what you just saw and heard! Or… I’ll release my insects on you!”
She held up an insect, trying to scare him, but he didn’t react, his eyes closing, not from sleep, but from exhaustion, his body as frail as his voice, his lips pale and cracked.
She carried him home, forcing him to drink water.
His name was Zhou Xianzhi, a fugitive, his clothes tattered, his body weak. He said he had enemies everywhere, and he had found this place because of an amber stone, its warmth and light guiding him.
The amber contained an insect, and she recognized it instantly.
A Jian insect! Jian and Jia, a pair of male and female insects, inseparable until death, precious ingredients for Gu techniques.
She had the Jia insect, its connection to its mate leading Zhou Xianzhi to her.
He gave her the amber, thanking her, and she, in return, offered him food and shelter.
But he was a strange man, only a few years older than her, yet he was reclusive, refusing to leave the house, claiming he disliked crowds, despite his talkative nature, his stories endless.
He told her about the outside world, its wonders and strangeness, and she listened eagerly.
She took him to the hills at night to watch fireflies, sitting together, singing for him.
He had praised her voice, calling her a singing parrot, but she had never seen a parrot.
He hadn’t looked at her insects, his gaze fixed on her. “A kind and beautiful girl like you deserves a good life.”
“Do you want to leave this place?” he had asked.
She hadn’t answered directly. “I can’t leave.”
“You said the Jian and Jia insects can suppress the Gu King. Why can’t you leave?”
“I can’t leave alone,” she said. “I’ve never been outside, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “Can you take me with you? If you’re with me, I won’t be afraid.”
He hesitated, his eyes filled with uncertainty, and she quickly smiled, turning away. “Just kidding, it’s alright, this place is good, I can be happy here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said sadly. “I can’t.”
“Why?” she asked, knowing it was pointless, but she had to know. “Am I a burden to you?”
“No! You’re good! It’s me,” he replied. “If I leave, I might die. If you’re with me, we’ll both die.”
“Because of your enemies? What did you do?”
“It’s my fate, just like yours, something I was born with,” he said.
She smiled, understanding. “Then don’t leave. You won’t have to be afraid anymore!”
But he shook his head. “Someone told me I could live a peaceful life in the mountains. But I would have to live like a monk. Would you be happy living like that?”
He practiced yin-yang techniques, she practiced Gu. He wouldn’t be happy here. She understood. “Then you should leave.”
He promised, “I’ll come back, maybe in twenty years, to repay your kindness.”
She nodded silently, then asked, smiling, “Can I hold your hand? I’ve never held a man’s hand before.”
He took her hand, his eyes filled with tears.
She watched him leave, her own tears falling.
Later, she had married, had a loving husband and a beautiful daughter. The Jian and Jia insects, keeping her alive in a state between life and death, had made her the oldest person in the village, everyone calling her Granny. She inherited the Mountain-Shaking Wood staff, studying ancient texts, learning Zhou Xianzhi’s yin-yang techniques.
She buried her husband and daughter, unable to bear the pain any longer.
“Three days from now, it’s time for the next sacrifice,” Granny Zhao said, her voice filled with sorrow. “This time, the sacrifice is my granddaughter, Cuicui.”
