37. The Mist Has Three Colors (Third Update, 12,000 Words)

“He’s an aberration, an evil aberration!” Song Qiuyue’s voice trembled with terror. “And not an ordinary one—he might be a Calamity!”

Among cultivators, any abnormal and extremely dangerous presence was called an evil aberration. Yet, something more perilous, more bizarre than an aberration, was known as a Calamity—a title always appended with the character for disaster, like the Yellow Calamity. The most dreadful of all, those capable of massacring millions upon appearing in the world, were called Catastrophes.

If that demonic tree hadn’t had its head twisted off by the old Daoist in the purple robe, it would soon have transformed into a Demonic Tree Catastrophe—for it was too terrifying. It could easily slaughter millions, even tens of millions, in an instant.

“Sixty deities are all warning me,” Song Qiuyue muttered, her heart in chaos. “If this isn’t a Calamity, what is it? And it’s no ordinary Calamity.”

As she flew, she kept glancing nervously over her shoulder. The cultivators, by contrast, were not so flustered; hardened by struggle and mud, their hearts were far steadier than those of hothouse flowers.

“The sixty deities will surely shield us,” Zhao Hai said. “Miss, with such a terrifying presence in the Hundred Thousand Mountains, we must immediately send word to Xuzhou City. The migration must also be halted.”

“You’re right,” Song Qiuyue replied, regaining a measure of composure. She gritted her teeth. “I’ll ask the deities to send a message at once, inform my uncle that no one must ever set foot in the Hundred Thousand Mountains again.”

Regret gnawed at her. If only she had known, she would never have come—not to put on a show for the Song family, not for anything. The death of the Twelfth Lady was meaningless compared to her own life.

But at that moment, Song Qiuyue suddenly froze, suspended in the air.

“Look—what is that?” she said.

The others followed her gaze, and their faces turned ashen.

Ahead, wisps of fog tangled in the air, growing ever denser. Looking down, they saw the ground had cracked open, fissures yawning like hungry mouths, exhaling thick, rolling mists.

Glancing all around, they realized the fog had spread everywhere, its encroachment as swift as lightning. Within mere breaths, the trees and mountains vanished behind veils of mist. Or rather, the mist had blocked their path—above, below, on every side.

Song Qiuyue let out a bitter laugh. “If only I’d known, I never would have come.”

The cultivators felt an ominous premonition.

“Miss?”

“Miss!”

“The deities say they can no longer reach Xuzhou,” Song Qiuyue said, her regret now eating into her bones. She should never have come, and least of all followed that golden light to the Pure Immortal Monastery.

Zhao Hai’s voice rose in panic. “If communication is cut off, what do we do?”

“A little while ago, the deities managed to send a message to Xuzhou. They should come looking for us—don’t panic,” Song Qiuyue replied. “You—go test the mist.”

“I… yes, miss.” Gritting his teeth, a cultivator stepped forward, cautiously sending out a wave of sword energy. The mist parted instantly, but rejoined in the blink of an eye—endless, inexhaustible.

“I can’t sense my sword energy at all,” the cultivator admitted, bewildered.

“Use a magic artifact,” Song Qiuyue commanded.

“Yes, miss.” He summoned a spindle-shaped artifact, blew on it, and it swelled to the size of a small boat, crashing into the mist.

But it was useless. The instant the artifact entered the mist, its connection was severed.

With a spurt of blood, the cultivator gasped in pain. “Miss, the sliver of soul I infused into that artifact is gone.”

“Call upon the deities!” Song Qiuyue ordered, her face darkening. A towering deity appeared behind her, dozens of yards tall, bristling with steel-like whiskers, ears drooping to its shoulders, one fist clenched, the other hand forming a seal, mouth gaping wide as it let out a thunderous cry.

“Hmph—ha!” The deity’s voice exploded like spring thunder, shattering the fog in all directions.

For a moment, everyone rejoiced—only for hope to die an instant later. Though the fog was blasted back for miles, the way ahead remained shrouded, and the cleared space closed up again in seconds.

More disturbingly, after that single strike, the deity immediately shrank back into the temple Song Qiuyue carried, refusing to act again.

“Daughter of Song, I struck the mist once, and my incense power is already diminished by a tenth. That fog seems especially toxic to deities,” it said, and then fell silent.

“What in the world is this?” Song Qiuyue stared at the mist, feeling certain she would die in the Hundred Thousand Mountains. “Was this the old Daoist’s doing? Does he want to eat us, or is he avenging Chen Huangpi?”

She suspected the former, for though she’d harbored murderous intent, she’d not acted on it.

“Miss, the mist is coming!”

“Hurry, run!” The cultivators scattered in panic.

Song Qiuyue, dazed, followed Zhao Hai and the others as they retreated. They had barely moved before the mist swallowed up the ground they just left. No one dared risk their life to test whether the mist would consume them.

Soon, they found themselves at the foot of Jade Dome Mountain again. Song Qiuyue looked up, as if she could see the outline of the Pure Immortal Monastery.

“What a name, Pure Immortal Monastery, what a terrible place,” she muttered. Now, she no longer thought the name was presumptuous—this was a demon’s lair.

…

Elsewhere, Chen Huangpi and Granny Tang renewed their contract, with a hefty thirty percent increase in payment. Granny Tang had no objections.

“Young master, it seems the mist is rising…”

“Mist in the mountains is normal,” Chen Huangpi said, thinking Granny Tang was too jumpy. He patrolled the mountains every day; besides the living, there was nothing he hadn’t encountered. Earth dragons turning over? He’d seen it a hundred times. What was a little fog?

“But this mist is so white, as white as…”

“As what?” Chen Huangpi prompted.

Granny Tang glanced at the white-robed Daoist beside her and said bitterly, “Nothing.” She couldn’t very well say the mist was as white as his second master’s robe—the color was identical, ghostly white.

“I suppose it is quite white,” Chen Huangpi agreed. “But isn’t mist always white? Otherwise only purple. Granny Tang, have you ever seen mist in any other color?”

“No… never,” Granny Tang replied, shaking her head.

“There is, actually,” the white-robed Daoist said, cocking his head seriously. “There’s green mist.”

Chen Huangpi sighed. “Second master, you must be mistaken. Mist is only ever purple or white, never green.”

Ever since his master went mad, he’d become obsessed with purple, white, and green—distinguishing his disciples by the color of their robes. But in truth, Chen Huangpi had never met the third master, nor seen green mist.

“All right, Granny Tang, I’m going to the alchemy room. I’ll cook for you all tonight.” With a wave, Chen Huangpi led the white-robed Daoist away.

Back in the guest room, Granny Tang finally exhaled, her whole body relaxing.

The fox spirit, who’d been pretending to be dead, suddenly spoke. “Don’t worry. The old Daoist is strange, but he truly is Chen Huangpi’s master. He won’t harm anyone in front of him.” This was true—neither the purple-robed Daoist nor the white-robed one had ever eaten a person, or a deity, in Chen Huangpi’s presence. It was as if they were afraid of frightening him.

“Mountain God, how can we escape?” Granny Tang asked.

“When the old Daoist has eaten his fill, and Huangpi is no longer your creditor, perhaps you’ll have a chance,” the fox spirit replied. “Until then, pretend nothing has happened.” He closed his eyes in resignation. “This place is a demon’s den. That boy thinks his master is merely mad—a madman! I wish I could go mad too. Is there any madness like this?”

“In future, address the Daoist as Abbot,” Granny Tang said.

“Understood,” Granny Tang nodded.

…

In the alchemy room, Chen Huangpi sat before the Nine-Dragon Heaven-Forging Furnace, studying the Seventy-Two Secret Elixirs Manual. It was late, so he decided to research the manual and postpone his mountain patrol to the next day.

“The Abbot has finally left,” the brass oil lamp said, sprouting arms and legs as it stood on Chen Huangpi’s shoulder. “Are you really going to refine elixirs?”

“Of course I am!” Chen Huangpi replied. “How else can I cure my master’s illness? He’s old—I don’t want him to die mad. Besides, his condition is getting worse. I have to act quickly.”

“But…” the lamp hesitated. “That manual was given to you by an evil aberration. What if… what if it actually works? I think this Heaven Poison Pill is promising! Like cures like—it’s sure to help the Abbot!”

“My thoughts exactly!” Chen Huangpi said, poring over the Heaven Poison Pill recipe. “Look here: ‘touch and you die, contact and you perish, soul shattered within three breaths’—I like it already.”

He held up the manual, brimming with confidence and vigor. Over the years, he’d studied every medicinal text in the monastery and tried every remedy on his master. Though he’d never cured him, he had gained experience.

“All medicine is three parts poison, and elixirs are medicine too. Remember, Huang Er, I once gave Master rat poison—three times the normal dose.”

Huang Er, the lamp, couldn’t recall, but said, “Yes, yes, I remember! That day, the Abbot seemed so invigorated! Pity it wasn’t potent enough, or you’d have cured him.”

The lamp’s logic was simple: the Abbot couldn’t be poisoned to death, so nothing worked. But perhaps a strong enough poison might render him unconscious. Then, it could trick Chen Huangpi into seeking a famous healer outside, and thus escape this hell.

But Chen Huangpi frowned. “You’re wrong. That day, Master was lucid after taking the medicine—but only that once. No matter how much I increased the dose, or changed the formula, nothing worked after that. I think, when people take too much medicine, they develop…” He struggled for the right word, then brightened, “Tolerance. Yes, that’s it.”

The lamp was dumbfounded. Could it be that poisoning really did work? For someone like the Abbot, the more toxic the elixir, the more it might stimulate him. But if the Abbot truly recovered and learned the lamp had encouraged Chen Huangpi to poison him, wouldn’t it be melted down for scrap?

“Uh, maybe try another? This Heaven Poison Pill is too toxic. Look, this Ninefold Golden Elixir sounds much more orthodox. Aren’t we cultivators here? Let’s refine that one.”

Chen Huangpi shook his head. “No, I’m making this one.”

He recalled how his master’s madness had grown so severe he’d started babbling that Chen Huangpi was born from an egg and should have been named Chen Eggborn, only choosing the name Chen Huangpi by tossing a coin. The urge to cure his master became overwhelming.

“Huang Er, remember: desperate diseases require drastic cures!”