Chapter 86 — King's Village

As for the southwest, there lies the great Death Swamp, whose very name turns the faces of the world pale. Its climate is the very opposite of the Savage Wastes of the northwest: of every ten days in the year, seven or eight bring rain, and strange plants of every kind grow thick as the hairs of an ox. Such cold, damp places have always been the abode of the world's most venomous beasts and insects, and the uniquely deadly marsh gas of this place rises steaming from the rotting mud of the swamp on every rainy day; should a man breathe it in, without the proper antidote he will die of poison at the heart within half an hour. Beyond that, the carcasses of beasts and the trees and grasses rotted by rainwater over a thousand years have turned this place into a region of lurking danger at every step: one careless misstep and a man is sucked down into the bottomless swamp, never to see the light of day again, dying a miserable death.

Such a perilous place would naturally draw no visitors in ordinary times. But not long ago rumors suddenly spread through the world that within the western Death Swamp a vast golden pillar of light had arisen, piercing straight to the heavens and lasting a full day and night without cease, so that even in the dead of night it lit that stretch of sky bright as day. Only after three days did the golden light gradually fade, and from that time on there seemed always to come from within the Death Swamp a strange, vast keening, faint and distant, filling the people who lived at its edges with dread.

Once this news spread it caused a sensation throughout the world. In the eyes of those who cultivate the Dao, spirit creatures and divine artifacts have always possessed a spiritual nature of their own, and such a vast golden light was naturally the harbinger of some rare and wondrous treasure about to emerge, summoning those fated to it. And judging by that golden pillar, the marvel of this treasure must be no small thing; in an instant the world was shaken, and masters of both the righteous and the evil paths gathered from all quarters.

Yet beneath that surface turmoil ran hidden currents, surging unseen.

Half a day's journey east of the Death Swamp lay a desolate, decayed little village called "Dawang Village," named because its villagers worshipped a mysterious deity called the "Great King." Only this deity had always been most unreliable, neither blessing the villagers with promotion and wealth nor granting them abundant harvests and freedom from want.

In truth, when you think about it, living at the edge of such a Death Swamp, where every so often some monstrous beast would come bursting out of nowhere, or some venomous insect come running forth—killing livestock was the least of it; every year no small number of people died in such ways. Those with any ability had long since left this cursed place for the Central Land, and those who remained were mostly folk with no spirit left in them.

Yet in these last few days Dawang Village had suddenly grown lively, with cultivators of the Dao coming and going. Though Dawang Village was not the only entrance into the Death Swamp, it was the nearest inhabited place to it; before entering the swamp most people came here to buy dry rations and clean water, and within a few days the villagers had actually made a bit of money and gained a little vitality.

At the same time, because this was the place nearest the Death Swamp, it was the villagers here who had first noticed the golden pillar of light and the strange keening within the swamp, and from here the news had spread; thus many came here as well to inquire after tidings.

But where there are many people, there are naturally both righteous and evil, and within a few days, in this little place of Dawang Village, who knows how many quarrels had already broken out. Some unlucky fellows, before ever entering the Death Swamp, had inexplicably died here—a truly wrongful end.

Enough of idle talk. On this day, Mingli and the Wild Dog also arrived at Dawang Village and stood at the village entrance, where they saw people coming and going within, lively indeed, quite reversing the deathly stillness of former days.

When they reached the village, the wild dog looked this way and that, frowning and muttering something under his breath.

Xiao Hui, the monkey, had not seen so many people in days and was rather excited; perched on Ming Li's shoulder, he chirped shrilly. Ming Li patted him and glanced at the wild dog. "What are you doing?"

The wild-wolf Daoist said sourly, "I'm looking for an inn. We've walked this long—isn't it time we found somewhere to rest properly? What a godforsaken hole, not even an inn to be found!"

Ming Li said mildly, "What, did you think there'd be an inn here?"

The wild dog started. "What?"

Ming Li turned his eyes to the passersby thronging the street. Most were dressed too fine for folk who toiled for a living in Dawang Village. "Have you been here before?"

The wild dog spat. "Who'd be bored enough to come to a hellhole like this?"

Ming Li glanced at him. "Exactly. No outsiders ever come, and the villagers here have nothing to their names. What use would an inn be?"

The wild dog was struck dumb, and the look on his dog face turned several shades more miserable.

Just then, a burst of hawking came from the main street ahead. Someone was proclaiming loudly: "Foretell fifty years to come, divine three hundred years of fortune! Iron-tongued seer, brush that judges yin and yang—would you know the days ahead? Then come and have your fortune told!"

Ming Li and the wild dog both paused and looked toward the voice. At the roadside stood a battered old wooden table, and beside it a bamboo pole from which hung a canvas banner bearing four characters: "Immortal Points the Way." Next to the pole, an old man of imposing bearing was declaiming in a ringing voice—he it was who had just called out—and beside him a pretty young woman, drowsy and lovely, slumped against the table's edge with a look of helpless resignation.

These two were, needless to say, Zhou Yixuan and Xiao Wan. Zhou Yixuan had dragged Xiao Wan wandering the wide world; his skills were modest, yet he could never resist a lively crowd. Some time ago, hearing rumors of the Death Marsh, he had promptly ignored Xiao Wan's objections and hauled her off to Dawang Village.

Just now, in Zhou Yixuan's own words, his traveling funds were exhausted and the hero had come to his last road, so perforce he must tell fortunes in the street. Yet as he called out, his patter gradually changed shape: "... honored travelers, one and all, this immortal has received the true transmission of the Patriarch and can subdue the fiercest poisons under heaven. Now, within the Death Marsh the swamp gas is deadly venom; only let each of you purchase this sachet I sell, and you shall be proof against a hundred poisons, with a body incorruptible as diamond..."

Xiao Wan sighed quietly beside him. They had sat here for hours; Grandfather shouted himself hoarse, yet in truth not a single sachet had been sold. The locals believed him but could not afford his wares—Zhou Yixuan had set his prices outrageously high—while the outsiders were all cultivators of the Dao, folk of wide experience, and the look in their eyes said plainly: swindler. It was fortunate the righteous heroes were busy contending for treasures and had no time to bother with this fortune-teller; otherwise, should some hot-blooded disciple of a great master take it into his head to rid the people of a scourge, they would likely have found themselves in a fix they could not swallow.