Left Cripple followed his mother northward for three full days. The outline of Yanmen Mountain loomed and faded in the distance, like the ever-unreachable hope in his mother's words. With every step he took, a searing pain shot through his left leg, traveling from his ankle all the way up to his hipbone, as if a red-hot iron spike were being driven outward from inside the marrow. He clenched his jaw, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead one after another, yet he steadfastly refused to utter a single sound of complaint.
It wasn't that it didn't hurt. He was afraid that if his mother heard him, she would sigh again.
Old Vixen walked ahead, her cane tapping the ground at an unhurried, steady pace. She did not look back, but she heard everything—her son's breathing, the sound of his footsteps, and the faint, muffled grunt deep in his throat each time he stifled his pain. Her own heart twinged and ached in rhythm with those suppressed groans.
On the evening of the third day, just as the light was dimming into dusk, the corner of an upturned eave suddenly appeared in a mountain hollow ahead. As they drew closer, they saw it was a temple, built on a flat area halfway up the mountainside, surrounded by ancient pines and cypresses in the deepening twilight. The vermilion lacquer on the temple gate had mostly peeled away, revealing the grayish-white wooden core beneath. A plaque hung above the lintel, its inscription so weathered by wind and rain that only the three characters for "Qingxu Temple" could be barely made out.
The temple gate was ajar, and from within spilled dim yellow lamplight and the faint murmur of voices. Old Vixen stopped outside the gate and listened intently for a moment, then turned to Hu Chuer and whispered, "They're conducting a ritual inside. Wait here, child. Mother will go in and have a look."
Hu Chuer leaned against the stone lion outside the gate, rubbing his aching left leg and idly surveying his surroundings. Though dilapidated, the temple compound was quite large, likely containing at least three or four courtyards. From the direction of a side hall drifted a rich, heavy aroma—not the scent of incense, but the smell of wine and cooked meat.
Hu Chuer's nose twitched involuntarily.
As a fox spirit, his sense of smell was a hundred times keener than any ordinary human's. The moment the scent of meat and wine entered his nostrils, his stomach clenched as if seized by an invisible fist and let out a rumbling growl. For the past three days traveling with his mother, he had subsisted on wild fruits and grass roots; occasionally catching a field mouse had been a rare taste of meat. Now, catching this fragrance, his mouth filled with saliva, and he momentarily forgot even the pain in his leg.
He craned his neck to peek inside the temple. His mother's figure had already disappeared into the dim lamplight of the main hall, and he couldn't see what she was doing. The side hall, however, was dark and shadowy, with only a single flickering oil lamp swaying under the eaves.
Hu Chuer hesitated for a second, but ultimately, desire won out. He pushed himself up and limped stealthily toward the side hall.
The door to the side hall stood wide open. Inside stood a statue of an unrecognizable deity, and the offering table before it was laden with food—a whole roast chicken, a platter of spiced pork, three white steamed buns, a pot of wine, and several plates of dried fruits and pastries. Kneeling on the floor before the table were seven or eight worshippers, devoutly chanting scriptures with a Daoist priest, their eyes tightly shut and faces full of piety.
Hu Chuer hid in the shadows just outside the door, his eyes darting around. He formed a concealment charm and slipped silently into the hall, circling around to the side of the offering table. The roast chicken gleamed with oil, its skin golden brown, and its aroma drilled straight into his nose. Unable to resist any longer, he reached out, tore off a drumstick, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.
In the past, even when stealing food, he wouldn't have been so disheveled. But ever since his leg was crippled, his entire spirit had collapsed, and he no longer had the presence of mind for dignity. He devoured the drumstick in three or four bites and then reached for the wine pot.
The wine was homemade rice wine from the local peasants—smooth on the palate but packing a potent afterkick. Hu Chuer tilted the pot and gulped down half of it. A warm current surged from his throat down to his core, spreading indescribable comfort throughout his body. He let out a satisfied belch and was just about to tear off more chicken when he heard a sharp, low shout from behind him.
"Where did this wretched beast come from, daring to steal offerings in Qingxu Temple!"
Hu Chuer shuddered violently, his concealment charm forgotten and his form flickering into visibility under the lamplight. He whirled around and saw a Daoist priest standing in the doorway—a man of about forty, with a fair complexion and a long beard, wearing a Hunyuan cap and a blue Daoist robe, holding a fly-whisk. He was glaring at Hu Chuer with furious eyes.
The kneeling worshippers, startled awake by the shout, turned their heads to look. Seeing a lame young man suddenly appear beside the offering table, chicken grease and wine stains still on his lips, a commotion broke out. The priest waved his fly-whisk and addressed the crowd, "Everyone, please disperse for now. Today's ceremony ends here. Leave this matter to me."
Although bewildered and suspicious, the worshippers obeyed the priest's order and hurriedly took their leave. In moments, only Hu Chuer and the priest remained in the side hall.
Hu Chuer leaned against the offering table, his head swimming from the wine. He wanted to run, but his left leg refused to obey. He stumbled after a single step and nearly fell. The priest stepped forward and grabbed him by the back of the collar, lifting him as easily as one might lift a chick.
"Stealing offerings and using concealment magic?" the priest sneered coldly. "I am Jia Shouzhen. I have cultivated here at Qingxu Temple for twenty years and have never seen a demon so bold. Which mountain are you from, spirit? Speak the truth!"
Hu Chuer, choked by the grip on his collar, struggled to breathe. He was about to transform into his true form to frighten the priest when an aged voice drifted in from outside the hall.
"Daoist priest, please stay your hand."
Priest Jia looked up to see an old woman leaning on a thornwood cane, walking slowly into the hall. Behind her came a young woman dressed in plain white robes, wearing a bamboo hat with a white veil concealing her face. Though her features were hidden, the grace of her gait alone was enough to captivate—like a white lotus stirred by an evening breeze.
Priest Jia's gaze lingered on the woman in white for a moment before returning to the old woman. "Who are you?"
The old woman sighed, her face assuming an expression of sorrow and hardship. "This old one's surname is Hu, from Yanmen Mountain. These are my two children—my son, Hu Chuer, and my daughter, Hu Meier. My son has suffered from a leg ailment since childhood, and I have been taking him far and wide in search of a cure. Passing by your esteemed temple today, I had hoped to beg lodging for a night. I never imagined the greedy child would steal the offerings and offend the Daoist priest. This old woman offers her apologies to you now."
So saying, she bent at the waist and bowed deeply.
Seeing her advanced age and hearing her sincere tone, Priest Jia's expression softened slightly. He released Hu Chuer's collar, and the young man staggered before being steadied by Hu Meier's supporting hand. Priest Jia's gaze involuntarily fell upon Hu Meier once more—as she reached out to steady her brother, her sleeve slipped down, revealing a wrist as fair and smooth as a freshly peeled water chestnut.
"Since it was an unintentional mistake, I shall not pursue the matter further," Priest Jia said, laying his fly-whisk across his arm and speaking in a much gentler tone. "It's just that the accommodations in this temple are crude. I fear we may not be able to offer proper hospitality."
The old woman quickly replied, "Any place that shelters us from wind and rain will suffice. We dare not ask for more."
Priest Jia then led the three of them toward the rear courtyard. Qingxu Temple had three courtyards in succession: the main and side halls at the front, the priests' alchemy chambers and scripture rooms in the middle, and at the very back, a small two-story pavilion originally used for storing odds and ends. Priest Jia instructed a novice to clear out two vacant rooms on the ground floor for the mother and her children to stay in.
Hu Chuer, overcome by the wine, collapsed onto the straw mat and fell into a deep, snoring sleep. Old Vixen sat beside him, reaching out to feel his forehead before gently lifting his trouser leg to examine the injured limb. The wound had long since healed, but the bone had not set properly; the lower leg canted slightly outward, and the surrounding muscle had atrophied from years of limping.
Old Vixen's hand rested on her son's leg for a moment. Then she lowered the trouser leg and sighed softly.
"Mother."
Hu Meier's voice came from behind her. Old Vixen turned to see her daughter, who had now removed her bamboo hat, revealing her true face. It was a visage so exquisite it seemed otherworldly—eyebrows like distant mountains, eyes holding autumn pools, a nose elegantly straight, lips like painted vermilion. At the center of her brow was a natural crimson mark, as if someone had lightly touched a white jade surface with a cinnabar brush. Her beauty was not the beauty of mortal women; it possessed an ethereal, elusive quality, as if she might dissolve into a wisp of smoke at any moment.
"That Priest Jia... the way he looked at your daughter was not right," Hu Meier said softly.
Old Vixen nodded. "Mother saw."
"Then shall we leave first thing tomorrow morning?"
Old Vixen was silent for a moment. Her gaze shifted from her daughter's face to the inky darkness outside the window. The night wind moaned through the pine forest. In the distance, a light still burned in Priest Jia's alchemy chamber, his pacing shadow flickering against the paper window.
"No hurry," Old Vixen's voice was quiet and slow. "Regarding your brother's leg, I consulted Yan Banxian in Yizhou. He said it couldn't be cured. These past few days, Mother has been thinking—finding someone in this world who can heal your brother's leg might not be so easy. We three, mother and children traveling abroad, need a place to settle for a time. This Qingxu Temple is remote and quiet, with few Daoist priests. It's a good spot."
Hu Meier was sharp as ice and snow, understanding her mother's intent immediately. She lowered her head, silent for a moment, then whispered, "Mother means..."
"That priest is no serious cultivator," Old Vixen said flatly. "Mother smelled it the moment we entered this temple—he reeks of rouge, powder, and wine. He's no keeper of the precepts. Such men are full of desires but weak of will; they are the easiest to manipulate. Just keep him dangling. No need to agree to anything, and no need to refuse anything. As long as there's desire in his heart, he'll let us stay. When we find news of a cure for your brother's leg, we'll leave then."
Hu Meier bit her lip but said nothing. Although her cultivation was still shallow, she understood perfectly well what her mother's words implied. The reputation of the fox clan for beguiling others with beauty was no secret in the demon world. She had heard her mother's teachings since childhood and knew it was both a shortcut and a treacherous path—walked well, it could save a hundred years of bitter cultivation; walked poorly, it led to utter ruin.
But she glanced at her brother, curled up and snoring loudly on the straw mat, at his withered, deformed calf, and swallowed the words that had risen to her lips.
"Your daughter understands," she said quietly.
Old Vixen reached out and gently stroked her daughter's head, a flicker of heartache in her eyes. This daughter, born late in her life, possessed talent far surpassing her son's and was the true heir to her legacy. If there were any other way, she would not ask her daughter to do such a thing. But living for four or five hundred years, she knew the harsh cruelty of the world all too well—for demonkind, cultivation was riddled with obstacles and tribulations at every step. Without a stroke of fortune, even a thousand more years of cultivation might not lead to true attainment. And right now, this lecherous, drunken Priest Jia was a stroke of fortune delivered right to their doorstep.
The next morning, Priest Jia rose unusually early and personally carried breakfast to the rear pavilion. Meals at Qingxu Temple were ordinarily simple—just thin porridge and pickles—but this morning's tray included an extra dish of spiced pork and two boiled eggs. He knocked on Old Vixen's door, set the tray on the table, and said with a beaming smile, "Did the honored elder rest well last night? Life in the mountains is austere, nothing good to offer. Please make do with this simple fare."
Old Vixen thanked him profusely and called Hu Meier out to greet the Daoist priest. Today, Hu Meier had changed into a pale green dress and wore only a wildflower tucked behind her ear—somewhere she had plucked it—which made her appear even more elegantly beautiful and ethereal. She curtsied gracefully and uttered a greeting: "Daoist Priest." Her voice was like an oriole emerging from a valley, crisp and melodious.
Priest Jia nearly dropped his fly-whisk.
In his twenty years of cultivation, he had seen many noblewomen visit the temple to burn incense and considered himself an experienced judge of beauty, but he had never laid eyes on such an exquisite creature. What was more captivating was the indescribable aura she possessed—dignified yet alluring, cool yet gentle, like a fathomless pool of spring water that invited one to explore its depths.
"No need for such formality, no need at all," Priest Jia said, reaching out to help her rise. His fingers brushed against Hu Meier's wrist, and he felt a touch that was warm, smooth, and sleek, like stroking a piece of warm jade. Hu Meier gently withdrew her hand and lowered her head, a blush rising to her cheeks.
Priest Jia's heart fluttered. He quickly withdrew his hand, composed himself, and said gravely, "I still have morning rites to attend to. I shall take my leave. If the elder needs anything, simply instruct the temple novices."
He turned and walked out of the pavilion, his steps lighter than he himself realized. Back in his alchemy chamber, he sat cross-legged on his meditation cushion, closed his eyes, and tried to enter a state of concentration, but his mind would not settle. Floating before his eyes was the image of Hu Meier, her head bashfully lowered.
"Jia Shouzhen, ah, Jia Shouzhen," he tapped his forehead and muttered to himself, "You've cultivated for twenty years, and you can't even muster this much discipline?"
Despite his words, his thoughts had already drifted to the small pavilion in the rear courtyard.
For the next several days, Priest Jia found various excuses to wander over to the rear courtyard every day. One day he'd bring some fruit, the next day a few volumes of scripture, the day after he'd offer to take Old Vixen's pulse. Old Vixen accepted everything graciously, always receiving him politely and ensuring, at precisely the right moment, that Hu Meier would appear to meet him. Sometimes she poured tea, sometimes she handed him water, sometimes she simply stood quietly behind her mother, stealing a glance up at Priest Jia before quickly lowering her gaze.
That single glance was enough to sustain his daydreams for an entire day.
By the seventh day, Priest Jia could no longer contain himself. He sent a novice to the rear pavilion to invite Hu Meier, claiming there was a copy of the Huangting Jing (Yellow Court Scripture) in the temple that he wished her to help transcribe. Old Vixen listened, smiled faintly, and nodded to her daughter.
Hu Meier followed the novice.
Priest Jia's alchemy chamber was located in the eastern wing of the second courtyard of Qingxu Temple—three rooms arranged in a central hall flanked by two private rooms. The central hall served as his study, furnished with bookshelves, a writing desk, and several chairs. When Hu Meier entered, Priest Jia was seated behind his desk, an aged, yellowed Daoist scripture spread open before him. Seeing Hu Meier, he quickly rose, smiling warmly, and invited her to sit, personally pouring tea for her.
The scripture copying was merely a pretext. Hu Meier sat before the desk, grinding ink and smoothing paper, while Priest Jia sat nearby, chatting with her in a desultory manner. He asked where she was from, if she could read, what she enjoyed doing in her spare time. Hu Meier answered each question, her voice gentle, her words appropriate. Occasionally, she would lift her eyes to look at him, her gaze carrying a mixture of innocence and subtle, feigned shyness.
The more Priest Jia looked, the more enamored he became. The more they spoke, the more convinced he grew that this woman was a match made in heaven. Daoist practitioners were not forbidden from marriage; in his youth, he had entertained thoughts of taking a wife, but the opportunity had never arisen, and he had remained single until now. Gazing upon Hu Meier, he suddenly felt that his twenty years of austere cultivation had been wasted—what was the point of cultivating the Dao? This woman before him was his Dao.
Thereafter, Hu Meier came to the alchemy chamber every afternoon to "transcribe scriptures." Priest Jia grew more infatuated with each passing day. He began to pay attention to his appearance, donning a new Daoist robe, trimming his beard neatly, and speaking in a tone softer than usual. The novices of the temple noticed, whispering among themselves, though none dared say anything to his face.
After another fortnight, Priest Jia went so far as to clear out the second floor of the rear pavilion and move into it himself, claiming it was "more convenient for morning and evening devotions." Consequently, only a single floor now separated him from Hu Meier.
Late at night, moonlight filtered through the lattice window and fell upon Hu Meier's bedside. She lay on the straw mat, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. From above came the sound of Priest Jia tossing and turning, along with his indistinct, muffled mutterings in sleep. Mingled within those murmurs, her name surfaced from time to time.
Hu Meier gently rolled over and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Suddenly, she thought of their cave dwelling in Yanmen Mountain, of the peaceful days spent cultivating under her mother's guidance, of the time before her brother's leg was crippled when he would take her chasing wild rabbits through the forest glades. Back then, the sky was so blue, the stream water so clear. She didn't have to think about anything—just recite the arcane incantations after her mother, absorb the essence of the sun and moon, and feel herself drawing one step closer to attainment.
But what about now?
She closed her eyes, and a single tear slid silently from the corner of her eye, disappearing into the weave of the straw mat.
A month later, the novices of Qingxu Temple noticed that their master had changed. Priest Jia no longer performed morning rites, no longer meditated or cultivated, no longer even bothered with temple affairs. He spent his entire day on the second floor of the rear pavilion, dallying with the young woman surnamed Hu, drinking wine and making merry. Their laughter drifted from the window, echoing among the halls of Qingxu Temple. His complexion grew paler by the day, his eye sockets sunken, yet his spirit seemed unnaturally elated, as if he had taken some invigorating elixir.
No one noticed that whenever Priest Jia was alone with Hu Meier, his exhalations carried an exceedingly faint wisp of gray mist. The mist drifted from his mouth and nose, swirled in the air for a moment, and was then silently absorbed into the crimson mark at the center of Hu Meier's brow.
Nor did anyone notice that the old woman on the ground floor of the pavilion sat cross-legged every night, her hands forming a strange ritual gesture, her lips moving in a silent chant. Her lips moved so quickly and so softly that even her son beside her could not make out the words. One could only vaguely discern that as she chanted, within her graying hair, a strand or two would revert to its original silver-gray—the true color of fox-kind.
And Left Cripple, Hu Chuer, sat crouched at the entrance of the pavilion every night, guarding a pot of wine, drinking alone beneath the moon. He stared at the lamplight seeping from the second-floor window, listening to the faint laughter from above, his gaze complex. He knew what his mother and sister were doing, and he knew it was all for his leg. This debt of gratitude weighed too heavily upon him—so heavy that sometimes he felt his crippled leg wasn't worth such a price.
But he said nothing. He simply tilted his head back and gulped down another mouthful of wine, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then lowered his head and looked at his withered, deformed left leg. The hatred in his eyes was fiercer than the wine he drank.
That arrow had been shot by Zhao Dalang.
He remembered.