Though Tanshan claimed the villagers harboured a wisp of deathly qi, after questioning them along the way, Bian Yonglan could discern no difference between them and ordinary people.
When they had come in initially, they’d passed a house at the lane entrance and seen a child squatted at the doorway, urinating and playing with the mud, only to be hauled inside by his mother and beaten until he wailed. It was hard to say which scene was livelier: this one or the quarrelling couple next door who’d been at it since dawn.
Passing a knife-sharpening stall he noticed the young owner. In a town of barely a hundred households, running such a business seemed unlikely to yield much trade. The lad appeared lazy and somewhat crafty, pestering Bian Yonglan to be his first customer. When the Marquis of Wanjiang drew his blade to intimidate him, saying, “Even if I dared allow you to sharpen this blade for me, would you dare touch it?”, the stallholder didn’t back down.
“What’s there to be afraid of?” The grinning stallholder reached out to take the blade, only to see the questioner glare at him before hauling the monk beside him away in long strides. Playful banter drifted back: “See? He dares touch my blade. Still won’t admit you’re just being paranoid?”
Precisely because these folk seemed so human, Bian Yonglan found himself wavering beneath his guard: had news travelled too slowly five years prior, leaving villagers unaware of the national required mourning? Or were they bold enough to defy punishment? Yet Xuantu was a major county, not too distant from the capital—such disregard seemed unlikely…
While he pondered this the shoe making wife paused her work. Eyes lowered, she did not meet his gaze, yet her tone had lost its warmth. Slowly, deliberately, she asked: “What day should it be?”
“The fifth year of Yongyan, eighth day of the third month.” Before Bian Yonglan could speak, the monk had already answered for him in a calm voice.
The words had scarcely left his lips when even the Marquis of Wanjiang—a man who practised neither Buddhism nor Daoism—felt the sky suddenly darken. To Tanshan’s eyes, it was a surge of deathly qi rising skyward—not the kind emanating from one or two corpses, but a roiling, suffocating force. This entire town, he feared, held no living soul beyond the two of them and their two horses.
“—Hiss!”
The alley was narrow; they hadn’t led their horses inside, merely tethering them at the entrance. They had no idea what the situation outside the alley was now. All Bian Yonglan could hear was the pitiful whinny of his beloved steed in its death throes, but there was no time to spare to think about that. He raised his sword to parry the hands that suddenly lunged at his chest. For the first time, he realised he couldn’t underestimate an old woman’s strength. His single blade struggled to hold her off; only by channelling his internal strength did he manage to push away the woman who was determined to strangle him.
“Withdraw beyond the town first!” Bian Yonglan could have drawn his blade to kill her. The sight of the old woman retreating a few steps only to lunge back gave him ample opportunity to slay her ten times over. But seeing this woman who had only moments before been chatting and laughing with him was still recognisable as human, and even though her throat made hollow sounds and her gaze was unfocused and vacant, he ultimately could not bring himself to strike.
“Go up.” Tanshan had said he wasn’t skilled in martial arts, but he scaled the roof with surprising speed. With a light tap of his bamboo staff, he rose from the ground, effortlessly hoisting the Marquis of Wanjiang up beside him.
Bian Yonglan glanced back. From the height, he saw a horrifying sight at the alley entrance: his beloved horse lay dead, its head torn off as if someone had wrenched it clean from its body, while the other horse had been cleaved clean in two from head to rump. The crafty looking knife vendor now wore no trace of his usual flippant expression. His face was rigid and wooden as he strode into the alley, a butcher’s cleaver of unknown origin in hand, and his entire body drenched in horse’s blood.
Behind him trailed several villagers equally as rigid and more poured out from every alleyway. Evidently the entire village had become like that old woman—all seeking the lives of these two outsiders.
“Are these people living or dead?”
“Likely living corpses, clinging to life.”
In just two sentences, the pair had sprinted across rooftops and out of the town, only to find themselves once before the dismounting stele at the town entrance[1]. They had left the town from its rear-end facing the mountain, yet inexplicably returned to the very entrance they had departed from.
Not only had they returned, but the entire town had come back—Bian Yonglan raised his eyes to look towards the town centre, where a scene of morning bustle and thriving activity unfolded. But behind them there were no horses; only two figures stood side by side, rooted to the spot, reminding them that what had just transpired was no dream.
“Since they are corpses, they are dead after all,” the Marquis of Wanjiang withdrew his gaze and picked up where he had left off.
“Ordinary living corpses do not possess such intense vitality,” Tanshan remarked without surprise. The Marquis of Wanjiang had never seen anything but an expressionless face from him. “Had you not revealed they had been dead for so long, they likely would not have suddenly attacked.”
“When did they die? Certainly not merely five years ago.”
“I cannot say. Only that this corpse barrier proves exceptionally difficult to breach,” Tanshan remarked, tapping the ground lightly with his bamboo staff. “Never in my life have I witnessed a barrier erected by hundreds of walking corpses working with a common purpose.”
“…At least we know they’re not living people.” The Marquis of Wanjiang didn’t dwell on the monk’s odd use of the phrase ‘working with a common purpose,’ merely breathing a silent sigh of relief—if they weren’t living people, the worst outcome would be clearing a path by killing.
Before the Marquis could draw in the breath he’d exhaled, the monk strode without hesitation into the town centre.
Huala—even the basin of washing water, narrowly avoiding its target, was identical. Only this time, it nearly splashed not him, but the monk who had entered the town first.
“Aiya! I didn’t see anyone coming—did I—”
The young wife remained the same young wife, but before her question could be asked Tanshan firmly cut her off: “It’s the fifth year of Yongyan, eighth day of the third month.”
“…………” The Marquis of Wanjiang observed this exchange between the monk and the young wife clutching her basin, letting out an untimely snort of scorn. He thought to himself that this monk certainly knew how to adapt to local customs: which was quite outrageous.
But this outrageous monk possessed the means to stand his ground. Before the corpse could shift, Tanshan’s bamboo staff slammed into the limestone pavement, ringing out the crisp sound of metal and stone connecting.
The bamboo staff, stripped of its illusion, revealed itself as a Buddhist staff[2]. Sunk three cun into the ground, its nine golden rings began to vibrate and hum without Tanshan’s touch. The monk raised his hand and lightly plucked one ring, which set all nine into a chain reaction that produced a series of melodious, resonant chimes.
These chimes, though not particularly loud, pierced straight to the soul. Bian Yonglan felt his mind clear instantly, recognising it as the Buddhist’s soul-soothing sound.
The young woman clutching the basin froze in place at the sound of the soul-soothing chant, her eyes unfocused. Yet her fingers tightened around the basin’s rim, her white knuckles betraying a stubborn refusal to yield.
The monk halted the shambling corpses filling the street before striking the Buddha’s staff with his palm. The staff remained upright, yet the clashing of golden rings no longer produced a melodious sound. Instead, a thunderous roar surged forth, as if a furious shout echoed from beyond the heavens—The Buddha shouted: “Bah[3]!”
“Wuu…” Linu let out a mournful whimper, leaping from Bian Yonglan’s shoulder. Instantly returning to its true form, the towering creature knelt obediently before the monk, bowing its head as if beseeching the Buddha’s mercy.
Tanshan stroked the beast’s head with one hand while striking the staff with the other. His monk’s robe billowed fiercely, stirred without wind.
A more thunderous Buddhist chant echoed from beyond the heavens, angrily rebuking this demonic barrier which was unwelcome in the world.
When the Buddha rages, ten thousand demons fall dead, yet mortals remain unwilling to accept their fate. With a crack, the young woman clutching the basin snapped her own joint knuckles clean off, the wooden basin shattering along with the sound.
She clutched her hands which were now were protruding white bone, eyes fixed skyward. Two streams of brown, foul blood flowed from her eyes as she threw her head back and let out a piercing howl!
Not only did she, but all the living corpses filling the streets and towns revealed their true forms amidst the Buddha’s chanting. Some lay with heads split open and blood streaming; others had limbs severed; still others bore rotting putrid faces and protruding tongues. All raised their heads to the heavens in unison, letting out piercing, shrill howls.
These beings, human in life yet now mere walking corpses, seemed consumed by a thousand grievances and ten thousand grudges. A hatred so fierce it dared challenge both the heavens and the Buddha!
Tanshan’s expression grew grave. As he prepared to strike another spell-breaking seal, he suddenly halted, his arm sweeping out to steady the figure swaying beside him.
“Yonglan?” A flicker of surprise finally crossed the monk’s face. This demon-subduing chant harmed no living soul, yet he hadn’t noticed that Bian Yonglan seemed so distressed he could scarcely stand.
“…I’m fine.” The Marquis of Wanjiang pushed the monk’s hand away, his voice hoarse.
He couldn’t fathom why his mind felt dull and heavy, as if imprisoned within a bell—or perhaps he was the bell itself. Each Buddhist chant struck his spiritual core, as though attempting to shatter something within his very soul… With the monk withdrawing his subduing technique, the bell ceased its futile tolling.
“Do not force yourself,” the monk advised, his tone calm yet his hand moving with the force of a thousand catties[4]. The demon-subduing melody ceased, and the street filled with shrieking, lunging corpses. Tanshan swung his staff in a sweeping arc; the first two corpses to meet its swing were struck as if thrown against a mountain side, blood gushing from their seven orifices[5], bones shattering upon impact. And yet they still crawled forward while howling.
Bian Yonglan steadied his spirit and guarded his mind. Moments later, clarity returned to his mind. He looked again: few corpses remained upright, but many lay sprawled with their limbs twisted, still struggling to crawl towards them.
“I suggest you spare yourself the trouble,” the Marquis of Wanjiang declared, drawing his blade to sever a head. A strand of thick blood clung to the metal. “Better that I grant them a swift end.”
“Linu, take position behind me.” The Marquis of Wanjiang called back the eager beast, then raised his blade to meet the tide of undead surging from the far end of the street. Hundreds of these monstrous corpses, whipped into a frenzy by the demon-subduing chant, now crawled with such sluggishness it seemed a mockery of their once horse-like speed.
You have already died once. What harm is there in dying again?
The Marquis of Wanjiang neither retreated nor dodged. His gaze fixed, blade poised, he raised his arm once more. The blade descended in that very reverse-hand strike that had earned him renown amidst the chaos of battle, later becoming legendary throughout the martial world: Severing Fate[6].
Blades may vary in length, yet the intent behind the blade knows no measure.
Where the blade’s edge passed, the foremost row of living corpses had their heads severed in unison. Yet the blade did not rest, and the second wave met the same fate—throats split in a single stroke. By the third wave, they encountered the deadliest, most unyielding sword intent within this technique—heads severed, flying skyward before finally collapsing into the muddy dust.
Half a lifetime’s reckless blade cuts three folds,
Love and hate through the ages are buried in the same earth.
In this life ask not of cause and effect,
After death, is it not but yellow earth?
Never uttering regret, thus pressing onward courageously.
Hence the name: Severing Fate.
Author’s Note: Lanlan’s signature verse (not) adapted from Xu Yueqing’s “Epitaph for Li Zuocang”. Lanlan, who attained enlightenment by gazing upon the tides, is utterly magnificent. I must treat him better.
[1] A stone tablet or stele usually erected outside villages/important buildings, showing the nearest place to the location where riders should dismount their horses
[2] A khakkhara used by monks. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khakkhara
[3] Actually pronounced closer to ‘daw’, but it doesn’t translate well
[4] About 600kg
[5] Ears, nostrils, eyes, mouth
[6] 斩因缘 literally severing karma/fate
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