Chapter 3: The Crayfish General Is Finally Captured

A lot happened in Songlin Village ten years ago.

Hong Yang’s parents sacrificed themselves, the Li family’s eldest girl defected, and Guan Damu’s noodle shop opened.

Some things Hong Yang only just found out.

Some things Li Qiuchen had known for a long time—more than Hong Yang did.

Villagers had no sense of secrecy; idle gossip about every trifling matter leaked countless details, all of which Li Qiuchen heard while pretending to know nothing.

Because Great-Uncle had eyes and ears in the village.

Two kids sneaking to the back hills at midnight couldn’t escape his notice.

The instant Hong Yang stepped into the village, villagers seized him and trussed him up like a rice dumpling.

‘Let me go! Let me go!’

Hong Yang stared in terror at the expressionless, cold-eyed uncles who had always greeted him warmly—tonight they looked terrifying.

‘Who allowed you to break the Seal on your own?’

Great-Uncle stepped from the crowd, face stern, voice sharp.

‘What Seal? Wait—how did you even know I broke it?’

Hong Yang shouted, but no one answered.

Great-Uncle said calmly, ‘Qiuchen feared something might happen to you, so he told me in advance. I never imagined you’d gamble every life in this village so recklessly, you little wretch!’

‘What?’

Hong Yang spun around, glaring at Li Qiuchen. ‘I treated you like a brother, and you sold me out?’

Every gaze swung to Li Qiuchen.

Li Qiuchen glanced at Hong Yang, then at Great-Uncle’s shadow-twisted face in the torchlight, and shook his head. ‘I didn’t.’

‘You’re lying!’

Hong Yang’s eyes were bloodshot, heartbroken.

‘Only the three of us knew. If it wasn’t you, was it Boss Guan?’

The villagers marched Hong Yang away. Great-Uncle stayed, leaning on his cane, studying Li Qiuchen.

The two boys had been inseparable since childhood, closer than true brothers, yet even brothers grow cracks; after this, trust would be hard to mend.

‘Great-Uncle, why did you lie?’

Li Qiuchen asked after a pause.

Great-Uncle smiled—that was the reaction a child should have.

A child has no deep schemes; after such grievous injustice, he couldn’t help but ask.

A bit slow, but no matter. Without the Pupil Technique, a Li was merely flesh and blood.

‘You’re still young; you don’t understand. Go home and sleep.’

‘What about Hong Yang?’

‘He caused great disaster. Without harsh punishment, we can’t appease the people. You’ve always been a good child—don’t follow his recklessness.’

‘All right.’

Li Qiuchen sighed inwardly; he still couldn’t play a child convincingly. At such moments, the emotions should be stronger—what child doesn’t cry and fuss?

Fortunately, Great-Uncle was no professional spy either, preoccupied and blind to such details.

Back home, Li Qiuchen lay on his bed and closed his eyes.

The image of the Crayfish General appeared in the darkness.

Nine feet long, pitch-black shell mottled with faint scars of blades and swords.

A thread of crimson light ran from the crown of its head into its body—the essence, and fatal spot, of the Crayfish Spirit.

It could also be called the shrimp vein.

In a village this small, trivia travels faster than the wind.

When Li Qiuchen stepped outside at dawn, a gang of kids pulled faces from afar, threw stones, and yelled, ‘Traitor! Spy!’

Before he could react, they scattered with a whoop.

They were the same kids who used to trail after him and Hong Yang, sleeping soundly all night, knowing nothing of traitors or spies.

Li Qiuchen glanced at the old willow swaying in the wind and said nothing.

Hong Yang was locked in the ancestral hall and flogged until, it was said, his skin split and he couldn’t stand.

Great-Uncle led the village’s able men in a grand charge to the back hills, fought the Crayfish General for three hundred rounds, and—at grievous cost—captured the Crayfish Spirit alive.

Battered but beaming, the villagers carried the trussed-up creature back; its huge frame amazed those who had stayed behind.

‘It’s as big as an old sow; once shelled, that’s a few hundred catties of meat!’

But none of it reached the villagers’ mouths. Great-Uncle announced that every scrap would be fed to Cherry Grass.

To calm them, he explained patiently, again and again: however abundant the crayfish meat, divided among households it would be only a mouthful each; once Cherry Grass Cultivates to Immortal Ascension, the whole village would feast on meat and fish every day.

Disappointed, the villagers finally accepted the explanation—after all, they had lived this way for years.

The scholars have a saying: one general… one general what was it? Right—one general’s fame is built on ten thousand bleached bones!

Immortal Ascension isn’t that easy. The ancestors of Songlin Village had their days of glory; everyone knows you must give before you gain. Grit your teeth and endure a few more years—once the village produces an Immortal, won’t the hard times be over?

Another big fellow had been added to the ancestral hall.

Hong Yang gagged with a rag, hands and feet tied, was thrown in a corner.

The Crayfish Spirit hung from the beam; they dared not let it touch the ground for fear it would escape by burrowing.

When the crowd had dispersed, Great-Uncle walked into the hall alone. The moment he sat down he burst into violent coughing; the fit ended with a mouthful of old blood splattering on the floor.

Seeing this, the Crayfish Spirit sneered, “Old turtle, you’re dying!”

If you’d stayed in the village and rested quietly you could have lived another two years. You insisted on fighting me head-on—let’s see how many days you’ve got left!”

Great-Uncle gave a wan smile. “Two years… how could that be enough? I want to live another two hundred!”

The Crayfish Spirit mocked, “Do I look like something you eat to add years to your life?”

Everyone says ginseng, lingzhi, or fleece-flower root prolongs life; nobody claims spicy crayfish does.

At this point, how will we know unless we give it a shot?”

Great-Uncle sighed. “I planned to wait till the fool grew up, use your aquatic demon power as a catalyst to rouse the true Dragon Bloodline in him. Never thought the idiot would run to the back mountain, bewitched by your lies, and nearly ruin my grand scheme!”

Now we must settle for second best: dig out your demon core and offer it to the Pharmacist in exchange for a little more favor…”

His voice dropped lower and lower until finally he closed his eyes and dozed off.

True Dragon Bloodline?”

The Crayfish Spirit glanced at Hong Yang huddled in the corner and sneered, “The old turtle never speaks a true word; you really think he’ll wait for you to grow up?”

Hong Yang, mouth still plugged, could only grunt twice.

At the same moment Li Qiuchen stood outside Pockmarked Wang’s gate, quietly watching what was happening inside.

This time Great-Uncle had paid a steep price for the expedition to the back mountain: every one of the village’s hundred-odd able-bodied men came back wounded. The worst, like Pockmarked Wang, had been practically disemboweled, blood all over the ground.

Anywhere else the family would already be preparing the funeral.

But under the Pharmacist’s protection an injury like this was far from fatal.

Pockmarked Wang lay in the courtyard while the big willow’s branches slowly drooped, coiling around him. A gentle power poured through the twigs, healing the ghastly wound in his chest at a speed visible to the eye.

The whole village was hushed; injured villagers everywhere were receiving the same treatment.

Their families knelt beside them, murmuring prayers to the Pharmacist’s mercy.

Li Qiuchen left without a sound, softening his steps, and slipped to the noodle-shop door.

Glancing at the motionless old elm by the entrance, he pushed the door open.

Boss Guan, idly flipping copper coins behind the counter, lifted a corner of his mouth when he saw him enter.

Great-Uncle’s eyes and ears were planted throughout the village; every move anyone made was under his surveillance. Whatever you said or did, he knew it all.

No villager dared speak ill of Great-Uncle in private—but after a few cups of horse-urine liquor who can resist the urge to grumble?

Li Qiuchen had studied insects, snakes, rats, even hunted for hidden cameras, and finally fixed his suspicions on the thirty-six ancient trees planted around the village in peculiar positions.

Right now those trees were fully occupied healing the wounded, presumably with no spare energy to spy on anyone else.

He stepped to the counter, dipped a finger in tea, and wrote three characters on its surface: —Is it enough?

Boss Guan gave a simple smile and tilted his head toward the back kitchen.

Inside the kitchen Boss Guan lifted a floorboard, revealing steps down to a cellar, and led Li Qiuchen below.

The moment he entered the cellar Li Qiuchen smelled the thick stench of sulfur.

The walls were hung with all manner of strange mechanisms and hidden weapons.

This was a craft Boss Guan had learned elsewhere, but Great-Uncle had denounced it as perverse ingenuity and ordered it sealed.

Why should this stuff count as perverse ingenuity?

Looking at the rows of dark iron lumps in the crates, Li Qiuchen guessed this was the real reason Great-Uncle had banned them.

Palm Thunder, also called hand cannon.

Common name: homemade bomb.

Is it enough? More than enough!

Right under Great-Uncle’s nose Boss Guan had rolled a full two crates—one hundred Palm Thunders. Beside them stood three big barrels packed with loose black powder.

Li Qiuchen picked one up, examined it carefully, and asked softly, “Will they work?”

“They’ll definitely work,”

Boss Guan muttered. “Problem is getting them to the right place and setting them off at the right time without Great-Uncle noticing.”

“In two days Great-Uncle will lead the clan in worship of the Pharmacist.”

Li Qiuchen set the Palm Thunder down and said gravely, “I’ll give Great-Uncle something to keep him busy. As for the rest—it’s all in your hands, Uncle.”