The Faithful

Li Huowang, bare-chested, drew ragged, agonized breaths.

He watched helplessly as his body split open and knit itself back together, imperceptible fissures lacing his flesh open and closed without his consent.

Sweat beaded and ran, sliding into the raw crimson gaps. His frame convulsed.

He had endured worse pain before—brief, punishing detonations of it. But this was a continuous presence. A pressure that did not break and only grew.

Bai Lingmiao tried to help. Possession trance. Invocation. Whatever she summoned, whatever she called down, none of it touched him.

Li Huowang knew it was useless. This torment came from a Siming—Bashe. What were alley-cats and stray dogs to a god?

The more he Ascended, the sharper his senses became, the faster his wounds closed. But Bashe was no longer content to wait for him to tear himself open. The god wanted to do the tearing Himself.

Rumor held that after enough Ascension, you became Bashe’s Heart-Pan. He was close now.

From what he could deduce, once he truly became Bashe’s Heart-Pan, the pain would never stop. He would be wrapped in anguish, every moment, every breath.

“What?” Li Huowang rasped at the agony clinging to his body. “Still trying to steal the Heart-Pan from Ji Zai? You still haven’t given up?”

Pain, being a sensation, did not answer. He was talking to himself. The relentless torment was starting to fray his thoughts.

But it did not last forever. After the time it took two sticks of incense to burn, the fissures on his body sealed shut.

“I—I need to rest.” Exhausted, wrung dry, Li Huowang collapsed backward and fell into a dead sleep.

Bai Lingmiao moved closer. Her heart ached at the sight of him. She brought a basin of warm water, dipped a cloth, wrung it out, and began to wipe his body clean.

The wounds had already scabbed over. As she wiped, the dried flakes slid off in clumps.

Li Sui’s tentacles reached over her shoulder, using their suckers to gather the fallen scabs. From behind, Bai Lingmiao heard quiet crunching.

After washing Li Huowang’s feet, Bai Lingmiao tucked the blanket around him and turned to leave.

“Suisui. Your father is very tired today. Sleep with him. Take care of him. Don’t let anyone disturb him.”

“Okay.” The tall, graceful Li Sui walked to the bed. She opened her small mouth; writhing tentacles slithered out and dove beneath the blanket.

When Li Sui folded her human body at the head of the bed, the way one might fold a piece of clothing, Bai Lingmiao turned and left the room.

Li Huowang is in real trouble now, the Er Shen’s voice sounded in her mind. If that rot isn’t cut out, this pain will follow him for the rest of his life.

Bai Lingmiao walked in silence.

Soon she reached a cramped alleyway. Every wooden door here bore a lotus—painted or hung. Dharma banners rustled under the eaves. This was White Lotus territory.

Beneath the White Lotus, all mortals are equal. The rich had no place here. Only the devout remained.

Through unlatched door-cracks, she could see clusters of people kneeling motionless in worship. Anyone who passed Bai Lingmiao on the street bowed their head and stood respectfully aside.

She came to a hall lit with hundreds of candles. At its center sat a glowing Twin Lotus, its white radiance flooding the room like daylight.

Bai Lingmiao knelt on a cushion, pressed her palms together, and began to pray silently before the lotus. Greatly compassionate Wusheng Laomu, your disciple begs you to deliver Senior Li from his suffering.

The lotus’s light flickered. Something shifted. Or perhaps nothing did.

After a long silence, Bai Lingmiao opened her eyes. “Your disciple willingly abandons all else to serve and worship you for the rest of her life. May Wusheng Laomu, in your mercy, receive me.”

“Your disciple is willing to recite your sutras ten thousand times. In utmost sincerity and reverence, I bow and chant your name.”

Then her voice dropped, soft but unyielding. “But you promised me once. If you ever use this matter to scheme against me, I will make you regret it.”

Having spoken those words in her gentle, cotton-soft tone, Bai Lingmiao touched her forehead to the ground three times, then bowed nine times.

The Twin Lotus blazed. A bolt of light shot into Bai Lingmiao’s brow. A profound, maternal compassion flooded her—and every other feeling drained away.

In the white emptiness, she saw something.

Li Huowang. Twisted, abstracted.

A surge of blood-red crowded his left side. And from his right side, a second Li Huowang crawled out of his own palm. This one was wrong. It had no back—both sides were front.

The two-faced Li Huowang and the red mass pulled at the real Li Huowang from both ends. The force built and built until Li Huowang was torn in two.

Bai Lingmiao gasped back to herself. She understood immediately what Wusheng Laomu was telling her.

It was a prophecy. Or a warning. Li Huowang could not keep using the Ao-Jing Sect’s arts. Especially not the Ascension. If he continued, he would truly split in half.

“Thank you, greatly good and compassionate Wusheng Laomu. Your disciple is grateful.” She knelt and bowed several more times, then rose and hurried back toward Li Huowang’s room.

But as she reached the mouth of the alley, she saw Lyu Xiucai walking toward her, his face haggard.

“Shiniang.” He bowed his head.

She noticed his left hand was missing two fingers. “Don’t use the Thousand Greats Record anymore,” she said, and then she was gone.

Watching her leave, Lyu Xiucai turned into a single-story house deeper in the alley. Reverently, he lit three sticks of incense, bowed to the White Lotus painted on the wall, and inserted them into the censer. Then he prostrated himself on the ground before the image, motionless.

“Your disciple Lyu Xiucai has made his decision. No marriage. No children. No meat. No wine. No gold or silver. I offer my flesh to bear the Three Calamities and Three Tribulations for Wusheng Laomu.”

A middle-aged woman came out from the corner of the room. It was Lian Zhibei, the same one who had first approached Bai Lingmiao.

She stripped Lyu Xiucai’s clothes from his scarred back.

Before the lotus painting, she took out her tattooing needle and began to work on his skin.

When the ink grew light, she dipped the needle into the painted lotus on the wall, then resumed.

Each needle-prick stabbed deep into his back. Lyu Xiucai’s face went white, but he did not move. He bit his jaw shut and endured.