Chapter 33: The Black-Scaled Giant Python

Lu Xin had never intended to go to Mount Qingqiu to subdue any fox spirit. Yet the “Brahma Light Seal of the Daoist Sect” imparted to him by Master Shi Dao’an was the very essence of his lifetime’s cultivation. When one is granted the Way, one must honor the teacher. Now that Shi Dao’an’s soul had vanished—likely scattered to oblivion—Lu Xin felt compelled to fulfill the deceased’s last wish. After all, the old monk’s intentions had been for his sake.

As for Tu Chengli, who clung to him with the shameless persistence of a barnacle, Lu Xin could do little about it. Back at Black Tiger Ridge, he had only paid for the scholar’s tea out of courtesy—because the man’s surname was Tu, and he hailed from Yin County—reminding Lu Xin of the days he’d spent at Old Man Tu’s house, softening his heart. Now, however, it seemed he’d acquired a tail. Not only was Tu’s mouth incessantly noisy, but he ate more than his share.

“Xin, are we really going to catch some fox spirit? You’re pulling my leg. In a desolate place like this, where would a demon show up? Even if there were one, it’d be ugly as sin. Why don’t we head back? The weather looks good—we can still make it down the mountain.”

“Exactly, hurry up and leave. Otherwise, when the demon drains your life force, you’ll end up a dried corpse.”

“No way, how could I abandon you to enjoy glory and wealth alone? Brothers stick together—if we go, we go together; if we die, we die together, ha ha ha…”

The scholar knew nothing of Lu Xin, save his name; he did not even know Lu Xin’s age or origins. Judging by his behavior these past days, he simply wanted to follow Lu Xin to Chang’an, hoping to secure a full belly on the way. The two journeyed westward through the depths of the mountains, bickering and bantering all the while, bringing a lively air to the lonely wilderness.

In the spring mountain, serpents, insects, rats, and ants abounded. Lu Xin did not dare to hurry; by noon, they had covered only about thirty li. They had left the ruined temple at sunrise, so they had already been walking six or seven hours.

“Xin, my legs are numb—why don’t we stop for a rest and eat some rations before we go on? I saw the biscuits in your pack are all crumbled—if we don’t eat them soon, they’ll be inedible.”

“This is the shady side of the mountain, damp and dark—exactly where venomous snakes like to linger. It’s unsafe to stay here long. Let’s wait until we reach the slope before we rest.”

“But my legs are numb—carry me, then.”

“Numb, my foot! Carry you… Go if you want, die if you must.”

Years spent traversing the mountains with tea shipments had taught Lu Xin never to rest in perpetually shaded or especially damp places—particularly in Jiangnan, where the hills and forests teemed with poisonous creatures.

But the scholar cared not a whit; curling his lip, he plopped himself down at the base of a tree. Lu Xin glanced back. The trunk was so massive that it would take two big men to encircle it, and the boughs were thick and lush, blocking out the sky—it must have stood for hundreds, if not a thousand years.

“Get up. The shade here is heavy with yin energy. If there are any spirits in this mountain, they’ll be attached to this tree.”

“Oh, come on, Xin—books say, ‘A clear conscience has nothing to fear at midnight.’ I’m an innocent youth—why would I fear ghosts? Did you see me cower before that ghostly monk in the ruined temple?”

…

Lu Xin took Tu Chengli’s words as nonsense, but when he saw the scholar remove his shoes and reveal feet bloodied from blisters, he could only shake his head and relent. He himself was used to mountain roads and practiced in light footwork; he barely felt tired. For an ordinary person, though, open blisters made the journey excruciating.

So the two sat beneath the great tree and shared their dry rations. Lu Xin wasn’t hungry; the scholar devoured almost an entire biscuit himself.

“We’ve been walking for hours—why aren’t you hungry? Are martial artists really so tough? How about you give me all the rations and see how long you can last?”

“Shut it, or I’ll lose control and kill you.”

“Xin…”

“I said, stop calling me Xin!”

“Alright, Xin—cough, I mean, Brother Lu. Do you think the fox spirit can turn into a human? What if it’s not powerful enough and only becomes half a person? Would it count as a human or a demon?”

“A demon in human skin.”

“A demon in human skin? Now that’s a phrase—demon in human skin… ha! Sounds commanding, suits me well.”

…

Every time he spoke with Tu Chengli, Lu Xin ended up exasperated. How could a gluttonous layabout like him possibly have the patience for study or the talent for poetry, let alone become famous in Yin County? The thought that he still had so far to walk to Chang’an filled him with melancholy. Rubbing his temples in resignation, Lu Xin rose to stretch his gaze into the distance—and that’s when he caught sight of numerous scratches on the tree trunk.

“What’s this?”

Lu Xin’s pupils contracted, his face growing grave. The marks on the bark—left by animals passing by—were of various kinds, but the deepest one spiraled upward around the trunk. Lu Xin measured its width with his hand and drew a sharp breath.

“Xin, what are you staring at so intently?”

“Move—now. There’s something wrong with this place. You sure know how to pick a spot.”

Rustling! Rustle, rustle, rustle!

Barely had Lu Xin pulled Tu Chengli up to leave when a sound of something moving through the grass came from behind. With it came a heavy, bestial breathing. The scholar’s legs turned to jelly; he stammered in terror.

“Wha-what is that…? Why is there breathing? Xin, Xin, I—I can’t walk!”

“Damn it, why did you have to tag along, just to eat and eat and eat!”

Lu Xin cursed, nerves taut. Annoyed as he was with Tu Chengli, he couldn’t abandon him. As he bent to carry the scholar, a roar exploded in his ear.

A massive black serpent burst from the brush, jaws agape, lunging straight for them. Its body was as thick as a millstone; with its jaws open, it could have swallowed not only the two of them but an entire ox. The stench of decay swept over them, foul and suffocating.

Lu Xin had never seen a python so enormous; he dared not meet it head-on, so he grabbed the scholar and rolled aside.

“Jet black from head to tail, with a fleshy lump on its head… Is this one of those legendary serpents about to transform into a dragon?”

Though only its head and part of its body emerged, the beast already stretched over ten meters. Its scales gleamed black as ink, with a strange luster. Over the past two years, as Lu Xin traveled the mountain roads between Hangzhou and Shanyin, he’d heard many legends from old tea traders; the tale of the python turning into a dragon was the most oft-repeated.

He had never believed it—dismissing it as fearful peasants mistaking a giant snake for a monster. Now, faced with this sight, he felt as though a black dragon was hunting him.

The python missed its strike, then turned its massive head to glare down at the two youths. Its eyes, huge and lantern-bright, glowed yellow in the dimness. Pressed tight against the mountainside, Lu Xin and Tu Chengli had nowhere left to run. Neither dared to move or even breathe.

The serpent swayed its head, flicking its tongue. Ropy saliva dripped from its maw, making Lu Xin nauseated.

“Xin, Xin, I believe you now—this cursed place really does have monsters!”

“Enough talk. When I count to three, climb up. Don’t look back, or you’ll be snake food.”

“Climb up? Why not run downhill?”

“Are you stupid? You think you can outrun a snake downhill? It slides! Listen. I’ll count—one, two, three—run!”

With a shout, Lu Xin drew his sword and charged the monster. The snake, caught off-guard, looked down—and in that instant, Lu Xin plunged his blade through its scales into flesh. At the same time, Tu Chengli scrambled up the slope, screaming as if his life depended on it.

“Xin, hold on! If you die, this top scholar dies with you! Hold on—this battle concerns the fate of all under heaven, the rise and fall of the Tang!”

“Shut up, damn you!”

Though the Youxian Sword was sharp, Lu Xin’s strength was nothing against the python’s bulk. The beast, enraged by pain, thrashed its body, flinging Lu Xin a dozen meters away. He barely managed to land on a tree trunk thanks to his agility; otherwise, he’d have rolled all the way down the mountain.

Roars echoed through the mountains as the python shook with fury. Yet oddly, it did not turn to bite Lu Xin but instead lunged at Tu Chengli. They were less than twenty meters apart. The scholar had just reached a rise when a black shadow blotted out the sun, plunging the world into darkness.

“Not good!”

Seeing Tu Chengli snatched up by the python, Lu Xin’s face went pale. Without thinking, he leapt onto the serpent’s back, his sword flashing with a cold light. Each step left a bloody hole in the snake’s flesh.

Surprisingly, the python seemed terrified of the Youxian Sword. Instead of fighting back, it writhed and howled, its coils smashing trees to splinters and grinding rocks to dust.

“Foul beast! We have no quarrel—withdraw, at once!”

Lu Xin didn’t care what the python feared. With a furious shout, he sprang toward its head. Perhaps the serpent understood human speech, for it bobbed its massive head twice and slithered away, leaving a trail of blood on the earth. Tu Chengli lay battered and unconscious, his fate uncertain.

“Brother Tu, how are you? Wake up, wake up!”

Lu Xin checked for breath—the scholar’s was weak, but he lived. After several moments, Tu slowly opened his eyes.

“I—I believe you now. But why didn’t it bite you? Why did it chase me instead…”

“Enough. Don’t speak. Your wounds are stained with snake blood—you need them cleaned immediately. Most pythons aren’t venomous, so you should be fine. We need to get to a nearby valley and find clean spring water and some healing herbs.”

“What do you mean, ‘should’? If it is venomous, I’m done for…”

Tu’s voice grew weaker, his face deathly pale. Lu Xin had no patience for complaints; hoisting the scholar on his back, he climbed toward the mountain slope without another word.