In the ancient land, amidst the Ten Thousand Great Mountains, lies the Ancient Demon Cave. Since the resurrection of the Beast Demon, the once dark and ominous atmosphere, with its black clouds pressing down and ghostly winds howling, had changed. Although the sky remained dim, the dense black fog that once gathered at the cave’s entrance had dissipated, and the perpetual eerie wind that blew from within the ancient cave had ceased.
Apart from the desolate mountains, only the stone statue of a woman standing at the entrance of the Ancient Demon Cave remained, steadfast against the elements. In front of this statue stood a young man in brilliantly colored silken robes, his appearance striking and even somewhat enchanting.
His face, paler than most women, bore fine eyebrows, deep red eyes, thin lips, and a sharp jawline. Upon closer inspection, his visage bore a faint resemblance to the stone statue.
Yet, the aura on their faces was completely different!
This young man was the resurrected Beast Demon. No one would have expected that the demon feared by countless Southern Border people would be such a handsome youth.
From the day of his resurrection, for some reason, he did nothing. He neither slaughtered nor rejoiced but merely stood silently before the stone statue, gazing intently.
A shadow flickered, and the Witch Demon glided noiselessly to stand behind the young man.
“Great Beast God.”
The young man remained still, not turning his head, and asked, “How goes it?”
The Witch Demon stared at his back, replying, “The thirteen Demon Kings have subdued all the remaining tribes in the Ten Thousand Great Mountains, and they now swear allegiance to you, Great Beast God.”
Only then did the young man stir, slowly turning around and inquiring indifferently, “How many tribes remain?”
The Witch Demon responded, “Only thirty-seven tribes now. In the last hundred years, without a leader, the tribes in the Ten Thousand Great Mountains have been fighting amongst themselves, and many have been annihilated.”
The young man gave a cold laugh, his face showing no sign of disappointment. Instead, there was a sense of defiant pride emanating from deep within him. His piercing gaze scanned the Witch Demon’s veiled face, which felt as if it were scorched by flame.
“Actually, it should be thirty-eight tribes,” the young man remarked calmly. “Isn’t there also the last descendant of the Black Witch Clan?”
The Witch Demon bowed his head, silent.
The young man slowly turned back, his gaze falling once more on the face of the stone statue of the witch maiden Linglong. After a long, contemplative silence, he called out, “Hei Mu.”
The Witch Demon’s body trembled; this name, like an open wound in his heart, pained him each time it was spoken.
Staring at the stone statue, the young man’s tone suddenly carried a hint of nostalgia, “After all these years, have you ever regretted anything in front of Linglong?”
The Witch Demon, after a long pause, murmured, “Yes.”
The young man, not turning back, his eyes gleaming with an odd light, continued in a low, eerie voice, “In this world, aside from your brother who became a vengeful spirit, only you know the relationship between me and Linglong. Back then, the eight of you pursued me through countless mountains and rivers. Now, it feels as if it happened just yesterday.”
The Witch Demon’s body, beneath the black veil, began to tremble slightly, the memories of the past vividly replaying in his mind.
But the young man paid no attention to the Witch Demon’s reaction. His words, more than directed at the Witch Demon, seemed to be a low, self-reflective soliloquy, his gaze fixed solely on the stone statue of the witch maiden.
“You,” his voice filled with a mix of sorrow, melancholy, and indignation, “What exactly were you doing?”
The stone statue remained silent, standing still.
“In your heart, are the lives of all beings and the fates decreed by the heavens so important?” The young man’s voice rose, becoming more agitated.
“If you deemed them more important than me, so you decided to eliminate me, is that it?” The young man’s face, though sinister and enchanting, wore a cold, eerie smile. “But do you know? I don’t care!”
“What nonsense about the will of heaven, what do the lives of the world matter?” His expression grew more fierce, and despite the terrifying look in his eyes, his face appeared more beautiful and otherworldly.
“Tell me to die, and it would be enough, do you know? Do you know?” he roared, addressing the stone statue. Then, his voice gradually lowered,
“But why… why did you value those things more than yourself, more than your own life…”
Slowly, he reached out, gently caressing the weathered, roughened face of the statue, recalling the gentle visage etched in his memory.
A cold, unyielding sensation seeped into his palm.
He opened his arms, gently embracing the statue, his expression softening. The Witch Demon, standing behind, watched this strange scene in silence.
“I know, it was the world that wronged you.” The young man half-closed his eyes, whispering as if in a dream, “Rest assured, I will make everything pay for your loss, and then I will come for you…”
“Wait for me…”
His voice faded into the air. The enchanting young man embraced the cold statue, while the Witch Demon stood motionless, a clap of thunder and raindrops beginning to fall from the overcast sky.
Rain fell in the wind, shrouding the world in a hazy mist. In the distance, the Witch Demon gazed at the stone statue, raindrops sliding down her face—like tears.
* * *
Three thousand miles east of the Azure Ethereal Vapors, along the ancient road extending from Kuang Sang Mountain to the southeast, lay a desolate wilderness. It was the season when the grass grew tall and the birds sang.
At the small inn owned by the He family, one day’s journey from Xiao Chi Town, stood alone by the roadside, welcoming and bidding farewell to passing travelers. The innkeeper, Mr. He, couldn’t remember the number of guests he had served, but over the past three days, he was certain he would remember one particular guest.
To be precise, it was a guest with a peculiar three-eyed monkey. This monkey left a deeper impression on Mr. He than the guest himself.
Three days ago, while Mr. He was standing outside the inn soliciting customers, he saw a weary, bewildered man walking along the ancient road, a three-eyed monkey perched on his shoulder. For some reason, he found the man familiar. As he approached to offer hospitality, the man suddenly vanished and reappeared seated at a table inside, tossing a large silver ingot onto the table.
Mr. He, delighted, served food and drink, but was surprised to see the guest and the monkey stay for three full days and nights, showing no signs of leaving.
The man was clearly in a bad state, rarely speaking or smiling. Each time Mr. He brought wine and food, the man would simply stare at the wine flask and drink slowly.
The man’s drinking capacity was poor, often collapsing after just a small amount. In stark contrast, the three-eyed monkey amazed Mr. He with its enormous capacity, consuming all the wine in the inn, including a jar of strong daughter red wine hidden behind an old locust tree.
The monkey, still unsatisfied, scampered about, demanding more. When Mr. He reluctantly sent a servant to fetch more wine, he found himself growing fond of the creature, especially when it entertained the guests with magical tricks, increasing his profits.
The gray-furred, three-eyed monkey’s owner, however, spent most of his time drunk, occasionally waking up to pet the monkey, then sinking back into his stupor.
Sometimes, Mr. He wondered if the man was mad, but he sensed something different about him. During the three nights, the usual mosquitoes and ghostly wails disappeared, leading Mr. He to an uneasy sleep.
On this evening, Mr. He, closing his account book, sighed. Looking at the elongated shadows in the fading light, he felt a sense of aging and wonder.
He approached the guest, who was, as usual, passed out on the table, and the monkey, eating and drinking contentedly.
Clearing his throat, Mr. He tentatively said, “Sir… the silver you paid three days ago has run out. Could you… perhaps…”
Before he could finish, a silver ingot clattered onto the table, placed there by the monkey. Mr. He pocketed it, then looked up as a voice came from the door.
“Is anyone here?”
Turning, Mr. He saw three figures: an elderly man, a young woman, and a middle-aged man. The old man, holding a bamboo staff with a sign reading “Immortal Guide,” was accompanied by a pretty girl and a man with a dog-like face.
Mr. He hurried to greet them, “Welcome, welcome! Are you here for a meal or a stay?”
The old man chuckled, “Don’t you recognize us, Mr. He?”
Confused, Mr. He scrutinized the old man, unable to place him. The old man shook his head, “Ah, pity. Most mortals lack the wisdom to see the celestial connection.”
Intimidated, Mr. He respectfully invited them in. The old man led the way, the girl shaking her head, and the dog-faced man following.
These three were none other than Monday Immortal, Little Ring, and the Wild Dog Daoist. After the battle at Dead Marsh, Wild Dog had traveled with Monday Immortal and Little Ring, initially met with scorn but eventually accepted and valued for his strength and labor.
Now, revisiting the area, they entered the inn, where Monday Immortal, noticing the young man and the three-eyed monkey, was surprised to hear Little Ring whisper, “Little Gray?”
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