Heaven's warning
Thick darkness, like solidified grease, pressed heavily upon the Qin army camp on the north bank of the Wei River. The daytime clamor of drills and the clanging of weapons had long since fallen silent, replaced by another, more chilling sound—a chorus of heart-wrenching coughs, like the wails of dying beasts, echoing through the deathly silence of the barracks, then carried away by the howling river wind to the distant, rotting riverbanks. The air was so foul it seemed you could wring water from it, a mixture of the stench of sweat, the acrid smell of cheap wound medicine, the stench of excrement, and a faint, sweet, fishy odor, like the slow decay of dead fish in the mud—the scent of a plague spreading silently.
Xiao Yuxuan lay on the hard wooden planks of the low military tent, his consciousness swirling between boundless heat and sharp, agonizing pain. Each heavy breath felt like tearing at the wound in his ribs, ripped open by a filthy wooden stake; the burning pain was like countless red-hot steel needles piercing his flesh. The high fever seared every inch of his skin like an invisible branding iron, sweat soaking through his thin linen robe, clinging coldly to his burning body, bringing waves of chilling stickiness. Yet, deep within his body, a bone-chilling cold surged, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. The raging blood-red waves of the Wei River, the empty, numb eyes of the craftsmen in the Black Stone Fortress furnace, the "hatred" and "hanging knife" marks etched into the bamboo slips soaked in blood and tears in the corner of the stone house… these fragmented nightmares spun, collided, and roared wildly in his burning, chaotic sea of consciousness.
“…water…” His throat was as dry as a cracked riverbed, and the voice he managed to squeeze out was hoarse and weak.
"Bai Jiang! Bai Jiang, hold on!" Sheng Guo's deeply lined face, etched with anxiety and exhaustion, was very close, his cloudy eyes bloodshot. His rough, bark-like hands clumsily wiped Xiao Yuxuan's burning forehead and neck with a tattered rag soaked in icy river water, trying to ease the heat. "Old Wu's medicine... I've given it to him twice, but this fever... it just won't go down!" His voice was filled with barely concealed fear as his gaze swept across the tent. "Outside... the cough is getting worse and worse, just like after the Wei River that year... exactly the same!"
Just then, the previously deathly quiet and oppressive camp outside the tent was suddenly broken by a sudden commotion. Suppressed discussions, the clanging of armor, and even panicked shouts came from afar.
"Halt! Who dares to trespass on military grounds?!"
"You heretic! Cease your wicked words to mislead the masses!"
"Get out of the way! Take another step forward and you will be killed on sight!"
Sheng Guo suddenly stood up alertly, placed his hand on the hilt of the short sword at his waist, and cautiously lifted a corner of the tent flap to look outside.
In the flickering torchlight near the gate, a squad of armored soldiers with halberds were nervously surrounding a figure. The man wore a faded, stiffened, dark blue robe with wide sleeves, untouched by the mud and blood of the military camp. He wore no crown, only a simple wooden hairpin holding his graying hair in a bun. His face was lean, his wrinkles deep and etched, yet he possessed a gentle peace that seemed out of place in this filthy and despairing place. Most unforgettable were his eyes, calm and deep as ancient pools with cold stars, clearly reflecting the surrounding chaos, filth, and panic, yet remaining undisturbed himself. It was Yun Youzi.
He ignored the cold halberd pointed at him, and the bewildered shouts of the Italian soldiers. His gaze swept past the crowd, landing on the depths of the low-lying, muddy camp, on the filthy ditch overflowing with filth, on the distant mound where fallen soldiers lay buried, the fresh soil barely compacted, and on the despair and resentment that permeated the air. He took a deep breath; the foul air seemed not to bother him, only his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, as if he were savoring some unpleasant taste.
“The resentment is pent up, like hot water poured on snow, it has become a breeding ground for chronic illness.” Yun Youzi’s voice was not loud, but every word was clear, with a strange penetrating power, like ice beads rolling down a jade plate, coldly hitting the restless night sky. “The corpses are buried shallowly, the filthy water flows freely, the resentment rises to the sky and soaks into the earth, interacting with the damp miasma and resentment. This is not the wound of weapons, but the path to self-destruction.”
"Shut up! Spreading rumors and inciting unrest!" A garrison commander, clad in armor, gripped his sword and roared, his face ashen. "If you dare to spout nonsense again and disrupt the morale of the army, you will be executed without mercy!"
Yun Youzi calmly turned his gaze to the military commander, as if looking at a stubborn rock: "When Mars guards the constellation of Yu Gui, and the moon is surrounded by a triple halo with a reddish tinge, it foretells a great plague and war. The rats in the camps roam freely day and night, as frantic as stray dogs; the grass and trees near the water are withered and scorched, and the earth's vapors are tinged with a putrid smell. All the celestial signs and terrestrial omens warn of this. The malevolent energy has taken hold, and the plague is about to break out; no human power can quickly turn the tide."
His words coldly dissected the root cause of the plague's spread, as if stating a natural fact that was irrelevant to him yet undeniable. The soldiers around him only half understood, but the words "Mars guarding the heart" and "great plague and war" slithered into their ears like cold, venomous snakes. Combined with the increasing number of patients and the oppressive despair in the camp, an even greater panic silently spread among the crowd, and whispers proliferated like a plague.
"Nonsense!" The military commander's forehead veins bulged, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. "This is alarmist talk, disrupting the morale of our troops! Seize him!"
"Wait!" A slightly weak yet undeniably authoritative voice rang out. Xiao Yuxuan, somehow managing to sit up, leaned against Sheng Guo. His face was deathly pale, cold sweat beading on his forehead, but his bloodshot eyes, swollen from a high fever, were fixed on Yun Youzi. The blood-stained bamboo slips from Black Stone Fortress pressed tightly against his chest; the heavy sense of guilt clashed with the Daoist's all-knowing gaze, sending a jolt through him. "Let him... finish speaking!"
Yun Youzi's gaze finally settled on Xiao Yuxuan. His calm eyes lingered for a moment on Xiao Yuxuan's contorted face, the gruesome wound on his ribs, and the surging, fiery aura emanating from him. There was no pity, only a knowing understanding that saw right through him. He didn't approach Xiao Yuxuan, but instead addressed the military officer and everyone who could hear him clearly:
"The way of Heaven operates in its own order. It cannot be forced, nor can it be avoided. However, the Great Way is fifty, Heaven expands to forty-nine, and man escapes one. If you want to find a way to survive, you should follow the principles of Heaven and go with the flow."
"First, leave this abyss of malevolent energy as soon as possible! Choose a high and dry place, near a source of flowing water, away from the mouth of the evil wind, and set up a new camp. When the earth's energy is clear and bright, the malevolent energy will naturally dissipate by three-tenths."
"Secondly, bury the corpses deep and do not expose them. Dredge the filth and divert the filth into the wilderness. Gather the filth at the north windward side of the camp and burn it to eliminate the source of disease."
"Thirdly, in an open area of the camp, take dried mugwort, cypress leaves, and atractylodes, and burn them to ward off evil. The rising smoke can slightly relieve the pent-up anger."
"Fourth," he paused slightly, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the soldiers—some terrified, some numb, some filled with resentment—""He continued, "the people are filled with anxiety and resentment, which is like adding fuel to the fire, fueling the evil. When you rise in the morning and stand facing east, calm your mind and exhale slowly and deeply, making a 'shh—' sound. With your mind, expel all the turbid air, vexation, and fear from your chest, like the autumn wind sweeping away dust. Repeat nine times. This is to guide the turbid air, harmonize the body and mind, and follow the natural rhythm of life."
He didn't offer any miraculous elixirs, but rather a **clumsy method in accordance with the laws of nature**: moving, cleaning, burning trash, and adjusting breathing. This mundane, almost laughable "solution" was a far cry from the soldiers' fantasies of "the Taoist priest eradicating all illnesses with a wave of his hand," and disappointed hisses and even more desperate sighs rose from the crowd. The military officer scoffed, "Absurd! Moving camp? Burying deep? Burning filth? And 'breathing' facing east? It's utterly ridiculous! Throw this mad Taoist out!"
The armored soldiers hesitated before stepping forward. Yun Youzi's expression remained unchanged, as if he had expected this all along. He said no more, his gaze finally settling on Sheng Guo, his eyes seeming to pierce through to the heart.
"As for this general," his voice clearly reached Sheng Guo's ears, "his mind is in turmoil, his blood and qi are in disarray, his internal organs are burning, and external injuries have attracted evil influences, which have already become a raging fire. Forcibly suppressing it is like adding fuel to the fire. You can tell him to contemplate a glimmer of life, like the deep roots of an ancient locust tree, calmly rooted in the ground, unmoving and unshakable. His breathing should be like the autumn wind passing through the forest, slow, long, and rhythmic. Inhale to draw pure qi into the roots, and exhale to carry turbid heat away from the branches. Once the mind is clear, perhaps he can get a breath of fresh air."
Having said that, he nodded very slightly in Xiao Yuxuan's direction, his eyes calm and profound, as if he had already seen through the heavy weight of the blood-written letter and the unwavering determination to "stop the war" in Xiao Yuxuan's heart. Then, his wide Taoist robe fluttered slightly in the filthy night wind, and ignoring the surrounding armored soldiers, he turned and walked into the thick darkness outside the gate. The armored soldiers were intimidated by his transcendent demeanor and momentarily forgot to stop him.
"Daoist Master! Wait!" Sheng Guo called out urgently, but Yun Youzi's figure had already blended into the darkness and disappeared, leaving behind only a camp filled with surprise, disappointment, and even greater panic.
“General Bai! This…” Sheng Guo stared in the direction where Yun Youzi had disappeared, then looked at Xiao Yuxuan, who was writhing in pain inside the tent, her mind in turmoil. Those methods sounded… too unreliable! But the look the Taoist priest gave General Bai at the end, and those words about the “deep roots of the locust tree”…
“Sheng…guo…” Xiao Yuxuan’s voice was weak, yet carried a strange persistence. “He said…do it…moving the camp is impossible…cleaning…cleaning is possible!” The blood-written letter from the Black Stone Fortress craftsmen burned his heart like a branding iron. If even the most basic filth in the camp couldn’t be cleaned, how could they talk about “stopping the war”? Perhaps this was the first step shown by Heaven?
Sheng Guo, seeing the unwavering determination in Xiao Yuxuan's eyes, gritted his teeth and shouted, "Yes, sir!" He burst out of the military tent and yelled at the still bewildered soldiers, "What are you all standing there for? Didn't you hear me? If you don't want to cough yourself to death in this mud pit, grab your weapons! Bury the dead! Clear the stinking ditches! Burn the garbage! Now!"
Perhaps out of fear of death, or perhaps infected by Sheng Guo's ferocity, some soldiers hesitated before taking action. Others watched numbly, or continued to cough hysterically in the corners.
Inside the tent, Xiao Yuxuan slumped back onto the wooden plank. The violent movement aggravated his wounds, causing him excruciating pain that made his vision blur and he nearly faint. The feverish fog enveloped him even more fiercely. Sheng Guo's words, relayed by him, stubbornly echoed in his chaotic mind: "Consider a glimmer of life...like the deep roots of an ancient locust tree...quietly settling into the earth..."
On the banks of the Wei River! That young locust tree that stubbornly sprouted amidst blood, mud, and broken blades! That tender green that struggled out of boundless despair, symbolizing the belief in "remembrance" and "cessation of war"! Those roots that were deeply embedded in the filthy earth, silently absorbing meager nutrients, just to grow upwards!
A powerful, primal desire overwhelmed the feverish confusion and excruciating pain. Xiao Yuxuan almost exhausted the strength of his soul, focusing all his remaining willpower deep within his lower abdomen, striving to visualize that faint, deeply rooted "locust root" in the earth! He imagined its resilience, its stillness, its silent yet incredibly tenacious life force in the darkness!
Strangely enough, when he desperately concentrated his mind on the "locust root," the raging heat that seemed to burn him to ashes was somehow restrained and isolated by an invisible force. The sharp, agonizing pain in his ribs, like the gnawing of poisonous insects, was no longer the all-consuming demon, but became... clear and heavy, yet bearable. His chaotic thoughts, like boiling water with a block of ice thrown in, actually began to subside slowly, the churning bubbles and scorching steam rising. His breathing unconsciously began to slow and lengthen, each inhale seemingly allowing him to feel a wisp of slightly cool air (despite the filth in the tent) sinking towards the tranquil "locust root" in his mind. With each exhale, he tried to imagine the heat, restlessness, and pain within his body being expelled with the breath, like withered leaves falling from a branch.
He was not fully recovered; his fever persisted, and his body was as weak as a candle flickering in the wind. But a strange, tranquil power, originating from deep within himself, was slowly and steadily growing and spreading from that faint point of energy in his dantian, like the deep roots of an ancient locust tree drawing strength from the earth, stubbornly resisting the erosion of illness and resentment, guarding a small space of clarity for him in this boundless darkness and scorching heat. The blood-stained bamboo slip he clutched tightly in his hand seemed to fade slightly in the coolness of his thoughts, while the mark of the "suspended knife" seemed to resonate in some indescribable way with the quiet "locust root."
Outside the tent, Sheng Guo, leading a group of soldiers, clumsily carried out the Taoist's "divine warning" amidst despair and doubt: shovels dug deep to bury the remains of their fallen comrades, sticks cleared the stench-filled ditches, and piles of filthy rags and straw were dragged upwind and set ablaze, sending up thick smoke with a pungent herbal smell (they had found some dried mugwort). In the chaos, someone, facing the faintly visible eastern sky, exhaled a long, slow breath, making a "whoosh" sound. The sound began to sparse, hesitant, but gradually, it merged into a continuous murmur, like a weary autumn wind sweeping across a desolate wasteland.
The camp remained shrouded in a heavy atmosphere of sickness and despair; death was not far off. But a subtle change, like a drop of clear water thrown into an inkwell, quietly spread. The malevolent energy was as dark as ink, still profound, yet the warning from Heaven, like a spark, ignited a glimmer of light that aligned with nature and cleansed away the filth, quietly nourishing the "locust root" deeply rooted in blood and fire.
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