The Great King Ordered Me to Marry – Chapter 17

Speaking of Princess Jueguang of the Mortal Realm

Jueguang.

It was the distant, deep cry of a sea demon—cool and eerie, striking without warning from all directions, casting a net that covered heaven and earth.

            

Like a secret incantation, it pierced through the restriction on the back of her neck in an instant, seeping deep beneath her skin, making every hair on her body, every inch of her flesh, tremble involuntarily.

She didn’t know the reason. She didn’t know what to do.

Those two syllables were so familiar, as if this weren’t the first time she had heard them.

            

The waking dreams that had been drifting through her heart these past days were, without exception, grand scenes of the Imperial City in the Mortal Realm. Now, deep in the night, she dreamed again—and once more, of the Imperial City.

It seemed flowers were all around her. Before her eyes stretched a dense sea of people, the crowd pressing together in joy, all shouting in unison—

“Jueguang, Jueguang, Jueguang!”

            

But what Jueguang actually looked like, Zhuoxue couldn’t see no matter how she tried. She only knew that the crowd adored her—each cry of her name clearly elevating her as a goddess.

And the white tiger she had dreamed of before?

The white tiger strode beneath a palanquin with unhurried grace, like a halberd clearing the path, its edge boundlessly sharp.

            

It walked with majestic bearing, eyes fixed straight ahead, treating the Imperial City as its own domain. Even surrounded by crowds, it showed not the slightest unease.

And the mortals, surprisingly, showed no fear of the white tiger either. They continued calling Jueguang’s name from both sides of the main road, no doubt believing the tiger had been tamed by Jueguang and wouldn’t easily harm anyone.

Zhuoxue was intensely curious. What kind of person was Jueguang, to make the Demon Lord of the Cangqiong Mountain Realm remember her a century later?

            

Only, in her eyes there was the crowd, there was the white tiger, but never Jueguang.

She vaguely glimpsed a pair of legs resting on a jade-inlaid footstool. The hem of a plain white skirt was lifted by the wind, revealing a pale left ankle bound with several loops of red cord.

On the cord hung jade carved into lilies of the valley—shaped like bells, but without clappers, and so they made no sound.

            

……

The dream ended abruptly. Zhuoxue sucked in a sharp breath, like a drowning person pulled to safety.

She felt, inexplicably, that this was probably because what she thought about by day, she dreamed by night. Since she had never seen Princess Jueguang, she couldn’t conjure the princess’s face.

            

Just as Auntie Lan had said—she had listened to too many storytellers and fancied she had actually been to the Imperial City.

But the Imperial City in her dreams was more real than pearls—so vibrant, so dazzling. In the marketplace, carved carriages and fine horses raced past. Flowers lit the roads, strings and flutes filled her ears, the fragrance of cassia and orchids filled her nose, and Princess Jueguang was beloved by all who saw her.

In the darkness, Longming sat in quiet contemplation. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the thin chill of a heart already dead.

            

“She understood beast language, could compose poetry and paint, and was skilled in the sword dance. Her form was graceful as a startled swan, flexible as a swimming dragon¹.”

Such a person—no wonder the people of the mortal capital adored her.

Zhuoxue felt as though she were sitting in a teahouse back in town, listening to a storyteller. She entirely forgot that Longming had only permitted her a single, simple question.

            

Her ears stood straighter than sugarcane in a field. She asked curiously, “She understood beast language—so when she talked to you, would she roar like a tiger?”

Longming fell silent.

“She couldn’t?”

            

Longming said, “Understanding is what ‘fluency’ means. Being able to produce the sounds—that is called ventriloquism.”

Zhuoxue smiled awkwardly. “And then what?”

“And then?” Longming lowered her eyes. “There was no ‘and then.'”

            

“After you left the Mortal Realm, where did Princess Jueguang go? What did she do?” Zhuoxue both wanted to know and was inexplicably afraid to know.

If Moqi Jueguang had fared poorly, she would feel deeply sorry for her.

Longming said nothing. The room fell completely silent.

            

The sudden silence sent a chill down Zhuoxue’s back. She lowered her head and gnawed on her paw, thinking she shouldn’t have been so curious.

She had asked one too many questions. Was the great tiger going to wring her into a pretzel again?

Fortunately, Longming merely said in an unhurried tone, “You listen to mortal tales with such relish. You’re different from other demons.”

            

Did that count as praise?

Zhuoxue said proudly, “I often go to the Mortal Realm to listen to storytellers.”

“And so you take me for a storyteller too?” Longming lifted her gaze.

            

“Never,” Zhuoxue said, talking fast. “Great King, everything you tell is true—a real person, real events. The ones in the mortal teahouses are half-true at best. Like tea and wine, they water it down so much it tastes bland!”

Longming snorted. “A demon who yearns for the mortal world the way you do—that’s rare.”

Zhuoxue thought to herself: a demon who so earnestly adopted a mortal family name—that was rare too. Who could compare to you?

            

After a long silence, Longming sat up. Her crimson eyes were swallowed by the night, and even the fierce pride in her gaze was extinguished. Only the silhouette of her form was faintly traced by moonlight spilling through the window.

Zhuoxue grew even more afraid to move.

The Demon Lord sat still, her thoughts racing through the past. Then, suddenly, a thin, cold sentence: “She died before I left.”

            

Zhuoxue froze.

Her heart split like a crumbling mountain, collapsing into mud with a single deafening crack.

In that mud churned her scattered thoughts—stunned, helpless, dizzy and reeling.

            

Dead?

Someone beloved by the mortal world, someone so extraordinary—how could she simply die like that?

She was far more upset than she had imagined she would be. She asked anxiously, “Mortals are fragile. Did she die of illness?”

            

“How many kinds of death among mortals have you seen?” Longming asked without emotion.

Though Zhuoxue often visited the mortal world, she had only ever been to that one little town. The town was peaceful and content—the young left to seek their fortunes elsewhere, and mostly the elderly remained.

The older ones either failed to survive a serious illness, or lost their footing, took a fall, and were gone, or simply reached the end of their natural span. Other ways of dying, she truly had not witnessed.

            

Zhuoxue shifted into human form, counted on her fingers, and said glumly, “About three kinds.”

“Someone poisoned her. Her health declined day by day.” Longming’s voice was flat. “Then she caught the plague, and she couldn’t pull through.”

Being poisoned was wretched enough—how could she also catch the plague?

            

Zhuoxue couldn’t accept it for a long time. It was clearly the first time she had learned Jueguang’s name, yet she felt bound to her by a hundred ties.

All at once, the corners of her eyes reddened. Her eyelids fluttered, and her fine lashes were suddenly wet with tears.

She was overcome with causeless grief, weeping silently. It was only when a teardrop fell onto her lips and stirred a faint saltiness that she realized she was streaming with tears and mucus.

            

The fox sniffled.

“Why are you crying, fox?” Longming gave a light laugh. “It’s not as though you’re the one who died.”

Those words were callous too. A living, breathing person was simply gone, and she still had the mind to tease.

            

Zhuoxue pressed her lips together, wondering: was this tiger demon truly not grieved?

Surely not—otherwise there wouldn’t have been that death-of-the-heart chill in the tiger demon’s words just now.

She would never mistake it. Back at Qiufeng Ridge, Lan Hui had spoken to her in that same tone.

            

At that time, Lan Hui had been recalling things from beyond the mountain—all manner of interesting tales from before she had come to Qiufeng Ridge.

Only, Lan Hui had spoken obliquely, blurring place names and personal names again and again, as if afraid someone might learn of her past.

Whatever, Zhuoxue grumbled inwardly. In any case, Lan Hui’s dead heart and the dead heart Longming had inadvertently revealed sounded about the same.

            

She secretly wiped her tears on her sleeve and said in a muffled voice, “Who’s crying? It’s just that living in this house that feels like the mortal world, I’ve caught a mortal cold. My nose is all stuffed up.”

“Out.”

“Huh?”

            

Zhuoxue didn’t understand. Why was she being sent out again?

Longming said, “You’re a demon. What cold could you possibly catch? Full of nonsense. Go out and reflect on yourself, and spare me another ruined night’s sleep.”

Fine. She didn’t want to stay in this room anyway. She had been in agony earlier—staying here would probably make sleep even harder.

            

Zhuoxue rose slowly, meaning to slip out through the half-open window and shift back into fox form as she went.

“You may leave the room, but not the mountain gate,” Longming added.

The fox, dragging her great tail behind her, spoke in a human voice: “I don’t want to leave. Everything about Lingkong Mountain is wonderful, and with you here, Great King, how could I bear to go?”

            

“I forgot to ask your name beforehand.” Longming seemed to finally take interest.

The fox gave a start, her thoughts rising and falling.

Lan Hui had told her that her name was tied to her fate, and she must not casually reveal it to outsiders.

            

But the Demon Lord had spoken—how could she dare not answer? And if she gave a false name and was found out later, things would surely go even worse for her.

A rhythmic tapping came from nearby.

The Demon Lord was lightly tapping the edge of the bed, urging her on.

            

The fox forced herself to speak. “To answer the Great King: it is Zhuoxue. The zhuo from cleansing clear ripples², the xue from ‘white snow.'”

The moment her words fell, a laugh came from the direction of the couch.

Then the room brightened. Longming used her hand as a brush, writing the fox’s name in the air.

            

Luminous white light fell across Longming’s face, illuminating her crimson eyes and the black markings beneath them. At first glance, she looked like King Yama³ writing in the Book of Life and Death.

The final stroke descended, and from it extended a soft silken thread that wound around the fox’s waist.

Not again?

            

The fox’s fur stood on end, terrified that the silver thread would suddenly tighten.

Fortunately, the fine thread vanished the next moment, and along with it, the characters hanging in midair disappeared as well.

Wonderful—she had been worrying over nothing.

            

Longming said, “This is a Body-Binding Talisman. With this talisman on you, the further you go from me, the tighter that stroke of line will bind.”

The fox’s eyes went wide. What a vicious method!

“Go on. The night scenery of Lingkong Mountain is rather pleasant.” Longming closed her eyes. “When tomorrow comes, the Mountain Lord of Qiufeng Ridge should arrive as well. You must miss her dearly.”

            

How could she not miss her? The fox wanted to cry but had no tears left.

She took a tentative small step. Only when she felt no constriction at her waist did she take another.

For such a short distance, the fox took a good while—slower than a snail on the mountain.

            

She thought to herself: if Lan Hui truly came tomorrow, she would surely learn that Zhuoxue couldn’t accomplish anything right. She still had that incomprehensible restriction on the back of her neck, and after Lan Hui had raised her for over ten years, she had clearly raised nothing but a jinx.

The fox paused before the window and looked back in trepidation, her stout little form entirely hidden in shadow.

It was the last night. She ought to do something.

            

“Great King, could I not go out tonight?”

“Why.”

“I’m afraid,” the fox said quietly.

            

Longming gave a faint, mocking smile.

“The pig demon isn’t yet eliminated. He’ll surely come back,” the fox added.

“How would he dare?”

            

The fox simply pitched herself: “If I stay here, this humble girl can warm your bed. This humble girl’s fur is sleek and glossy—unforgettable at first sight. Even the mortal chicken farmers say so.”

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The author has something to say:

Xiao Shui, along with the little fox and little tiger, wishes everyone a happy New Year in advance! May you enjoy peace year after year, and may all go even better than you hoped!

            

(Taking a one-day break on the first day of the New Year. Updates on the second day will be a bit late. Thank you.)

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