The Great King Ordered Me to Marry – Chapter 39
by Little PandaSpeaking of the Two Demons Trapped in a Nightmare Dream
Longming ate in gloomy displeasure, and still had to pay for the meal that had thrown her mind into turmoil.
The old man at the neighboring table was rather astonished—not expecting that there would actually be someone other than Jueguang who could finish that peculiar bowl of fried rice.
The old man couldn’t help but sigh, “If Princess Jueguang’s spirit is in heaven, she would surely be deeply gratified.”
Zhuoxue, having had her fill of tea and food, turned and said, “How is heaven better than earth? Why not ask Jueguang where she’d rather stay.”
The old man clicked his tongue. “Going to heaven means becoming an immortal. For someone like Princess Jueguang, if she didn’t become an immortal, could she perhaps become a, a—”
His words came to an abrupt halt. Whether demons or ghosts, in mortal eyes, both were creatures unfit for decent society.
Zhuoxue did not respond further. Good and evil, right and wrong—all were merely the observer’s one-sided verdict. Since she was no insider, on what basis could she judge?
It was pitiful that the demon race bore an age-old infamy, not something that could be reversed in a day.
Longming’s gaze swept coolly. She sipped the last mouthful of tea and said, “Since we’ve finished eating, we may as well go downstairs.”
Once Zhuoxue left the restaurant, she was like a cat freed from its leash, bounding away with abandon, her movements maddeningly hard to track.
Longming followed at an unhurried pace, but was separated from her by passing pedestrians until she was dozens of chi behind, able only to watch that flickering silhouette from afar.
This time the fox seemed to be heading for the bell tower—and the bell tower happened to sit at the very center of the city, accessible from eight directions. She only needed to walk straight ahead to reach it.
Longming’s thoughts weighed heavily, and she wondered—how could there be such a coincidence in this world?
But in Yunjing, that restaurant was the most famous. Many citizens who came into the city headed straight for Shangwei Pavilion.
The Sunset Bell Tower was equally renowned—how many scholars and poets had gathered upon it, calling it the foremost scenic view of Shuyun.
It wasn’t too much of a coincidence. In the end, she was overthinking it.
Zhuoxue scrambled to the top floor in a few quick bounds, her plain white skirt hem trailing across the wooden steps, smudged with dust since she could not use spells to keep it clean.
Longming followed closely behind, looking up and saying, “What are you coming here for this time?”
“Climb high and see far.” Zhuoxue smiled radiantly. “This is the tallest spot in all of Yunjing, so the view must be wonderful.”
Longming said nothing.
A century ago, Longming had also climbed the bell tower once. That time happened to be spring in Yunjing, and the common folk had gathered below the tower to watch the Princess ring the bell for blessings.
Jueguang prayed for favorable weather in Shuyun, for the people to live in peace and prosperity, free from illness and disaster.
Every year it was the same, except that year—Jueguang had brought the white tiger. She led the white tiger up the tower, made the white tiger stand and lean against the window, to look at the cityscape, the people, the white clouds and flying birds.
And it was precisely after that year that plague and pestilence ravaged the mortal realm. The people cried out in grievance, each life as worthless as grass, each existence as fleeting as a mayfly—and even Jueguang was taken away.
Zhuoxue climbed to the very top of the bell tower, gazing at the crisscrossing lanes below, and said with delight, “Longming, look—I can see the palace! Such a massive palace city.”
Longming saw it too, naturally. She could even tell at a glance which building inside was Chaoyu Palace, where Jueguang had once lived.
The smile at the corners of Zhuoxue’s lips suddenly faltered. The bell tower was too high—it commanded an unobstructed view of all of Yunjing.
Gazing into the distance, one could feel all the more keenly how the times had changed. Some high walls had been torn down who knew when; where there should have been a fish pond, pavilions had been built; even the spring colors within the palace walls looked different from the past.
She still felt a trace of bitterness, though only a sliver—so little it was hardly worth mentioning.
Zhuoxue stopped looking. She turned and pressed her hand to the bronze bell. Beneath her fingertips, the old markings were mottled and uneven.
The bell had endured endless wind and rain, and the sutras upon it were nearly illegible—how could it still gleam as it once had?
But there was nothing much to regret. She had seen the bell when it was first hung, fresh and new, and now she had seen it aged and weathered—so the spring had not been spent in vain.
Outside the tower, a cry rang through the vast sky.
Zhuoxue turned to leave, but glanced back and saw Longming still staring blankly at the bell. She said mischievously, “Could it be that Jueguang once rang the bell here?”
Longming looked at her quietly, her eyes holding neither sorrow nor joy—still as a deep pool.
Zhuoxue smiled and went clattering down the stairs, not worried in the least about twisting her ankle.
In half a day, the two demons had covered half of Yunjing. Whatever fish-dragon variety shows there were, the fox wanted to see; whatever painted boats and pipas there were, the fox wanted to hear.
Longming remained silent the entire way, utterly at odds with the surrounding festivity. Though she had black hair and black eyes, she looked like a day-haunting spirit come to claim lives.
And yet the fox had to add fuel to the fire—she snatched up a multicolored hairpin and stuck it right into Longming’s hair, saying, “Adding some color to your hair, so others won’t think you came into the city to attend a funeral.”
Longming gave her a cold look. “Whose funeral would I attend?”
“How about we buy some wine and side dishes, and go pay our respects at Princess Jueguang’s grave,” Zhuoxue proposed.
“You—” Fury blazed in Longming’s eyes.
Zhuoxue finally reined herself in. Truth be told, she hadn’t taken Longming’s indignation to heart at all—she simply knew to stop while she was ahead. If she kept teasing like this, she would overstep the bounds.
She turned her head and said, “How about we check into an inn and rest? It’s not good to be out and about all day. If the immortals protecting Yunjing recognize us, how are we supposed to find the Huangliang Dream Market?”
Longming requested a superior room. Once inside, she gathered her focus and concentrated her qi. Though she hadn’t activated a trace of demonic power, the teapot and cups on the table still clinked and rattled from the force.
Zhuoxue simply sat at the table, pushing two rattling teacups together like fighting crickets, watching them knock against each other.
She grew bored of this after a while. She sniffed several times but couldn’t catch any unusual fragrance, and propped her chin on her hand and asked, “You said the place where the Huangliang Dream Market appears would have a fragrance—why can’t I smell it?”
The great demon, deep in concentration, said coolly, “Focus your mind and gather your qi, and you’ll be able to smell the Misty Rain Dream.”
Zhuoxue followed suit and shut her eyes tight, but she couldn’t still her mind. For some reason, her whole body was burning—and not just the back of her neck.
She went and propped open all the window shutters, but even the breeze was no help. Her heart was profoundly restless, unable to sit still.
Had she played so wildly all day that her heart had run wild too?
Zhuoxue refused to believe it. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried again—this time, she would not steady her thoughts, but she absolutely refused to open her eyes.
After a long while, she faintly caught a strange fragrance—like out-of-season fruit suddenly bursting open in the rain. That bitter, sour scent mingled with the earthy smell of mud, then was washed away by the heavy rain.
It smelled awful. The moment the scent entered her nose, it was as though she had eaten a whole basket of spoiled fruit—enough to give her a bad stomach.
No wonder Longming hadn’t just told her directly, but insisted she experience it herself—this was truly hard to put into words.
Zhuoxue opened her eyes and drank several cups of tea in quick succession before she finally suppressed the lingering foulness in her memory.
When she opened her eyes again, it was already dark. The moon hung above the branches outside the window, and the floor below was empty.
The clamor had faded, leaving only one or two distant clacks of the night rattle1.
Zhuoxue felt uncomfortably hot all over again, her mouth drier than usual. She hurriedly drank two more cups of tea.
This was bad—could she be entering her heat again?
She had clearly broken through to a new realm—so why couldn’t she suppress it?
Zhuoxue picked up the teapot again, but this time not even half a drop of tea could be poured out. She could only stare wide-eyed at the moon, and then began rustling around the room, rummaging through everything.
Afraid of leaking demonic qi, she didn’t dare transform into her beast form. She had to suppress the urge to dig at the floor, and instead took out the shadow puppets2 she had bought during the day to play with.
Unfortunately, what she had bought wasn’t complete enough—she could only light the lamp and cast the shadow figures against the wall.
The big tiger wrapped in fine silk inside the box was so very majestic. Its head and all four limbs could rotate, and the shadow it cast on the wall was so vivid it seemed alive.
She had once seen a cat pouncing on a butterfly. A tiger was also a cat—just a big cat. So she dug out a butterfly from the box and made the tiger pounce on it for fun.
Unfortunately, Longming was still deep in concentration, so she could only perform for herself.
Just as she was playing, a voice suddenly rang beside her ear: “What are you doing?”
Zhuoxue froze, then without panic, swapped the tiger for a female figure. She cleared her throat and said, “Chasing a butterfly. Ah, why can’t I catch it?”
She held the little figure in her left hand and the butterfly in her right, and the two shadows—one chasing, one fleeing—were cast upon the wall.
Longming watched for a moment, then said evenly, “The Huangliang Dream Market only opens its doors to customers at midnight. You can rest a while longer.”
“You rest. I’m not resting.” Zhuoxue was in the middle of feeling hot and restless, and the two shadows on the wall flew about in all directions.
For some reason, the light and shadows on the wall suddenly swirled into a tangled mass, so dizzying it made one’s eyes blur.
Zhuoxue stared in confusion, no longer able to tell where the butterfly was, or where the person was.
And she was so uncomfortably hot all over—staring at the wall’s shifting shadows for so long made her dizzy. She couldn’t help but bow her head and give a soft retch, then collapsed to the floor, consciousness slipping away.
Why couldn’t she see clearly? That was the last thought the fox puzzled over before she lost consciousness.
Longming’s face turned cold in an instant. She raised her palm and struck out a blast of frigid wind, slamming the window shutters closed.
But she was half a beat too late. A thousand voices seemed to titter in her ear, urging her to unleash her demonic power.
Inside Yunjing—absolutely not.
She suddenly clutched at her ear—her lips and teeth as though chewing ice and snow, her voice cold and chilling—”Nightmare King—trust you’ve been well.”
“I am well—you are unwell.” A thousand voices spoke in unison—young children, doddering old men, women and men.
Impossible!
Longming’s dark eyes suddenly darkened further. She had been ready to throw caution to the wind and unleash her demonic power—but instead, her demonic power was stalled in her lingtai, no longer answering her command.
She was already inside a Nightmare Dream!
The clack of the night rattle sounded again, but this time rapid and chaotic.
Clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clack-clack—
When Zhuoxue woke, her head was splitting with pain. She was so parched that her throat felt like it was on fire, and she scrambled to find water to drink.
A series of rattle clacks rang close to her ear. She snapped her head around and followed the sound—only to see a pair of legs dangling in mid-air, kicking frantically at a cabinet as the person struggled.
She scrambled to her feet, grabbed a pair of scissors, hauled over a drum stool to stand on, and cut the hemp rope that had the person hanging by the neck from the beam.
The woman fell to the floor and croaked out a rebuke: “So slow! I was nearly strangled to death! Do you want me dead or something?”
Zhuoxue was drenched in sweat. She saw that this place was utterly unfamiliar—a dilapidated room that looked like it had bare walls and nothing else.
Where was she? Who was she? And who was this person?
The woman lay there catching her breath for a long while, then weakly pointed upward and said, “Your turn.”
“Ah?” Zhuoxue didn’t understand. She looked up at the hemp rope still swaying from the beam.
“It’s your turn to hang yourself. We’ve been pretending to be ghosts for half a month now—don’t give up halfway.” The woman sat up, a ring of red strangulation marks around her neck.
Zhuoxue was bewildered and baffled. Why did this woman act so intimately familiar with her? And why would she pretend to be a ghost?
Why would you need to hang yourself to pretend to be a ghost? Couldn’t you just float up and be done with it?
She immediately tried to float upward to show this woman what a ghost should look like—but her lingtai was utterly silent, and she couldn’t circulate a single wisp of spiritual power.
Zhuoxue looked down in alarm and took her own pulse. It was so terribly steady and ordinary—so ordinary that…
…it was like a mortal’s.
Zhuoxue looked at the woman and asked in bewilderment, “Where is this?”
The woman looked at her as if she had seen a ghost and cursed, “You idiot—don’t think you can fake amnesia and cut ties with me!”
“Who are you?” Zhuoxue asked again.
The woman leaned in and scrutinized her, eyes wide as though she had died with them open. She said in disbelief, “This is Qiufeng Village. I’m your older sister, Suli.”
Zhuoxue felt as if someone had scooped out her brain. Her thoughts were completely empty—and she couldn’t help but believe it.
She quietly pondered the name Qiufeng Village, and then the name Suli—the more she thought about them, the more familiar they seemed.
“You lost your memory?” Suli shrieked.
Zhuoxue nodded blankly. “I think I really did lose my memory.”
She then touched her own forehead. “And I think I’m sick—I’m so hot, my whole body is burning.”
Suli reached out to test her forehead temperature, then immediately tore a strip from the bed curtain, dunked it in the water vat and wrung it out, saying angrily, “What misery—hiding and running these past few days, the fright has made you sick.”
Zhuoxue was half-convinced, half-doubtful. She pressed on: “Why have we been hiding and running?”
Suli pressed the wrung-out cloth to Zhuoxue’s forehead and sighed softly. “The Fox Immortal in the mountain has woken again. This time she demanded fourteen human tributes from the village—six maidens, six young men, and two infants—and our names are on the village chief’s register.”
“Tributes for what? Is she going to eat people?” Zhuoxue found it impossible—how could a fox eat people?
Suli nodded. “Neither of us wants to go to the mountain and die, so we’re hiding by faking our deaths. But the villagers don’t believe it. These past few days people have kept coming to look for our corpses, so I had to resort to this—playing the ghost to scare them off.”
Zhuoxue muttered, “Can’t we just refuse to give tributes?”
Suli shook her head and sighed. “Qiufeng Village prays to the Fox Immortal every year for a bountiful harvest and peace. This year they prayed for rain and it came. If we can’t deliver the tributes, I fear there’ll be another great drought.”
Zhuoxue could indeed hear the sound of rain. Outside, it pattered and drizzled, sounding like it wouldn’t stop anytime soon.
She asked in confusion, “Then why don’t we flee in the night? What’s the point of staying here and pretending to be ghosts?”
“There are guards. Villagers aren’t allowed to leave,” Suli answered.
Zhuoxue found the whole thing stranger the more she thought about it. The rain couldn’t wash away the feverish heat in her heart. She pulled the cloth from her forehead and quietly lifted the window to peer outside.
Outside, rainwater in the potholes was ankle-deep, yellow mud splattered everywhere, and she could faintly make out several footprints.
Someone had indeed been here.
She quickly shut the window. As she turned back, her heart gave a jolt, and in an instant, her mind cleared.
She remembered—she had clearly been in the inn at Yunjing just now, playing with shadow puppets, and then somehow she had been knocked unconscious.
Then Qiufeng Ridge had become Qiufeng Village, and Lishu had become Suli.
So what place was this? Was she in a dream?
Zhuoxue suddenly slapped herself across the face. It hurt so much her tears flowed freely—but she didn’t wake from the dream.
Suli grabbed her wrist and scolded, “You donkey-kicked idiot—you’re already sick, why are you slapping yourself?”
Zhuoxue lowered her voice and asked, “Is there someone in the village called Longming? Or maybe not Longming.”
“There is someone called Erming.” Suli stared. “Didn’t you lose your memory? How come you’re thinking of her? She may be a widow, but she’s the village chief’s daughter—don’t you go setting your sights on her.”
Zhuoxue was greatly startled. “What does she look like?”
“She always wears a cold face—very hard to get along with, that one.”
Footnotes
- 梆 | bang | Wooden clapper struck by night watchmen in traditional Chinese cities to mark the watches of the night; each watch had a distinct striking pattern.
- 皮影人 | piying ren | Traditional Chinese shadow puppet figures made of leather with articulated limbs, cast against an illuminated cloth screen; the art form dates back over 2,000 years.
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