The Great King Ordered Me to Marry – Chapter 48
by Little PandaSpeaking of the Dream Market: Oddities at Every Turn
Their gazes met. Perhaps because the fox was staring so very fixedly, a trace of probing hidden in the look, Longming’s eyes drifted aside to rest only on the fox’s temple hair.
“I looked,” Longming said, composed as ever.
Looked she had—just not so completely.
What she had seen were mere scattered glints and feather-fragments1; a single wave thrown up for an instant from a boundless ocean; one tiny drop in soundless, nourishing rain.
What surged was the sea of her heart; what the drenching rain watered was the dried-up marsh of her spirit.
“Two steps?” Zhuoxue muttered. “You’re not fooling me, are you? Getting from here up to that platform above is a good deal more than two steps.”
Did she look that easy to fool?
So Longming simply walked back, tossed the bamboo hat in her hand to one side, and in a few brisk motions twisted her long hair up, pinning it with a wooden hairpin conjured out of thin air.
With no one else around, the hat turned to flying ash the instant it touched the ground and vanished without a trace.
With her hair pinned up, the great demon looked brisk and capable in profile. She turned her back to Zhuoxue, the nape of her neck pale and gleaming as satin beneath the moon.
Zhuoxue grumbled inwardly. Was she a bird, then? If so, she might spread her wings.
“Tired of walking, weren’t you?” Longming glanced sideways. “Up.”
Once strangers, twice familiar—Zhuoxue leaned onto Longming’s back again, far better behaved this time. She had long since wearied of the mountain city’s streets, so there was no need to swivel her head about, gawking in every direction.
“Break through one more realm,” Longming said, “and you won’t tire like this anymore.”
Zhuoxue wanted a breakthrough too—but spiritual power wasn’t about to come surging toward her out of thin air.
She gathered up a lock of her own hair and said glumly, “Where am I supposed to find all that spiritual power I’m short?”
The only being near her brimming with spiritual power was Longming. But if Longming gave her own up, and some villain then seized the opening, she and Longming would be reduced to gazing at each other wordlessly, with nothing for it but a thousand lines of tears2.
She would rather soak up more essence of sun and moon, put more work into learning spellcraft, than shave a single measure off Longming.
And she could hardly take more from the Nightmare King. His spiritual power, once taken, never came back—and he was presumably still fuming over it.
“Once I’ve taken the Tearful Eye from Yaojing, we return swiftly to Lingkong Mountain.” Longming had the plan settled. “You stay at Lingkong Mountain. I’ll go on to Buzhou Mountain and bring back a medicine for you.”
Buzhou Mountain was the nearest place to Kunlun Jade Capital, yet few living creatures ever stirred there, for snow drifted down the year round and ten thousand li lay locked in ice. The cold was so extreme that even magical protection availed nothing.
A demon who insisted on entering would further have to endure the erosion of Yaojing’s divine light—few demons went looking for that kind of misery.
Zhuoxue had heard tell of it, so she knew very well how dangerous Buzhou Mountain was. She asked in alarm, “Is there no other way? If I go back and soak in the cold spring for half a month, that still won’t be enough for a breakthrough?”
“The spiritual power in the spring is limited. Once it has been drawn dry, it takes a fair stretch of days to recover,” Longming said evenly. “As things stand, neither of us knows how much spiritual power your demonic core still lacks. Half a month may suffice—or it may not.”
Zhuoxue blew into her cupped palm, scattering every strand of hair from it.
“Unless we could take back Wugou Stream. In the whole of the demon realm, Wugou Stream alone brims with spiritual power.” Longming gave a cold snort.
“If you’re going to Buzhou Mountain, then I’m coming with you,” Zhuoxue said.
“The mountain is bitterly cold.” Longming neither agreed nor refused.
“Then I’ll wait for you at the foot of it. And if it’s danger you’re thinking of, Lingkong Mountain without you could just as easily turn into a dragon’s pool and a tiger’s—” Zhuoxue paused, then instantly corrected herself. “A dragon’s pool and a wolf’s den.”
After all, Lingkong Mountain was a tiger’s den already, and no mistake.
Longming gave a soft, amused scoff.
The great demon drifted slowly toward the scent of the Misty Rain Dream, but Muhui City remained merely Muhui City: mortals had set their stalls out under cover of night, yet not one demon raised its voice to hawk.
Zhuoxue was gazing down toward the lower streets when she suddenly noticed Longming’s steps stall.
“Strange,” Longming said, her voice cold. “The Huangliang Dream Market would never open inside a city. Last time, though we could smell the Misty Rain Dream in Yunjing, the fragrance was plainly at its thickest in the outskirts, a full li beyond the walls.”
Zhuoxue pondered. “Could it be that because this place has no guardian deity, the master of the market runs wild without the slightest restraint?”
Longming closed her hand on the empty air and tilted her head. “Down you come, first.”
Zhuoxue hopped down at a leisurely pace—being carried the whole way had left her refreshed in body and spirit.
She was still puzzling over why she’d been made to dismount; her lips had barely parted, the question not yet voiced, when Longming caught her squarely by the chin.
Longming leaned in abruptly and pushed the colorless, formless thing in her hand straight into her mouth.
That reek of rot laced with mud-shot bolted at once to the crown of her head. It was worse than being struck by five thunderbolts3; she felt as though lungs and brains alike had been steeped through and through with the stench.
Had Longming not forced it on her, you could have had her skinned into a fox-fur rug first, and she still would not have swallowed it of her own accord.
Zhuoxue’s eyes stared straight and wide—and then, in the next instant, everything before her transformed.
The mountain city was still the mountain city, but the common people had melted into thin air, and the dim lamplight had been replaced by rising walls of red lanterns.
Figures came and went in the distance; a second look showed they were no people at all—some were demons trailing serpent tails, some were magpie immortals with wings folded on their backs, and every last traveler wore a ghost mask to hide their true features.
At the entrance, a small demon was handing ghost-face masks to arrivals—and issued together with each mask went a wooden token.
When Longming walked over, the small demon recognized at a glance the Demon Lord of the Cangqiong Mountain Realm. Without one word of question, she held out token and ghost mask and bowed. “My Lord. It has been too long.”
“Another token,” Longming said.
Only then did the small demon see that there was another demon behind the Demon Lord. Silver hair and golden eyes were no rare sight, but a face that lovely—search the Three Realms high and low, and you would not find its second. She stared, utterly entranced.
Zhuoxue hid half herself behind Longming, held out one plain-white palm, and set about begging for token and ghost mask.
She had no notion what the wooden token was for, but having it in hand first could never be wrong.
The small demon came back to her senses, hurriedly chose a handsome ghost mask, and laid it with the greatest care in Zhuoxue’s palm; then she picked out a wooden token with finely carved characters and presented it in both hands.
Taking the ghost mask, Zhuoxue turned it over and over, fondling it, and pressed it eagerly to her face.
To her dismay, the moment it was on, the mask seemed to bond with her very skin—fitted seamless and flush, unmistakably a second face.
Seeing the panic flicker in her eyes, the small demon hastened to speak. “No fear, my Lord. Once you leave the Dream Market, the ghost mask will fall off on its own.”
Zhuoxue relaxed. Fine by her—it sat secure, and she needn’t fear villains in the ghost market either.
The wooden token was carved with peach blossoms and bore a beast’s face in green lacquer—a strange beast, whose eyes actually rolled about.
The small demon said, “Pray drop blood to be recognized by the token, my Lord. Within the Dream Market, should anyone suddenly conceive murder, or attempt robbery by force, this token will shatter to powder; the green lacquer upon it will seep into the spiritual meridians, and neither robber nor murderer will be able to wield immortal arts or demonic power.”
It really was a fine thing—no wonder the Huangliang Dream Market kept such harmony.
Longming dropped her blood, hung the token steady at her waist, put on her own ghost mask, and said, “Which path do we take?”
The small demon raised a hand toward a place of blazing candlelight behind her, saying respectfully, “This way, if you please, my Lord.”
Four paths could be seen in the distance, partitioned off by lanterns, and the paper umbrellas hanging inverted above each path were unlike one another.
From left to right they bore, in order, the patterns of green bamboo, red plum blossom, white orchid, and golden chrysanthemum.
The small demon said gently, “Today demons walk the left, ghosts the plum, immortals the white; and mortals who wander in take the far right.”
So they did not even bar the mortals who blundered in here—small wonder the common gossip so often spoke of ghost markets appearing at midnight, where one might watch the night parade of a hundred ghosts, gods and demons thick among them.
Zhuoxue these days could bear no pain nor itch; merely biting her fingertip open wetted the very corners of her eyes with tears.
Having dropped her blood, she hastened to hang the token properly, pressed close behind Longming, and asked in a lowered voice, “This gets us through, then? We go in, and we get to meet the master of the Dream Market?”
Longming slowed a little so the soft-legged, strengthless fox could keep up, and answered without a ripple, “If she happens to be at leisure, you will.”
Because the market had opened inside the mountain city, even the road in was as punishing as the mountain city’s own.
The path ran narrow and rugged, climbing one moment, dipping the next; walking it, one was all but dazzled blind by the lanterns massed along either side.
Peering through the gaps between lanterns toward the other side, one could make out only a single pitch-dark lane. That lane could hardly have been empty of travelers—but with a spell laid between, nothing showed clearly.
Zhuoxue was soon gasping for breath, grown into one of those sickly souls, a weak willow swaying in the wind4, wanting rest after only a little walking.
Longming stopped when she did, and simply steadied her. “Tired of walking? Better to stay here and wait for me—I’ll return in a moment.”
As if Zhuoxue would agree. Every soul passing through this place was demon, ghost, or immortal—who knew what uninvited guests might be mixed among them?
Even with a wooden token at her belt, it would not serve. With her soft sinews and brittle bones as they were, someone might never trouble to use immortal arts or demonic power before sending her to her death in the Yellow Springs.
“We’ve come all this way; of course we walk together.” Zhuoxue seized a corner of Longming’s sleeve, her look so resolute it seemed she meant to live and die by Longming’s side.
Longming said, “On this lantern-lit path your aura will be masked, and no one will know you. And the restriction on the nape of your neck is at this moment being suppressed by the demonic core—no need to fear Tianji descending out of the heavens.”
Zhuoxue, having seized hold, did not let go. The mask covered her face; only a pair of gold-bright eyes still looked like her own.
She pushed at Longming’s shoulder. “If we’re going, then go quickly. No more dawdling.”
So Longming walked on, lips moving in murmurs, impossible to say what she recited.
Zhuoxue leaned in to listen, and only then realized Longming was counting numbers. She was aghast. “What refined leisure is this—counting your steps?”
Longming stopped. “Count to one thousand and eighty lanterns, and you reach the heart of the market.”
One thousand and eighty?
Zhuoxue gaped. “And if you miscount, we can’t get in?”
So after all that walking, she still had not reached the true Huangliang Dream Market.
Longming said, “Miscount, and you walk back into the mortal world.”
“Then first-timers who know nothing—do they have to blunder in by pure chance?” Zhuoxue was baffled.
Longming inclined her head slightly. “The Huangliang Dream Market lives entirely on the tongues of immortals and demons, passed word to word. Those who wander in by mistake are not market guests, of course; they can only enter by fortune’s grace.”
Zhuoxue instantly dared not make a sound, for fear that one false note would scatter Longming’s count.
Fortunately, Longming did not miscount. When she reached that one thousand and eightieth lantern, she halted and abruptly pushed the lantern to her right.
The lantern rack swung open like a door, and the strains of strings and pipes came drifting from afar.
Beyond the rack lay a night market brilliant with lamps and candles, its whole street thronged with demons and immortals, every face veiled beneath a ghost mask.
Goods stalls stood everywhere as well, but those crying their wares were no longer mortals—they were the strange folk of other tribes, rare goods hidden on their persons.
This was the true Huangliang Dream Market. Buildings rose in staggered, ordered ranks as far as the eye could reach; spacious halls and fine felted carpets5 were everywhere, and beneath every flying eave without exception hung a lantern, each bearing a single written character: “Dream.”
The mountain city’s lantern path just now had been nothing more than a blind for the world’s eyes.
Zhuoxue’s sight swam; all before her was a phantasmagoria. Less bustling than Yunjing, perhaps, but its splendor yielded nothing to Yunjing.
Some buildings plainly followed no ordinary rule of proportion: a perfectly respectable vermilion-gated house would sprout a pavilion straight out of its flank, flying eaves stacked upon flying eaves, till from afar it looked like a pagoda pressed flat.
Bizarre of shape, absurd past reason—but since this was no mortal world but the Dream Market, it did not seem so inexplicable after all.
The Huangliang Dream Market truly was like the dream of yellow millet6—unreal and unsubstantial, beguiling the heart and bewildering the mind.
“So this is the Huangliang Dream Market.” At the stalls Zhuoxue saw mirrors from which human faces might peer out, and spoons that shrieked and writhed when scalded—far too much for her eyes to take in at once.
Some stallkeepers cried their wares till they wheezed; others lay sprawled lazily to one side, ghost masks plastered with four large characters: “Buy or Don’t.”
“What do you buy these things with?” Zhuoxue asked.
“There’s no fixed coin here. Only barter.” Longming’s glance followed wherever the fox’s gaze had landed. “What do you want?”
Zhuoxue was already looking elsewhere; there was nothing she did not find a marvel. “Only curious—then how does one barter?”
“Unless it’s a rarity of equal worth, you can only pay in spiritual power,” Longming said slowly. “If it chances to catch the stallkeeper’s eye, the trade is made.”
Zhuoxue understood: whether a trade could be struck still came down to catching the seller’s eye.
Demons and immortals walked the market side by side—anywhere else, it would have been a marvel for the ages.
How harmonious the long streets were: neither quarrel nor brawl, and whether steaming with demonic aura or brimming with immortal qi, all were quietly, dutifully buying what they needed.
Longming walked toward a tall pavilion and said to the two small demons at its door, “I request an audience with the Market Master.”
The two small demons craned forward as one to examine the blood marks on Longming’s token.
Demons who worked here could tell a familiar guest’s aura apart to perfection, and once they recognized Longming, both broke into smiles. “Right this way in, my Lord!”
The door swung open of itself, and a fragrance drifted out from within—nothing like the sour reek of the Misty Rain Dream.
Demons stood lining the way in welcome, ushering the guests all the way up to the upper floor.
A perfume unique to the tower hung within; fine gauze of every color draped all four walls, so that the pavilion’s interior was like a labyrinth—once inside, one could not see the way.
Through all those winding turns, had no small demon led the way, a guest would never have found the stairs upward.
Beneath the skylight well stood an artificial rockery and a fish pond, the jade stones in the water bright; looked down on from above, the pond was like some enormous lampstand, only the dim flicker of fish shadows darting through it.
Zhuoxue followed at Longming’s heels without falling a single step behind, forever feeling that prying eyes slid out of the dark; but seeing Longming so steady and unhurried, she said nothing.
At the top of the pavilion, the small demons bent to pour tea and said softly, “Please wait a brief moment, my Lord. We shall go and announce you to our master.”
Longming inclined her head.
The two small demons withdrew together, letting the gauze curtain over the door fall behind them.
Longming turned her teacup, then suddenly, her expression grave, took up the silk pouch.
Thinking trouble had come to the Destiny Register, Zhuoxue hurried close and asked softly, “What is it?”
Longming drew out a jade bead—the very one she used to pass messages with Lan Hui.
After all those days, it was the first time the jade bead had lit: blue smoke seethed within the pearl, as if a ghost’s shadow were bound inside, now struggling and darting to be free.
With a crook of Longming’s finger, the blue smoke drifted out of the bead and passed, not a thread left behind, into her brow.
And then she saw the phantom image Lan Hui had left behind.
Lan Hui held the jade bead, and with hurried countenance transformed into a black-shelled divine turtle; sinking beneath the water, she said, “Yanwang has gone to Kunlun Jade Capital to receive punishment. Have you or have you not taken the Destiny Register?”
The turtle’s feet stirred faintly, and the water swayed with them.
“Yaojing has shut the Heavenly Gate because the mourning spirit dove died so wretched a death without cause. The matter concerns Tianji—and Zhuoxue. I beg the Demon Lord: keep my child safe.”
The image scattered all at once; the blue smoke slipped out from her brow, and Longming pressed it back into the jade bead.
Footnotes
- 零光片羽 | ling guang pian yu | A play on the chengyu 'jiguang pianyu,' precious surviving fragments—literally one glowing feather shed by the mythical beast Jiguang—used for beautiful remnants of a lost whole.
- 相顾无言，惟有泪千行 | xiang gu wu yan, wei you lei qian xing | Line from Su Shi's Song-dynasty elegy 'Jiangchengzi': meeting his dead wife in a dream, the poet and she can only gaze at each other, faces streaked by a thousand tracks of tears.
- 五雷轰顶 | wu lei hong ding | Literally 'five thunderbolts crushing the crown,' a Daoist-flavored idiom for a blow so devastating it splits the head; used for any overwhelming shock.
- 弱柳扶风 | ruo liu fu feng | 'A frail willow swaying in the wind,' a classical stock phrase for delicate, ailing beauty, most famously describing Lin Daiyu in 'Dream of the Red Chamber.'
- 广夏细旃 | guang sha xi zhan | From the Book of Han: 'beneath lofty halls, upon fine felted carpets,' a set phrase for sumptuous quarters and luxurious living.
- 黄粱一梦 | huang liang yi meng | 'A dream of yellow millet,' from a Tang tale: a scholar dreams a whole glory-filled lifetime while a pot of millet still cooks. An idiom for fleeting illusion.
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