Chapter 32 — Struggle of the Trapped Beast (Part I)

　　Although Ruoshui really didn’t want to cultivate, she had nothing better to do every day, so she followed Lord Qiwú and practiced with him. But she simply couldn’t sit still—peeking left and right, scratching her ears, sighing and moaning—the days dragged like years.

　　When she saw Qiwú’s eyelids twitch slightly, Ruoshui immediately straightened up as if she had truly entered meditation.

　　Qiwú watched her, seeing how flawless her pretense was. He felt helpless and, faintly, a pang of pity. Maybe he was selfish after all—cursed as he was, he still wanted someone to stay with him forever, to live in that lifeless place as he did.

　　“Do you want to go down the mountain for a walk?” Qiwú asked.

　　“Of course~” Ruoshui opened her eyes at once; her face lit with eager hope. Who could deny her?

　　Qiwú took her to the shore of the Weak Water. There, facing the wind, Ruoshui ran with her gauze skirt flying like a bird longing to be free; Gūwù Peak behind them felt like a prison. Qiwú’s heart churned with conflicting emotions.

　　Ruoshui ran farther and farther, then stopped and looked back at Qiwú. He quickened his steps until they stood side by side, gazing at the rippling water.

　　“It was here I found you, barely clinging to life,” Qiwú said, as if recalling some long-past scene.

　　Ruoshui turned to his profile. “Sūmù,” she asked, “if you hadn’t met me, would you have married Fairy Wuyang and lived happily?”

　　“Probably,” Qiwú’s mouth curved in a small smile. Yes—if she hadn’t appeared, he would have married Wuyang. But everything changed when Ruoshui came into his life.

　　Ruoshui felt a little deflated, a choking in her chest. Then, as if nothing had happened, she said, “You immortals live forever; decades are but moments to you. Do good deeds and accumulate merit—after a hundred years you can pick up your previous ties again.”

　　Qiwú opened his mouth to say something, but Ruoshui had already run into the shallows, splashing happily.

　　“Uncle! Uncle!” a child called, running from a distance and gasping.

　　Qiwú scanned around, confirmed the child was calling him, and watched as the little one ran up breathless.

　　Stopping in front of Qiwú, the child panted, “There’s a man-eating monster in the water.”

　　Qiwú didn’t believe it at first—the place looked ordinary to him, both now and four years ago. He thought the child was making up tales. But when he turned, Ruoshui was gone, and panic gripped him.

　　He leapt into the air above the Weak Water and cast a spell to probe the depths—he saw nothing. No monster, no Ruoshui. Back on the bank, the child looked at him, surprised. “Are you a deity?” the child asked.

　　Qiwú had no time to answer and instead demanded, “You said there’s a monster. What kind of monster?”

　　The child shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know it ate a lot of people.”

　　A chill ran through Qiwú. Something had silently taken someone right under his nose, and he hadn’t sensed it. If whatever lived in these waters could steal people so quietly, it wouldn’t be easy to deal with. Ruoshui was just a mortal—her odds were bleak. Without delay, Qiwú dove into the water.

　　Ruoshui had been splashing, feeling something soft underfoot itching her as if tickling. Curious, she bent to look—then something soft wrapped around her ankle and dragged her down.

　　To her surprise, beneath the Weak Water was a hidden cavern. Inside were pearls and gems and tangled vines; in one corner lay a mysterious coffin. Ruoshui now slumbered within that coffin. The familiarity of it made her sink into a dream, as if opening her eyes would mean falling into an endless abyss.

　　Qiwú dove down, and soon vines lashed and bound him. Instinctively he wanted to fight them, but he realized he must be captured in order to find where Ruoshui had been taken, so he didn’t resist. The vines wrapped him up and flung him into the cave.

　　He took in the scene calmly—he was usually unflappable, yet here he was unsure what to do. The vines that had bound him were animated; the whole cavern was woven in vines. On the left, an ancient dead tree was coiled by a blue giant python, roughly four zhang long, its back covered in pale-blue scales shot through with white; it had four snake-like foreclaws and three blue streaks on its head—one down the center and two stretching from eyes to mouth—flicking its forked tongue as it inspected Qiwú.

　　On the right, a spider busied itself spinning a web, its body over a chi in length and covered in dark-brown fuzz, eight long legs moving deftly. Overhead, an unparalleled octopus hung inverted from the cavern roof—yellowish brown with vivid red rings—its tentacles clinging above; its wrinkled head and oddly human-like eyes and mouth made it uncanny. Directly beneath it sat the black coffin, and inside lay unconscious Ruoshui—helpless, like a dish laid out for someone else’s meal.

　　Qiwú didn’t dare move rashly. The place was unnervingly uncanny: the vines, the python, the spider, the octopus—none were ordinary. The heavy aura of demon energy made even Qiwú unable to tell their true age—thousands, even tens of thousands of years perhaps. They were poisonous beings, and a ward at the cavern’s mouth hid all traces of their presence. No wonder he had felt nothing before.

　　As leader of the Three Lords, Qiwú was not confident he could beat these creatures in a fight, especially with Ruoshui in their clutches. It was a thorny predicament.

　　They stood in tense stalemate. The coiled python then transformed into a captivating beauty in flowing teal gauze, the cleavage of her robe faintly revealed. She reached to trace Qiwú’s face and lifted his chin, her eyes full of affection.

　　“What a handsome young master—how careless you must be,” she purred.

　　Qiwú caught her roaming hand. The python-girl used the chance to throw herself into his arms. Qiwú brusquely pushed her away and turned aside.

　　The snake-girl stumbled, fluttered an aggrieved hand to her eyes, and said in affected hurt, “You heartless darling, you’ve hurt me—you don’t know how to cherish a beauty.” She dabbed at her eye as if truly wounded.

　　“I’m already married—please be respectful,” Qiwú said, glancing at the coffin where Ruoshui lay.

　　“You don’t even appreciate me? Am I not better than your wife?” the snake-girl persisted, reaching again to grope him.

　　This time Qiwú was faster: he grabbed her hand. The snake-girl strained to slide her delicate fingers onward; Qiwú held fast, not yielding at all.

　　What looked like flirtation was actually a contest of technique—each probing the other’s depth. One a man, one a snake; their faces revealed nothing, but both thought, This is bad.

　　Qiwú found the snake-girl’s cultivation slightly lower than his, but she was not the only danger.

　　The snake-girl sensed Qiwú carried a strange, profound power within him—something mysterious and unfathomable.