Chapter 33 — Struggle of the Trapped Beast (Part II)

　　The snake-girl withdrew her hand sulkily and said in a teasing pout, “If you don’t like me, fine—no need to be so rough.” She turned, shoulders trembling as if to hide a sob.

　　“Hey, you react to men like a cat to fish—startling us all. There’s no mood for romance,” someone said, and the spider had finished her web and now took human shape.

　　The poison-spider wore floor-length black robes tightly wrapped; at her eye corner was a black spider tattoo. Her lips were jet-black as if touched by potent venom—if an ordinary person had such lips, they’d be dead or comatose. But poison-spider was born that way.

　　“You don’t know, do you? Those other scrawny things were just dinner. But to find such a handsome master—how could I resist?” the snake-girl said, glancing suggestively at Qiwú.

　　“Did you really eat those travelers you captured?” Qiwú asked.

　　“Of course. Men will die for wealth and birds for food; we need to eat to live,” the poison-spider answered, approaching in a strange sway. Up close, one could see that though her upper body looked human, below the waist she still had eight fuzzy spider legs—the long dress hid them.

　　“Why must you eat people?” Qiwú asked.

　　“Is that a stupid question?” the snake-girl replied, offended. “If we don’t eat people, what else is there? There’s nothing edible in this water anymore; the cave is bare and we can’t get out. We have to catch unlucky travelers to survive.”

　　“You can’t get out?” Qiwú echoed.

　　The snake-girl’s face faltered—she’d said too much. She brightened into a smile and said, “Don’t be too happy—you can’t get out either. Why not stay and enjoy one night with me? Cheer me up, and maybe I won’t eat you—imagine offspring and a life together.”

　　Qiwú went to the cavern mouth to test her claim. He reached out: the ward was invisible but tangible. He tried to break it, but, as the snake-girl had warned, he couldn’t. Things were worsening.

　　Back inside he tried to learn more. “Who made this ward? Why are you trapped here?”

　　The snake-girl, annoyed that Qiwú had ignored her affection, huffed and refused to answer. Poison-spider wanted only to feast. The octopus hung inert, eyeing Ruoshui; everything else seemed of no consequence to him.

　　After thinking, Qiwú asked, “Don’t you want to get out?”

　　The three—snake, spider and octopus—looked him over. Even the octopus, who had barely glanced at him before, gave him a once-over.

　　“You actually think you can get us out?” poison-spider asked skeptically.

　　The snake-girl’s coquettish demeanour fell away, giving a flicker of hope. These beings had been trapped so long they’d lost track of years; they desired release—but the ward allowed entrance but no exit. Only the vine-demon could send tendrils out to hunt food.

　　Qiwú had no certainty. Each of these demons was formidable. Still, he proposed a temporary plan: “Why not try? Mostly ordinary folk pass this way—probably not many cultivators like me. I want to live and you want to get out. Let’s cooperate. If we can’t escape, you can always eat me.”

　　The spider and snake looked at each other and at Qiwú and nodded—they found his words reasonable enough to agree.

　　Qiwú continued: “But I have one request.”

　　“What request?” the poison-spider asked.

　　He worried how to word it so the demons would spare Ruoshui, and how to persuade them not to harm her.

　　Meanwhile, the octopus drooled; a bead of saliva splashed onto Ruoshui’s face. Dazed, Ruoshui wiped her cheek and slowly opened her eyes. She saw a monstrous shape fixed upon her and screamed, “Ah—!”

　　Hearing her cry, Qiwú’s composure broke. He manifested his long sword and thrust at the octopus. The octopus snapped its great limbs; eight arms both defended and struck.

　　Two fists could not match four hands, let alone eight tentacles. The octopus, ancient and enormous, overpowered Qiwú; he could not reach its body. After fierce struggle, the octopus latched onto his sword arm. Qiwú abandoned the blade and fought bare-handed. They grappled until both were exhausted.

　　Poison-spider and snake-girl watched, enjoying the show. Ruoshui’s face was full of worry—she had woken to a giant monster looming over her and felt helpless. Seeing Qiwú gave her solace; he was her savior, but clearly not the octopus’ match.

　　In a breath between attacks, the octopus spread its eight arms like a net and slowly tightened as if to trap Qiwú. He didn’t struggle—he allowed himself to be snared.

　　“Sūmù!” Ruoshui cried. She rose from the coffin.

　　The snake-girl flicked her great tail toward the coffin; it toppled. Ruoshui was flung out and slammed against the cavern wall, wincing in pain.

　　The vines, stimulated, reached toward Ruoshui all at once.

　　Qiwú strained to see through the gaps and witnessed it all—he shouted, frantic, “Ruǒ’er!” Yet he was fully bound, a trapped beast.

　　Ruoshui slumped on the floor, murmuring, “Sūmù—”

　　She teetered on the edge of despair. The octopus thought it had victory sealed; the snake and spider grinned as if watching a good show.

　　Qiwú gathered himself, formed hand seals, and willed the sword to move. The blade drove straight into the octopus’ head.

　　Ruoshui watched, astonished. Hope and admiration flickered in her eyes.

　　Everyone said Qiwú was the foremost of the Three Lords: noble in station, upright in character, profound in cultivation. Ruoshui had no grasp of such reputations—she only remembered how he rescued her by the Weak Water and cared for her in the thatched hut. To her, he was simply Sūmù.

　　The battle turned. The snake and spider felt unease, but they couldn’t stop the sword. The octopus roared and tightened like a vise, determined to die if it could not keep Qiwú imprisoned. Qiwú fought harder, manipulating the sword with his mind. The blade was pulled free from the octopus’ skull with a spray of blood. He hacked wildly at the writhing mass, cutting flesh though uncertain where to strike.

　　The snake and spider hesitated to interfere, tempted by self-interest. Finally, with a decisive strike, the sword severed one of the octopus’ arms; Qiwú broke free. The octopus slumped—its limbs and body limp—its last breath ebbing away.

　　Qiwú looked at Ruoshui and smiled faintly; the smile was laden with meaning. Ruoshui smiled back through tears—the man before her had become a god in that moment.

　　But it wasn’t over. It had only just begun.