A peaceful lull passed through the military camp as Rina’s forces regrouped themselves. Plans were already drawn for the continued campaign, as well as how to protect their gunpowder reserves from future rainfall. “Since our muskets are matchlock, we have to create raincovers for the muskets,” Rina ordered. “That being said, we must be prepared for anything.”
General Wang—her father—was still debilitated from the Blood God’s possession. He continuously faded in and out of consciousness as military doctors struggled to keep him alive. “It appears that he’s been suffering from a long case of white blood cell disease,” the doctors decalred.
Rina replied with a deep sigh. “When did it start?” she asked.
“By our estimates, the disease has progressed for quite a long time—perhaps even before this military campaign. Despite the continuous stress, he’s managed to hide his condition when most men would’ve collapsed. It’s something to admire.”
“Or something to hate!” Eyes turned to find Dao walking in with her old stature. “His horrid condition left him weak to the Blood God’s influence! Had he tried being less stubborn, then he would’ve been fine. But he tried too hard when serving his position, putting himself and his entire army in jeapordy!”
“You know nothing!” Rina yelled. To her surprise, Dao responded with a smile. “Good. If you take at least one thing away from me, you’ll know nothing as well.” Then she headed out of the tent and yawned, “Now, I must tend to your Envoy of Man. That sucker’s been curious as soon as he’s met me.”
Xiaojun was sitting on a tree stump when the Dao intruded on his peace. “Meditating? Or just having another conversation with Huanglong?” She ignored his surprised face as she shooed him off of the tree stump and sat in his place. “It’s rude to make an old woman stand, after all.”
Xiaojun was full of questions. Ever since his acquisition of Huanglong—the heavenly weapon—his head had been in a complete mess. From his bouts of power to sudden unconsciousness, Xiaojun had been put into a condition that no normal man had to endure. “How—”
“How come you feel like your head is in a whirlwind of experiences?” Dao interrupted. “The answer is simple: you’re holding the heavenly weapon that contains the spirit of a dragon. No normal human would remain sane after holding such a device, especially when he’s also been taunted by the Beast of Hatred.”
Dao gave a grin while Xiaojun’s eyes widened. “It makes sense now, right?” she asked. “You’ve always had to hold yourself back, and your newfound strength has only multiplied the temptation of hate. Unlike your traditional enemies, hatred is not something you can easily butcher.”
“Then what are my options?” Xiaojun asked.
“There are countless,” Dao sighed, “and the true answer will be hard to find. All I can do is show you the ways, so you can find the way. Does this make sense?” Her words flowed like a river, albeit a maze of a river. “Please begin,” Xiaojun asked.
“Fine,” Dao replied, “the first way I’ve seen is the one who simply bottles his hatred. Rather than letting it flow, they try burying it within their hearts. A woodsman should never be surprised when an overwhelmed dam explodes. In the end, the bottled hatred explodes from an ugly carcass into a gargantuan demon.”
Xiaojun could already think of the countless people who fulfill that description. He could start with himself, but he could go on about the different people who deny the existence of their internal hatred only to become the most hateful people in this world. Simply put, he would be another demon if he only tried to contain his emotions.
“Another option is to only hate specific things,” Dao continued. “A warrior would know this as ‘discrimination’ where they bring violence only to their enemies. But even this method has its share of issues. The hatred of an enemy does not absolve oneself from tragedy. Killing is still killing, even if it is under control. However, the worse debacle is that this discrimination can fail. Once it is broken, and the wrong person is killed, then it can all fall apart.”
Xiaojun definitely knew many people who fell into this trap. He was a warrior, and discriminating between friend and foe was the difference between a soldier and a barbarian. Many times, the exhilaration of the kill, the temptation of the easy path, or even the corruption of the soul transformed a noble into a criminal.
“But in the end,” Dao added, “the way is never one that is easily established. You cannot keep using the lessons of others, and this is simply because they were designed for others. Jiu Zhu—the one who fought the mighty Yellow Emperor—was in your exact footsteps. His lessons may not help you.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Xiaojun recalled Jiu Zhu’s name. Jin had mentioned him, as did Huanglong. But nobody else seemed to know who he was or what he did. To say his name was like saying the name of a ghost. Only the dead or the dying could ever hope to meet him. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Initially, Dao merely shrugged. “What would be the point? Knowing nothing would be good, and forgetting everything would be better. As I just said, his lessons will not help you. Times are different, and you cannot hope to use his solutions for your problems.”
Speaking to this woman was as frustrating as it was enlightening. It was clear that she had a plethora of knowledge in her mind, but it was also clear that she wouldn’t be so willing to share it. “When would you be able to tell me?” Xiaojun asked.
But Dao’s next response was even worse. “I’ll tell you when that river dries up,” she yawned. Then she stood up and walked back to the camp. “I’m hungry now, and I’ve already given you a lecture on hatred. Clear your mind.” Dao walked off like nothing happened.
Xiaojun could only look at the distant river and groan. Despite being an intimidating warrior, he couldn’t even squeeze a bit of information from the frail old woman. It was like arguing with a mountain, for the mountain has all the knowledge and yet says nothing. There was nothing he could do but return to camp.
With his heavenly weapon on his back, Xiaojun returned to find soldiers drilling, holding watch, and many of the other casual duties. It all reminded him of his time in the Vesterlands. Back when he still had Nina. “Why am I suddenly thinking of this?” he muttered to himself. “It was so long ago.”
Hua was waiting for him in his tent. She had a warm bowl of soup ready for him. “Hey Xiaojun! I saw you talking with Dao, and I didn’t want to intrude. So I got you some soup while it was still warm.” She handed him the bowl and he took a deep sip. “It’s good,” he said.
His mind suddenly remembered the night they first met, where Hua tried to take a fresh bite from his neck. Xiaojun visibly froze as his instincts demanded the drawing of his blade. It was a clash between the memories of the past and the experiences of the present.
“Xiaojun? Are you okay?” Hua asked. Xiaojun finally returned as he finished the soup and placed the bowl on the ground. “It’s okay,” he thought to himself, “she hasn’t hurt a soul since she’s traveled with you. She won’t hurt you, and she won’t hurt others.” He made his leave from the tent.
Xiaojun took a light walk to try and clear his head. Everything was always exhausting, as his head always seemed to rock with thirty different voices at the same time. He had become powerful, but at the cost of his own sanity. “Huanglong, can you help me?” he asked aloud.
It took a moment, but he could hear the dragon’s voice in his dizzy head. “This is the price of carrying a heavenly weapon,” the voice whispered, “I wish I could help you, but alas I am but a tool. All I can ask is that you stay strong.”
Xiaojun found himself by the river that Dao had mentioned earlier. He looked at the stream of water pass like the crying of tears. “I have to wait until this river dries?” he laughed to himself. “Then I guess I’ll have to wait a thousand years.”
He sat by the river and entered his thoughts. All of these horrid memories of the past continued to haunt him like ancient ghosts—wounds that spared his body but attacked his soul. Perhaps he could never get over his mind, his hatred, or even his destiny. Such was the weight of a man in an unforgiving world.
“Nice of you to join me,” Dao said. She was sitting on the other side of the river with the stillness of the stones. Perhaps that was why Xiaojun didn’t even notice her presence. “How are you everywhere all at once?” he asked.
“I’m always everywhere. That’s the benefit of becoming one with the way, the universe, and nothing,” she casually said. “But you’re the opposite. You’re not one with the way, the universe, or even yourself. Your attachment to many things has made you attached to nothing.”
Xiaojun scoffed at the old woman and tossed rocks into the river. “You speak like you know everything about me. Actually, no—don’t speak because you somehow do know everything about me. You must know that I’ve battled my way through countless fields. I starved in Dajing, I marched through Vesterland, and I’ve even survived hell. That’s only a fraction of my accomplishments.”
“Ah, so your accomplishments of yesterday complete the trials of tomorrow?” Dao asked. “Tell me, why do you feel the need to unleash your past? Is there someone or something you hate? The Beasts? The armies? Perhaps even a woman?”
“No! Do not bring Nina into this!” Xiaojun demanded. “The Beast of Corruption holds her in the palm of his hand, and it’s all my fault! If only I saved her in hell, or perhaps if I killed her scheming brother while I had the chance—”
The Dao laughed like a torrent of rain with each chuckle as sharp as a sword. “Ah! You must see it perfectly! There is someone that you hate most of all!” she laughed. “It’s you! You mentioned the Beast of Corruption only once, because you hold the blame all on yourself! Ha ha ha!”
Xiaojun unsheathed his blade as if ready to fight the old woman right in front of him. He couldn’t control himself, but he could hear a distinct voice in his mind. “Yes. This woman doesn’t know anything! Kill her right now! Lop her head right off of her body!” That was when Xiaojun realized who the voice belonged to—the Beast of Hate.
“Now I see what you say,” he said to the old woman. “If I am to be the Envoy of Man, I must become the true embodiment of man. I must let go of who I was as Xiaojun. I must forget everything. I must become one with the way.”
Rather than act out of hatred, he placed his heavenly weapon over the river. “Forgetting isn’t something that you do on a whim. It is something that you do through effort. By first having everything, and then choosing to let it go. I have all the strength that a king would want, but I will choose to let it go. I am no longer a mere survivor. I am an envoy to describe the best things of mankind.”