During the New Year festivities, Master Hong, the librarian, was much sought after, not due to his vast knowledge but because of his hobby. Master Hong loved illusions. More precisely, illusion talismans.
“Everyone, upstairs now!” Jin Wu ordered, herding the disciples up the narrow staircase with a quick but firm urgency. He glanced over his shoulder, listening to the faint tremors of approaching footsteps from outside the library. The sounds were growing louder, and he knew their time was running short.
The librarian’s office was more of a workshop, cluttered with brushes, inks, talisman paper, and an assortment of half-finished projects. Jin Wu didn’t waste a moment. He opened every drawer and cupboard with practiced speed, rifling through the contents until he found the stash—a neat pile of nearly fifty illusion talismans, each with different symbols inked onto their surfaces.
“Master Jin, what are we going to do?” A young disciple whispered, his voice trembling.
Jin Wu ignored the question, focused on his task. He sifted through the pile, looking for one talisman in particular. “Ah, here you are,” he murmured with a crooked smile as he pulled out a talisman marked with an intricate fire motif. He remembered this one well—Master Hong had used it to prank Hallmaster Hao a few years back, making it look like Hao’s quarters had been engulfed in flames. The illusion had been so convincing that three elders had rushed to his aid with water buckets before realizing they’d been duped.
Jin Wu held up the talisman, turning to the huddled disciples. “Stay silent and follow my lead. This will make it seem like the library’s already been burned to ashes. They’ll think there’s nothing left here.”
He positioned the fire talisman on the floor at the center of the second floor, pressing it down with his palm as he channeled a bit of his own qi into it. The talisman shimmered, then faded, as an illusion of smoldering ash and charred wood began to spread across the walls and floor, covering every surface in a layer of ghostly, flickering embers.
The disciples watched in awe as the familiar rows of bookshelves and scrolls transformed into charred remnants, the once-grand library now appearing as a burnt-out husk.
“Keep your heads down and hold your breath if you can,” Jin Wu instructed, his voice low. “The illusion only works if they don’t look too closely. And no matter what you hear… stay hidden.”
One of the younger disciples, barely thirteen, whimpered softly, his eyes wide with fear. Jin Wu placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s just one more trick, lad. We'll be fine if we keep quiet, trust me.”
The boy nodded, clutching his robes to keep himself from shaking.
Jin Wu took a step back and assessed his work. The second floor looked convincingly destroyed, the air even carrying a faint scent of smoke—one of Master Hong’s clever touches with the talisman. He could only hope it would be enough to fool the invaders, to make them pass by without a second thought.
But just as he was about to signal the disciples to stay low, the library doors burst open with a thunderous bang.
Jin Wu’s heart clenched as he watched the figures enter. Even through the flickering illusion of embers and ash, he recognized them—the same soldiers he’d seen in Tianshi Lake City, their dark uniforms bearing the silver emblem of the Black Crow Mercenary Company.
The mercenaries stepped carefully, scanning the room, their expressions wary. The illusion seemed to be working. The library looked like a charred ruin, abandoned and desolate to them.
Jin Wu held his breath, glancing at the disciples huddled in the shadows behind him. His fingers twitched, itching to reach for the concealed dagger at his side, but he forced himself to stay still. The longer he remained hidden, the better their chance of survival.
One of the soldiers, a hulking brute with a scar across his jaw, sniffed the air. “Smells like something’s still burning in here. Must have been hit by the array.”
“Good,” another soldier grunted, his voice muffled under his cloth mask. “Less work for us.”
They turned to leave, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
But just as relief started to settle over Jin Wu, a soft whimper escaped from one of the younger disciples—a barely audible sound, but it might as well have been a scream in the deathly quiet of the ruined library.
The soldiers froze, their heads snapping back toward the shadows.
“What was that?” Scar-Jaw muttered, his hand moving to the sword at his hip.
Jin Wu’s stomach dropped. He knew the illusion wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny; it was designed for a fleeting glance, not a full inspection. The entire ruse would crumble if they approached, and every disciple in this room would be slaughtered.
Jin Wu stepped out from the illusion without hesitating, making as much noise as possible to draw the mercenaries’ attention.
“Looking for me, lads?” he called, his voice a low, mocking drawl. He straightened, letting his old-man facade slip away, his gaze hard and unyielding. His eyes flicked over the soldiers, assessing them—ten men, all armed, their postures tense but uncertain. Good. A little uncertainty could go a long way.
The soldiers turned, momentarily surprised by the sight of an unarmed old man standing so brazenly in front of them.
The mercenaries glanced at each other, their sneers widening. They weren’t taking him seriously—precisely what he wanted.
“You’re in the wrong place, old man,” one of them said, raising his sword. “Stand still, and I’ll make this quick.”
Jin Wu’s hand moved like lightning, pulling his dagger from his robes and slashing it across the soldier’s exposed wrist. Blood sprayed, and the man howled, stumbling back in shock. Before the others could react, Jin Wu lunged forward, grabbing the injured soldier and using him as a human shield.
The mercenaries hesitated, their swords half-drawn, uncertain whether to attack and risk hitting their man. Jin Wu didn’t give them time to decide. He shoved his shield forward, sending the injured soldier crashing into his comrades, knocking two of them off balance.
Then he lunged, his dagger flashing as he went for Scar-Jaw, slashing a line across his thigh. The man cursed, staggering, his face contorted with pain and rage.
“Not bad for an old man,” Scar-Jaw snarled, tightening his grip on his sword. He swung at Jin Wu, a brutal, two-handed slash aimed at his torso.
Jin Wu twisted, letting the blade graze his side rather than impale him. Pain flared, but he ignored it, focusing on the opening in Scar-Jaw’s defenses. He drove his dagger up, aiming for the soldier’s neck.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
But one of the other mercenaries was faster. A booted foot caught Jin Wu in the ribs, sending him sprawling backward. He hit the ground hard, his dagger slipping from his hand and clattering across the floor.
“Enough!” the leader barked, his face twisted with fury. “Can't you lot kill an old man?”
The soldiers closed in, but Jin Wu was already on his feet, fists clenched, his eyes burning with defiance. He knew he wouldn’t survive this. The odds were too great, his body too old, his strength fading. But he wasn’t going down without a fight.
With a fierce grin, he spat blood onto the floor and raised his fists, beckoning them forward. “Come on, boys,” he rasped. “Let’s dance.”
The first soldier charged, his sword arcing toward Jin Wu’s head. Jin Wu sidestepped, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until he heard a satisfying crack. The soldier screamed, dropping his weapon, but Jin Wu barely registered it. Another attacker was coming from his left, and he pivoted, dodging just enough to avoid a killing blow, though the blade sliced a deep gash along his shoulder.
He gritted his teeth, using the pain to fuel him. But it was useless; he could feel his strength waning, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Scar-Jaw sneered, raising his sword for the killing blow.
As the blade descended, Jin Wu thought about his disciples, the “Ferrets” he’d sent to safety, and the young ones hidden behind the illusion. At least they would live on, even if he wouldn’t.
He could almost hear Mei’s voice scolding him for his reckless bravery. And for some reason, that thought brought a smile to his face.
“Well, Mei, I didn’t pay for the elixir after all,” he thought, letting out a final, defiant laugh, welcoming the darkness.
----------------------------------------
The line went taut, snapping Old Yu out of his afternoon snooze. Luckily, the god of the Yellow River grabbed the pole just before it could be pulled into the water.
“This is a big one,” he thought, excitement building as his evening supper fought its culinary destiny. The monster put up a fierce fight, but Old Yu was determined. He could almost taste the huge carp he was sure was at the end of the line.
Slowly, his dinner came closer to the shore, the silhouette growing clearer. It looked… strange, almost humanoid. But that didn’t bother Old Yu, who was already imagining the fat fish grilling over a crackling fire.
He jumped into the water, gripping his catch, and hauled it up—only to find himself staring into the face of a ragged, unconscious old man.
Old Yu’s face fell. Not again.
“That darn spirit gate must have come loose again,” he muttered, frowning. The gate was supposed to keep the souls in the main channel of the Yellow River, away from this small tributary he used for sport.
“I can already hear Mother Meng screeching—worse than a banshee with a sore throat,” he cringed. He glanced down at the waterlogged soul, drifting in and out of consciousness. “Well, no use crying over lost supper. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
The old man’s soul was a sorry sight. A tattered robe clung to him like wet rags on a scarecrow, and his face looked like it had been dragged through the mud and back again. Old Yu scratched his head, considering his options.
“A warrior that lost his way, pity,” he murmured, almost to himself. His gaze softened, an odd look passing over his face. “But still… there’s something stubborn here. A spirit that refuses to fade.”
“If I send you back, maybe no one will notice,” he muttered. “Mother Meng never needs to know I messed up again.”
“Old Yu! Where are you?” The angry yells of a woman cut through the trees, bringing the forest to silence. Old Yu’s face went pale, and he glanced around in a panic.
“Alright, old man, back you go. But don’t go telling anyone about this, you hear?”
With a grimace, he closed his eyes, murmured a few ancient words, and flicked his wrist, attempting to send the soul back. When he opened them, however, the old man’s soul was still there, looking just as ragged and immovable as before.
Panic flickered in Old Yu’s chest. “Oh no, oh no… if she finds out…” He could already feel the weight of her fury looming over him. “Think, Yu, think fast…”
An idea struck him, desperate but possible. “If I can’t send him back, I can send him to my inheritance trial.” It was meant for his descendants, but it might be enough to hide this soul from Mother Meng.
“I hereby adopt you into my clan,” he muttered, tracing a glowing sigil in the air. The symbol shimmered, casting warm light over the water as he pressed it to the soul’s forehead. “May you find your way back to your true self.”
A golden glow seeped into the old man’s form, flickering briefly before settling deep within. With that, Old Yu let out a sigh. The deed was done.
The energy enveloped the soul, swirling around it like mist before it vanished from his grasp. Old Yu’s shoulders sagged with relief. He’d narrowly avoided disaster—at least, he hoped so.
Quickly, he grabbed his pole, cast his line back into the river, and sat down by the tree, pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes as if nothing had happened.
"A warrior who’d lost his way… maybe, with a little push, he’d find his path again," he thought.
“Over here, Mother Meng!” he yelled, muttering a silent prayer to the Emperor, hoping she wouldn’t catch a whiff of his mischief.
----------------------------------------
The brightness of the sun and the itching on his face woke Jin Wu from his peaceful slumber. He shielded his eyes with one hand and took in his surroundings. Groggy and disoriented, he tried to make sense of where he was.
He remembered the library, the disciples hiding, the soldiers he fought, and then… nothing. ‘I died!’ The sudden realization hit him like a blow, his heart seeming to skip a beat. He checked his body, half-expecting it to dissolve, but he was astounded for the second time that day.
His usual form was there, but it was different—made of mist, or more accurately, a kind of shimmering energy. It pulsed gently, connected to everything around him, yet distinctly separate. ‘Am I a wandering soul?’ he wondered. He was translucent, yet his body felt solid.
Around him stretched a vast field of dandelions, their fluffy heads waving gently in the breeze, spreading to the horizon in all directions. As he scanned the area, he spotted a towering golden pagoda about a kilometer away, its reflecting sheen almost too bright to bear.
He got up, amazed at the lightness of his body. The familiar stiffness in his knee was gone. In fact, he felt more nimble and energetic than he had in decades. A light breeze stirred the dandelion fluff, making him sneeze. He twirled and skipped, giddy with newfound freedom and youthfulness, the heaviness of his past life momentarily forgotten.
The white pagoda stood about one hundred meters away, with Two massive oak doors at its bottom. Eight white flags with eight-trigram symbols adorned the eve of the first floor. On top of the doorframe hung a sign with the character Yu, and to the side, there was an inscribed stone tablet on a pedestal.
“When the carp bite, bite them back.
The fire within, you must ignite.
Awaken or perish—your fate is confined.
Reach the end to claim what is mine.”
As he read the word “carp,” his stomach grumbled. “I have a stomach?” he mused, a touch of amazement in his voice.
There was a slight pressure when he crossed the threshold as if something was verifying that he belonged.
He gasped at the sight before him. Instead of a room, he stared at a vast, placid lake. The graceful leaps of shimmering Red Tiger carp occasionally broke the surface, their scales catching the light like liquid silver. Somehow, he knew their name.
To his right stood a small log cabin. In front of it, a long pier jutted into the lake, with a small flat-bottom boat moored to it.
The cabin was sparse, containing only a bed, a table, a wood-burning stove, and fishing gear hanging on the walls. A meditation mat was sprawled near a corner, and a mantra was etched on the wall.
"I won't be using that," he thought.
The table contained a thin octagonal slate about eight inches across, made of what looked like ametrine. Next to it was a silver stylus. The slate was surrounded by symbols etched on the table's wood. Three inches from the border, an octagon had been inscribed on the slate, and inside it, at its center, a yin-yang symbol was carved.
An etched line connected each corner of the inner octagon to the edged corner, forming trapezoids. The topmost of which had a pulsating glow.
Everything beckoned to him, urging him to uncover the secrets of this place. But for now, all he could do was wonder: Was this the afterlife?