Volume Three: Blossoms in Pair, Alone and Unsustainable Chapter Thirteen: The Silk Manuscript

With a single command from Yuan Ji, countless tents were erected in an astonishingly short span of time. The once lush, verdant jungle was now punctuated by clusters of gray-white tents, standing out starkly against the greenery. Discipline among this Spirit Helm Army was exceptionally strict; from the moment they began unloading supplies and setting up camp to the current meal, not a word was spoken. Each soldier bore a grave expression, as though facing a formidable foe.

Du Wei led the remaining fourteen men to the supply depot to collect three days’ rations. The quartermaster, responsible for distribution, personally measured out their provisions. With meticulous care, he poured what little millet remained, bushel by bushel, into the bags Du Wei handed him. After filling four bushels, he gave them a strip of dried meat. Hesitating, he took his knife and cut off a third, handing it to Du Wei. In a low voice, he said, “Ah Wei, the stock is running low. This is all there is—make it last. If you pass by any meadows or streams on your way back, try to hunt some game or catch some fish and shrimp to bring back.”

Du Wei glanced at the quartermaster, nodded knowingly, and, with another soldier, hefted the provisions and departed.

All this was witnessed by Yuan Ji, who arrived shortly after. He approached the quartermaster and quietly asked, “Li Fourth, how much army rations do we have left?”

Li Fourth snapped to attention, saluting. “Reporting to the General: if we eat one dry meal a day, the provisions will last three days. If we have one thin porridge a day, they’ll stretch to seven.”

Yuan Ji cursed bitterly, “This damned jungle—not only are there no towns to plunder, even small animals are scarce. If we don’t find the temple soon, we’ll starve.”

He pondered a moment, then said to Lang Xian and Li Fourth, “Here’s what we’ll do: one meal of thin porridge per day. Once it cools, cut it into chunks and distribute to each soldier. Lang Xian, you handle morale. Also, send more men to forage nearby—mushrooms, wild fruits, anything edible. We can’t just sit here waiting to die.”

After issuing his orders, he set aside the remaining dried meat, took three days’ rations, and prepared the team to move out.

They had entered this jungle over twenty days ago, only finding the ancient blue-brick road marked on the sheepskin map a few days prior. The deeper they followed the road, the stranger it felt. Previously, the forest was filled with towering ancient trees whose dense branches blocked out the sky, perfect for evading the circling surveillance hawks overhead.

But now, the trees before them were growing shorter. Lang Xian analyzed that it was likely due to workers clearing large trees to construct the road to the temple; the shorter trees had grown afterward.

Yuan Ji hid beneath a tree barely twice the height of a man, looking up at the hawk circling overhead. He spat on the ground and cursed, “That damned hawk, always hovering above—I’d love to shoot it down with an arrow.”

A nearby scout said, “Don’t be angry, General. That feathered beast only flies for a while before leaving. They’re working for the Celestial Palace—if they can’t find us, they won’t linger. Look, the big bird’s gone, it’s gone.”

A long cry echoed overhead as the great hawk soared away. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, jumping down from the trees and crawling out of the undergrowth to gather around Yuan Ji.

Yuan Ji leaned against the tree, uncorked his flask, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth and cursed, “Damn it, I warned my brother long ago that Kuang Qingfeng was two-faced. He promised to fully cooperate, but as soon as those three old sharks were finished, he changed his tune, sent a feathered beast to help that brat Zhuo Hua spy on us. Now we’re forced to hide by day and travel by night—it’s exhausting.”

The scout captain beside him spoke cautiously, “General, the stone road ends here. The brothers searched all around and found no sign of the Moonshade Valley marked on the map. We’ve been out for two days, and our rations are nearly gone. General, should we…should we return?”

Yuan Ji, furious, hurled the sheepskin map to the ground, cursing, “What useless, damn map! It matched ninety-nine percent up to now, but at the last step, the destination is missing. What rotten luck.” He spat on the map for good measure.

The map landed forcefully on an upright broken branch, which pierced a hole through it. On the tip of the branch, a few strands of white silk cloth hung. The sharp-eyed scout captain immediately noticed something odd.

The scout team carefully picked up the map and inspected the hole. To their surprise, the sheepskin map had a hidden layer—a thin piece of silk sandwiched between.

He found a fine needle and carefully drew the white silk out bit by bit from the hole. The silk was smooth and lustrous in his hand, shining under the sunlight—a superior quality. Yet it was covered with strange markings, unclear whether they were patterns or symbols. Unable to decipher it himself, the scout presented it to Yuan Ji.

Yuan Ji examined the silk closely. The odd symbols seemed vaguely familiar. Though he couldn’t solve it himself, his instincts as a soldier told him this was the key to their survival. He decisively ordered a small group to remain and set up a temporary camp, while the rest followed him back the way they came.

They had set out cautiously, but now, eager to return, they made the two-day journey in just a day and night. When the camp heard General Yuan had brought good news, everyone rushed to hear it. Days of arduous marching had worn them down, and the elusive destination had drained their morale. Now, they desperately needed hope. Physical exhaustion was nothing compared to the soul-crushing emptiness and confusion.

Under the dim candlelight, Lang Xian frowned deeply as he deciphered the symbols on the white silk. The more he studied them, the more energized he became, until at last he slammed the table and jumped to his feet. Yuan Ji, who had been napping with his head on the table, was startled so badly he rolled beneath it, sprang up, and readied himself for combat. Only after a second look did he realize it was just Lang Xian, waving the silk in excitement, and no one else.

Yuan Ji relaxed, withdrawing his energy and stance. He grumbled, “Strategist Lang, your sudden outbursts are dangerous. If I hadn’t checked carefully and seen it was you, I might have struck. If I’d landed a blow on your face, even your mother wouldn’t recognize you!”

Lang Xian, ignoring the remark, dragged Yuan Ji before the candlelight, pointing at the bizarre, winding symbols and laughing, “General Yuan! My dear General Yuan! Do you know what you’ve found?”

Yuan Ji squinted at the silk for a while, shaking his head, “I've trained in martial arts all my life and never bothered much with books or paintings. Show me a martial manual or sword scroll, I might manage, but this is beyond me.”

Lang Xian knew he was rambling and paid him no mind. He pointed at the symbols and explained, “This is the Zhu Yuan Silk Book of our ancestors, written in the ancient Tadpole Seal script, which has long since been lost. During the late mythic era, when the eighteen divine beasts were still at war, our ancestor, the Zhu Yuan Divine Bird, fled the turmoil in the Central Plains and migrated to the vast southern jungles of Nan Yan Continent. I don’t recall all the details, but eventually, they established a nation and created a writing system. At that time, other demon clans were stronger, but only recognized weapons—swords, spears, halberds, axes, hooks, forks—while our Zhu Yuan ancestor invented writing and recorded history. The earliest characters were carved with sharp claws on stone, thick at the head, thin at the tail, resembling tadpoles—hence the name Tadpole Seal script. But when the Celestial Palace arrived, they forbade demon clans from founding nations, forcibly scattering the Zhu Yuan people across the Central Plains, mingling with immortals and demons. Over time, nobody remembered the Tadpole Seal script.”

Yuan Ji smashed his fist onto the makeshift stone table, splitting it wide. He roared in anguish, “What nonsense! Demons forbidden from founding nations, Zhu Yuan clearly belongs to the demon clan. Must one love war to be a demon? Can the loss of our title at the Demon Sealing Conference justify stripping us of demon status? Utterly absurd—my Yuan family refuses to accept it! Our ancestor, the Zhu Yuan Divine Bird, hid in the wilderness to avoid the ancient beasts’ battles; we, his descendants, shunned weapons. We already yielded the Central Plains to them, yet they still pursue us! Look at us now—the Zhu Yuan clan reduced to lowly servants for the Celestial Palace and the Seven Immortal Tribes, beaten and killed at will. If the Celestial Palace hadn’t so cruelly persecuted our people, threatening their lives, my brother and I would never have cooperated with those wretched Dark Sigh Clan, selling ourselves.”

Lang Xian’s earlier fervor faded, replaced by resignation. He sighed, “In chaotic times, only brute strength ensures survival. Poetry and song bring nothing but the sorrow of a fallen nation.”

The two lapsed into silence. After a long pause, Yuan Ji finally spoke, “Strategist! What does this ancient silk book actually say?”