Chapter Four: The Fragmented Sutra Engraved in Bone

"Buzz—!"

That aura was cold enough to pierce bone, like the sharpest gale of the harshest winter condensed into fine needles, stabbing suddenly into the flesh of Lin Mo’s fingertip. In an instant, it transformed into countless frenzied vipers, rampaging along his meridians and veins, bringing with them a pain as if his body were being torn apart, surging violently toward every corner of his limbs and bones!

"Ah—!"

A short, strangled scream caught in his throat. Lin Mo’s vision went black, his body arching backward as if struck by an invisible giant hammer. The whip wound on his back, still unhealed, burst open completely under the violent spasm, and warm fluid soaked through the tattered bandages and thin clothes in a flash. The thick smell of blood mingled with the damp earth, filling the air.

Yet the agony of torn flesh was nothing compared to the rampaging, alien force crashing within him!

Cold! Searing! Rending! Swelling!

These utterly contradictory yet equally savage sensations clashed and tore at him from within. It felt as though countless icy steel needles drilled into his marrow, while molten lava raced through his veins. His body was like a skin stretched to the point of bursting, every muscle and tendon groaning under the strain. His mouth tasted of iron and blood; he clenched his teeth so hard that his gums bled, barely restraining a deathly howl from erupting.

He curled up like a fish out of water, convulsing uncontrollably in the cold, slimy rot of dead leaves and mud. Sweat, mud, and blood mixed and smeared his face and neck. His vision was a swirl of darkness and chaos, his ears filled with the roar of rushing blood and his own labored, ragged breathing, harsh as a broken bellows.

His fingertips still clutched that icy black shard, as if he were a drowning man clinging to driftwood. That fragment seemed to be the source of the raging power, endlessly pouring chaos, chill, and brutality into him.

I’m going to die… The thought flashed with chilling clarity through his muddled mind. Just like those seven servants who vanished in the back hills—rotting away in this forbidden mire without a sound, without even a shroud to cover their bones.

No!

A primal, beast-like ferocity exploded from the depths of his soul, a last desperate struggle like a dying wolf’s lunge at the hunter’s knife. He flung his mouth open in a silent snarl, teeth sinking deep into his lower lip until blood welled up. Summoning the final shreds of his will, he tried to fling away the fragment that had brought him such calamity!

But just as his fingers convulsed to release it—

The icy foreign object pressed to his fingertips—the black shard inscribed with twisted ancient script—suddenly, silently, began to melt, as if an ice cube dropped into boiling oil!

It was not a physical dissolution, but more an unraveling of essence. It transformed into a stream of dense, abyssal, weighty black energy that, like a living thing, surged into his body through the wound on his finger!

"Ugh!"

Lin Mo’s body arched as if pierced by an invisible force. An indescribable heaviness, as if from before time itself, crushed what remained of his consciousness. The last blurred glimmer in his vision winked out, leaving only endless, deathly darkness.

His final sensation before sinking into oblivion was of something icy and heavy, carrying countless chaotic screams and fractured images, branding itself deep into his bones and soul.

Cold. Slippery. And pain that gnawed at the marrow.

His consciousness struggled upward like a stone sinking in the sea. Hearing returned first.

"Lin Mo! Lin Mo! Damn it, wake up! Don’t you scare me!"

A voice, familiar yet trembling with panic, reached him as though muffled by thick cotton.

Then came smell—the reek of rotting earth, fresh blood, and a faint bitterness of herbs.

Feeling returned to his body. The agony of his torn back was like countless hot irons burning him. The dull pain in his right knee and arms came from bruises earned while tumbling. Most bizarre was the cold stone lodged deep in his chest, heavy, sluggish, and wild, weighing down every heartbeat with pain.

His eyelids felt like lead, but Lin Mo forced a slit open.

The glaring daylight stung his eyes, and he closed them again. Only after a long moment did he manage to open them once more.

He saw Zhou Xiaoxiao’s round face, smeared with mud, sweat, and blood, etched with terror and urgency. Zhou was half-kneeling at his side, one hand pinching Lin Mo’s philtrum, the other slapping his cheeks in panic.

"You’re awake! Really awake! You scared the hell out of me!" Zhou Xiaoxiao exhaled sharply in relief, then, teeth clenched and voice quivering with lingering fear, scolded, "What are you, a rat? Why crawl into this damned place? I almost thought you’d…" The rest of his sentence trailed off, but the fear in his eyes was plain.

Lin Mo’s throat was parched and burning. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse rasp escaped.

"Don’t move! Stay still!" Zhou Xiaoxiao quickly pressed him down, carefully helping him to sit up a bit, propping him against a relatively dry stone. The movement pulled at Lin Mo’s back wound, making his vision swim with pain and beads of cold sweat break out on his forehead.

"Damn, this wound…" Zhou went around to look at his back, hissing in alarm. The makeshift bandages had long since unraveled, tangled with mud and clots of dried blood, stuck to the torn flesh. The edges were swollen and bruised an ominous purple, the split in the middle still oozing blood, deep enough to see bone. "That bastard Zhao Qing! What a vicious hand!" Zhou cursed under his breath, unable to hide the anger in his voice.

Fumbling, he pulled out a small cloth pouch containing the last of his black jade ointment. He cleaned the wound as best he could, movements clumsy but careful. The cool salve stung fiercely as it touched the open flesh; Lin Mo gritted his teeth, shaking.

"How… did you find me?" Lin Mo finally managed to croak out.

"I came to the herb garden looking for you! Saw your hoe left there, your bread half-eaten, and those damned slimy lizard tracks all over the place!" Zhou spoke rapidly as he worked, his voice jittery with relief. "I followed the marks down here and found you sprawled out like a dead dog! You wouldn’t wake up no matter how I yelled! I thought… I thought…" His voice caught, but he didn’t finish, merely treating Lin Mo’s wounds with even more care.

Lin Mo fell silent, staring at his right hand, caked with mud and blood. The black shard was gone, leaving only a deep, marrow-chilling heaviness settled in his chest. The image of those twisted runes and the soul-rending shock remained burned into his mind.

"This place… it’s cursed," Zhou Xiaoxiao muttered, finishing the bandages and tying them off with swift, practiced hands. He glanced around warily. The thick mist still swirled through the low ravine, casting everything in gloom. Jagged rocks and gnarled ancient trees loomed in the fog, their twisted shadows oppressive in the deathly silence. "No wonder people keep disappearing on the forbidden slope! Let’s get out of here!" Without waiting for argument, he half-lifted, half-carried Lin Mo away.

Lin Mo’s bones felt as if they’d come apart; every step tugged at his torn back, and the cold weight in his chest made breathing hard. Only Zhou Xiaoxiao’s support kept him from collapsing. Stumbling through slippery stones and decaying leaves, they made their way slowly toward the herb garden.

By the time they returned, dusk was settling in. Zhou Xiaoxiao settled him in a makeshift hut beside the garden—little more than a windbreak, with some hay and tools inside.

"Stay here, don’t go anywhere! I’ll check the kitchen for something hot!" Zhou fussed, arranging Lin Mo on the hay and covering him with his own outer robe. "If Old Skinflint Wang asks, tell him you fell while running from the stone-scaled lizard! Don’t mention that damned place!"

With that, Zhou hurried off, leaving Lin Mo alone.

The wound on his back throbbed dully, the medicine bringing a cool ache, but it was nothing compared to the cold, oppressive weight in his chest. It was like a block of infernal ice pressing on his heart, chilling every breath. When he closed his eyes, twisted, shattered images flickered in the darkness, accompanied by low, chaotic, meaningless roars that battered his exhausted mind.

He spread his right hand under the last pale daylight filtering through the hut’s cracks and examined it closely. The finger that had pressed the shard was unmarked, not even a scratch. As if the agony and the strange force from that black fragment, along with its melting, had been nothing but a fevered nightmare.

Yet the cold, heavy stone in his chest, the runes and howls burned into his consciousness, and the wound on his back that had nearly cost him his life—all bore silent witness that it had been no dream.

He slowly clenched his fist, the knuckles whitening. From the depths of his battered body, beyond the pain and the chill, there seemed to be a faint, elusive sensation—something had been torn away, or else something had been forcibly embedded within him.

Outside, the mist from the back hills crept silently forward, like a vast, cold, damp hand closing in. Lin Mo lay on the hay, his cheek pressed to the rough stalks, feeling the chill and pain inside and out, his consciousness drifting in and out of the haze.

Zhou Xiaoxiao returned with a small pot of thin, warm porridge floating with a few leaves of greens. Forcing himself upright, Lin Mo drank a few mouthfuls. The warmth slid down his throat but did nothing to thaw the ice lodged in his chest.

"I bluffed Old Skinflint Wang, said you took a nasty fall and would be resting here for a couple of days. I’ll keep an eye on you." Zhou frowned at Lin Mo’s bloodless face and lips, knotted with worry. "You look worse than a corpse. Are you sure you’re alright?"

Lin Mo shook his head, his voice a rasp: "Just tired."

Zhou stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for something in his expression, then simply sighed and pushed the leftover porridge toward him. "Finish it! I’ll go fetch more hay—this damned place will freeze you at night!"

Night fell completely. The hut was swallowed in darkness, with only the mountain wind howling through the cracks. Zhou Xiaoxiao returned with a bundle of dry grass, spreading it around before squeezing in beside Lin Mo. Soon his familiar, weary snores filled the air.

But Lin Mo could not sleep. The wound on his back throbbed in the silence, and the cold stone in his chest weighed upon every heartbeat, each one a struggle that brought a dull, oppressive ache and a feeling of stagnation impossible to describe. The cold, heavy presence seemed not just to settle on his heart, but to wrap around his very soul, making even breathing laborious and his thoughts sluggish.

In the dark, he slowly raised his right hand before his eyes. Though he could see nothing, he could feel, with uncanny clarity, the lingering cold and hardness at his fingertips. The twisted, ominous ancient characters blazed in his mind like brands.

Void…

Heaven…

Scripture…

Three broken, chaotic, yet overwhelmingly fierce characters suddenly pieced themselves together in his mind, flashing like lightning through the darkness, illuminating his muddled consciousness—and bringing a deeper chill.

The Scripture of the Void Heaven!

The name burst through his mind like a thunderclap, shaking his soul. Though he had never heard of it, the combination of those three words stirred something deep in his blood—fear, and a nameless dread.

What was this thing? Why had it appeared on the edge of the forbidden hills? Why had it merged with his body?

Countless questions, tangled with the cold, heavy pressure, wrapped around him like the suffocating fog of the back hills. He lay awake in the darkness, pain and confusion swirling within him, listening to Zhou Xiaoxiao’s snoring and the mournful wailing of the mountain wind, feeling the alien, icy stone in his chest.

That night was endless and torturous. His back burned with pain, his chest was crushed by cold, and his mind drifted, battered by the runes seared into his consciousness and the agony in his body, unable to find rest. Only the occasional pale moonlight, warped by the fog and slipping through the hut’s cracks, shone coldly on his pallid face.