Volume One: The Scroll of New Rain Chapter Nine: The Darkness of Night

“Qiao Qiao, I’m not a monster.”

“I’m just a bit different from others.”

“But isn’t everyone different from everyone else?”

Night deepened, the rain’s chill tapping at the world. As the hay was tossed onto the fire, the murmured conversation of Mingke and Qiao Qiao was thrown in as well, though as time passed, it was mostly Mingke who spoke. Qiao Qiao grew quieter, sitting by the fire and listening, her presence a silent comfort.

She listened to a loneliness and sorrow that resembled her own, yet was not entirely the same—just loneliness, just sadness, with no resentment, no anger or hatred. Only a yearning, a trace of regret.

“And many of my differences from others,” he went on, “are simply because of my illness.”

“But illnesses, they can be cured, can’t they?”

In the firelight, Mingke gazed at the flames with a faint smile, as if recalling a happy memory, though that happiness was tinged with melancholy.

“Even if it isn’t a sickness, but rather a fate that cannot be changed,” he said softly, “just like Uncle Sword always told me, our lives aren’t meant to limit ourselves, but to break through those boundaries that seem unchangeable. Maybe no one’s ever recovered from this before—but maybe I will.”

His voice faded. He let fall the last twig he held and, exhausted, slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was curled up on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Qiao Qiao, noticing something amiss, reached out in alarm to help him, but as her hand touched his skin, she recoiled in shock—the heat was searing, far beyond human warmth.

That was no normal body temperature.

“Qiao Qiao, I’m not a monster. I’m just sick. I’ll be fine after I sleep.”

Mingke curled tightly into himself, brow furrowed, his face twisted with confusion and pain. His consciousness was clouded, and he only muttered unconsciously, “Qiao Qiao, I’m not a monster.”

He curled up tighter, his body burning, yet he felt as if he were freezing.

His voice grew fainter. “Qiao Qiao, don’t be afraid. Even if I am a monster, I’ll protect you. I’ll take you home.”

Those were his final whispered words.

Qiao Qiao said nothing, watching the boy slip into unconsciousness, her dark eyes reflecting the fire’s blaze.

She slowly extended her hand, enduring the scorching pain in her palm as she clasped his hand.

Perhaps, she thought, he would not feel so lonely or so sad this way.

His body grew hotter still, his skin flushed an angry red, and soon scalding blood began to seep from his pores, covering him, solidifying into a crimson cocoon.

Qiao Qiao’s hand trembled, but she did not let go.

The fire slowly died.

In the unfamiliar darkness, she kept vigil by his side until dawn.

---

With dawn, the light returned to spill into the tiny temple. At last, unable to resist her exhaustion, Qiao Qiao fell asleep holding Mingke’s hand. Unlike the restless, nightmare-haunted nights of her childhood, this sleep was long and peaceful.

When she woke, the rain had ceased outside the temple, but the sky was still overcast, making it impossible to tell the time of day.

Ravenous, she fetched the field mouse meat she’d hidden the night before and ate. Mingke lay in quiet slumber.

Stiff and sore from sitting so long, Qiao Qiao walked around the temple. Her steps slowed before the altar.

She gazed at the toppled, dust-covered offering table and the idol wreathed in spiderwebs. After a moment’s thought, she fetched some rainwater in the incense burner, joined her hands in prayer to the deity, and began to clean.

Carefully, she brushed the dust and webs from the altar and idol, tore a strip from her skirt to dampen with water, and wiped them clean.

A shaft of soft daylight poured through a hole in the roof, illuminating the silent, colossal statue and the small girl in white, standing on tiptoe on the altar, stretching to wipe the idol’s face.

The vast, empty temple was hushed; in the beam of light, countless motes danced around the girl like fine, delicate spirits.

At last, Qiao Qiao finished cleaning. She arranged the last offering vessel, stepped back, and tilted her head, studying the now spotless idol and altar. Her young face, streaked with grime, bloomed with genuine joy.

She bowed her head devoutly, fingers interlaced before her chest.

“Mountain Spirit, thank you for giving us a place to hide. I’m so grateful! Please, have pity on us a little longer, and help Mingke wake up soon. Let us go home soon.”

She looked up, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed the silent statue smiled and nodded at her. But when she looked intently, it was still and unmoving.

This time, she felt no fear. In this precarious, lonely forest, she was filled with a long-lost sense of security.

Hunger gnawed at her again. She took out the rest of the mouse meat and lit the fire to boil water.

She set the incense burner over the fire. The daylight was slightly dimmer than when she’d first woken, but suddenly it faded rapidly. Before the water boiled, the temple was so dark that she could see only blurred shadows. When the water finally bubbled, only the little patch by the fire remained visible; all else was swallowed by darkness.

The daylight vanished so swiftly, as if someone had snuffed out a drifting, flickering candle with a steady breath.

“Is it night already? Or is there a storm coming?” Qiao Qiao wondered aloud in the gloom.

...

“What do you intend to do?” At that same instant, someone in the distant town asked into the darkness.

The voice was deep and elegant, calm and refined. The man who spoke wore long, flowing robes and a tall hat—a teacher, standing at the schoolhouse door, shoulder to shoulder with the tall village chief, and a dozen or so indistinct shadows clustered nearby.

Opposite this group stood only two people: a middle-aged man in a wheelchair, hair graying at the temples, his features serene and open; and a gentle, graceful woman in white who pushed his chair.

At the very moment darkness fell, everyone heard a sharp metallic ringing from far behind the two—a sword’s cry echoing through the town. A thin, dazzling beam of light shot from a mountaintop, splitting the darkness, searing across the vision of all who looked up, as if to cleave the heavens and earth.

“What do you want?” This time, it was the village chief who stepped forward, facing the man in the wheelchair. “We’ve already given you our answers. No one wanted him dead—it was a calamity no one foresaw. Besides, the tailor’s shop is closed, and the old man weaving mats at the village entrance has passed away. Some have already paid the price. What more do you want?”

“We’re not here for your damned answers,” the woman in white snapped before the man in the wheelchair could respond, her voice fierce. “We’re here for the children.”

“Long Yinling, whose side are you speaking for?” the chief asked, frowning.

“I’m speaking for your mother!” Yinling slammed her hand on the wheelchair’s armrest in fury. “What kind of people search for culprits before looking for lost children?!”

“You—” The chief was momentarily speechless. “We’ve already searched. Tonight, we gathered under the pretense of restoring our powers, but wasn’t it to look for those two children?”

“I came here,” the man in the wheelchair finally spoke, his voice drawing everyone’s attention, “because compared to searching the endless mountains and forbidden grounds, asking certain people directly is much faster. Any later and...”

He had not finished when, in the distance, the sword’s light swept across the sky, then flickered and danced like a hundred thousand streaks of lightning, splitting the dark world into countless shards. Every shadow around the group instinctively stepped back, feeling as though a cold blade pressed to their foreheads.

“Any later, and it might be too late,” the man finished at last, his words falling softly in the darkness.

Long Yinling looked up at the sky, worry and fear in her eyes.

From all around, hidden in the darkness, a multitude of faint but growing footsteps began to echo, shuffling steadily closer.

“Is it still not too late?”

...

“Night shouldn’t fall so quickly—is it going to storm?” In the boundless darkness, Qiao Qiao hugged herself, whispering, instinctively feeling terror at the sudden gloom but forcing herself not to dwell on it.

The darkness deepened with each passing moment, even the once bright flames now seemed tainted, their light growing murky and yellow.

Suddenly, Qiao Qiao heard footsteps in the darkness.

At first, a single set of footsteps, pacing nearby.

She clutched Mingke’s hand tightly—he was right there, so who was moving around? Her heart clenched, breath catching in her throat.

Then two or three more sets of footsteps joined in, crossing and recrossing in the darkness beyond the firelight.

“Who’s there?” Qiao Qiao called softly, mustering her courage as she gripped Mingke’s hand.

No one answered. The footsteps multiplied, their source unseen, coming from near and far alike.

They wove through the darkness encircling the fire, as if following unknown paths in an unseen realm, gradually advancing toward the children.

At first, the footsteps were erratic, but soon they merged into one beat, as if becoming a drum pounding on Qiao Qiao’s fraying nerves.

All around, the darkness spread, and Qiao Qiao watched, wide-eyed, as the once-roaring flames grew strangely dim.

“Twelve.”

“Thirteen.”

“Fourteen.”

Half-lost in the dark, Qiao Qiao began to count softly, almost feverishly.

“Fifteen.”

“Tonight the moon is full.”

Clang.

In her mind, she heard the familiar sound of the town’s night watchman striking his gong, his voice calling through the night.

“On the night of the full moon, rest easy at the hour of the rooster.”

P.S. The “hour of the rooster” is from 5 to 7 PM Beijing time.

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