Volume One: Scroll of Fresh Rain Chapter Ten: The Divine

The town was called Nameless Town—not because it lacked a name, but because that was its name: Nameless.

It was a small, ancient place. The old well, the dilapidated temple, and the tower with its verdigris-coated clock all spoke of the town’s long, unbroken history. Perhaps it was this very antiquity that allowed so many intricate customs to be passed down through the generations in such a humble settlement.

For instance, the mountains surrounding the town were strictly off-limits to everyone. No one was allowed to throw anything into the dry old well. On the night of the full moon each month, as dusk approached, every resident would lock their doors and settle early into sleep.

Habit is the most powerful force of all, so powerful that you can be utterly unaware of its existence—especially when it is a habit you are born into, as Jojo was with the town’s full moon tradition. She had always known to go to bed early on such nights, but she never knew why, nor what one should do if sleep failed to come in time.

And now, they weren’t even in the town, but deep within the Sacred Mountain. Could mere sleep really shield them from the terror that lurked before their eyes?

No one answered her, except for the last flickering flame that flashed and vanished, swallowed by darkness.

Night fell utterly.

In that moment, Jojo could see nothing at all. The footsteps in the darkness grew suddenly distinct, as though countless people were converging upon her from every direction.

She shut her eyes in terror, her body shaking violently.

She did not cry, for tears shed when no one cares are meaningless.

But suddenly, she heard the sound of many people crying—girls weeping.

By instinct, she opened her eyes, only to find that, plunged into utter darkness, she could suddenly see again. Yet she would have preferred blindness. Where was this place?

An even greater horror exploded within her, and she could not help but scream.

She was still in the ruined temple to the mountain god. The darkness before her was tinged now with a filthy, sanguine red. Countless shriveled corpses stood motionless before her.

They were draped in armor that had decayed almost to dust. Their faces, desiccated and shriveled for lack of water, looked like dried oranges. Upon hearing Jojo’s scream, they all, regardless of posture or direction, turned their heads slowly toward her with a sickening grating of bone, fixing her with their empty sockets or with a pair of dangling eyeballs.

Then, from all directions, they began to close in on her step by step.

“Mingke, wake up! Mingke, please wake up!”

Jojo shook Mingke’s hand frantically, but the girl, lost in deep sleep, showed no sign of waking. Fear and despair closed around Jojo like a vise.

Once more, she heard the weeping of many women.

It seemed the corpses heard it too. They all slowly raised their heads to look upward. Jojo, almost reflexively, followed suit.

Through a hole in the roof, she could see the high, dark sky, now also stained with that filthy, bloody red. Flocks of beautiful crimson sprites fluttered in the air like shooting stars of fire.

One flock circled above the temple’s broken roof, gradually descending, their delicate cries as plaintive and pitiful as the weeping of young girls.

Several of the crimson sprites poked their heads through the broken roof, twisting their supple bodies with seductive grace.

So beautiful—even amidst the horror of the corpses, Jojo could not help but whisper in awe.

These crimson sprites were birds of exquisite beauty, their feathers as bright as flames. Their long, elegant necks arched gracefully; upon their heads gleamed golden crowns. Their eyes were long and bewitching, red and lively, like the most alluring women in the world.

When the crimson sprites saw Jojo and the corpses below, they let out several excited calls, craning their necks, then spread their wings and dropped through the roof, alighting beside Jojo.

But at the sight of these descending sprites, a chill ran down Jojo’s spine.

They were not mere sprites, nor were their feathers simply bright as fire. They were horrible monstrous birds, each with five heads, their bodies drenched in fresh blood.

As the first monster bird landed, more and more red abominations followed, filling the ruined temple with their shrill cries, as if countless pitiful girls were wailing in agony.

The first bird stretched its five long necks, curling around Jojo from every side and above, its voices keening mournfully; yet in those seductive red eyes, there was a gleam of delight and mockery at the sight of prey with no escape.

Jojo was utterly without hope, but still she did not cry. There was no need—her tears would be nothing but a harmony to the birds’ own cries. They would devour her and weep in her stead.

What else could she do?

She quietly let go of Mingke’s hand, desperately wishing that the thin cocoon of blood enveloping the sleeping girl would make the monsters overlook her, though she knew it was but a hope in vain.

The bird before her screeched, its five reeking, bloody mouths opening wide as it lunged for Jojo.

She squeezed her eyes shut in terror.

Perhaps all this was just a nightmare.

Let it be a nightmare.

If only it were just a dream.

Then, she heard a gentle sigh—a sigh she had heard only in dreams.

Next, she realized she had fallen asleep, and must be dreaming. She opened her eyes, and saw herself lying on the ground, eyes closed.

"Ah."

Before the sigh had faded, the monster bird that had been about to devour her let out a piercing scream, flapping its wings in frantic retreat, its ten seductive eyes squeezed shut, hot tears of blood streaming down its faces.

A faint figure appeared, simple and unassuming, beside Jojo’s prone form. He arrived with such quiet naturalness that, except for the bird that bore the brunt of it, no one—not even Jojo herself, caught in this strange dream—noticed his presence at first.

"Is that... the Old Mountain God?" Dreaming Jojo murmured in disbelief as she gazed at the figure.

In the next instant, a cacophony of horror and shrill cries nearly tore the temple apart. The fiery birds scrambled for the broken roof, but as they rose, each burst into brilliant flames, spinning and plummeting from the sky in a blaze of light.

The divine must not be gazed upon directly!

But the corpses did not burn as the birds had; instead, they jostled each other in terror, fleeing through the temple doors into the darkness.

"Moon Bane," the figure said, hands clasped behind his back, glancing indifferently up at the sky ablaze with countless fireflowers. He then looked at the fleeing corpses, his tone still cool, yet tinged with melancholy.

"Heroes or not, they too become ghosts in the end."

With that, he turned and, with a casual chop of his hand, struck the dream-Jojo’s head.

“It’s the Mountain God, and I’ve had enough of you,” he said coldly.

Jojo, sweet Jojo, the dear little girl who had just endured utter darkness, terror, and despair, and now, saved so suddenly, found all the tears she hadn’t shed in her greatest fear and hopelessness summoned forth by the small grievance of that hand chop.

With a face full of grievance, she clutched her head, pouted, and dropped to a squat, letting out a loud wail.

A certain god drew in a sharp breath.

He hastily withdrew his hand, coughed, and turned away, pretending he had done nothing at all.

But the little girl’s cries only grew louder—crying for the monsters, for the darkness, for the cold and fear of the past few days, for not yet being home, for not having anyone come to rescue her.

Her sobs shook the god to his core, tearing at his heart and filling him with guilt so bitter he almost wanted to weep for the one who had made this darling girl cry.

Expressionless, he racked his memory for the countless romantic exploits of his long, illustrious life, but found not a single strategy that could help with a ten-year-old girl. Damn, what am I even thinking...

Fortunately, just then, a thunderous roar split the sky, interrupting Jojo’s crying and saving the god who had hoped for a cool entrance but now found himself in an awkward predicament.

His relief, however, quickly faded.

His face grew grave as he lifted his gaze. Jojo looked up as well, and at that moment, all creatures on the island who had not succumbed to sleep also looked skyward.

They gazed upward, into the far, dark heavens. The sky was as distant and black as before, but in the heart of every onlooker, a chill struck as if the sky itself had opened a vast, matchless eye.

“So devoted to me, are you…” The god gave a cold, self-mocking laugh. “Six years.”

He turned, facing the distance, and called out, “A-Jian, activate the Six Desolate Heaven-Shrouding Array.”

His words were not loud, yet they rang out across every corner of the island, blending into a peal of thunder.

The middle-aged man, locked in a standoff with the scholar and the village chief, heard the words. So did the others.

The sword light vanished. The middle-aged man glanced at the others. “You heard.”

The village chief and the scholar both wore grave expressions. They glanced at the sky, then at each other.

“That person truly exists,” their eyes exchanged fear and astonishment.

Then, they nodded to the middle-aged man and said—

“There is no time to lose. Begin the array!”

A thunderous boom.

In the next instant, pillar after pillar of light shot skyward from the island where the town stood. Countless sacred mountains erupted in a brilliance that pierced the heavens. Within the illuminated mountains, immense black shadows strode; flocks of monstrous moon-bane birds swept across the sky in dense clouds; and armies of a million silent, weapon-wielding, armor-clad corpses marched in perfect step.

Beams of divine light wove mysterious runes in the air, and the island resounded with a tremendous roar, as if a great ship long at anchor had set out once more on an epic voyage.

“Six years,” the scholar murmured, stroking his beard as he gazed at the radiant lights.

“Six years—must it be six? Could you not have waited just a few more?” the middle-aged man asked coldly.

As the divine lights rose and the island trembled, Jojo saw the most terrifying nightmare of her life—one far worse than being devoured by a monster bird. With tearful, desperate eyes, she looked to the god who had once saved her, pleading silently for an answer—no, for salvation.

The god looked down at her, his eyes full of compassion.

“Do you see it?” he asked, gently stroking her head, smiling softly.

“Silly girl, you’re dreaming—this is just a dream.”

“This is just a dream.”

“Only a dream.”

He repeated it, but his voice grew heartbreakingly sorrowful.

The girl didn’t notice. She believed that a god would never lie to a mortal, and the terror in her heart slowly faded.

She did not hear the last words he whispered, so softly as to be almost inaudible.

“Luo Qingxi, this is only a dream.”