*Pitter-patter...*
The rain outside grew heavier and heavier. Water leaked from the roof, a drop splashing right onto Qin Sang's shoulder.
Yagu hurriedly reached out to shield him, helped him move to another spot, and then pulled a charred stick from the hearth. On the ground, she wrote: "When you first saw me, there was no disgust in your eyes."
She raised her head and looked at Qin Sang, her eyes shining brightly in the firelight.
Qin Sang looked at the characters she had traced. Her handwriting was delicate and graceful. Her grandmother had taught her to read and write while she was still alive, and after she was left alone, Yagu would practice writing whenever she felt lonely, cherishing her grandmother's memory.
Qin Sang had never learned the writing or language of this region, yet he recognized every character—they were identical to the script used across the Lesser Cold Domain!
Furthermore, he could easily understand the dialect spoken by the natives of Qianhu Stockade; the only difference lay in their accent compared to the people of the Lesser Cold Domain.
It was akin to the difference between Mandarin and regional dialects in his previous life!
Discovering this gave Qin Sang quite a shock.
In his previous life, a tiny speck of a world could give rise to thousands of languages. How could the boundless cultivation realm share a single tongue? Could he still be within the borders of the Lesser Cold Domain, having failed to escape Dongyang Bo's clutches?
Qin Sang, who had begun to relax slightly, grew tense once more. He cautioned Yagu not to see any outsiders, lest word slip out and increase the risk of his presence being exposed.
In all this time, the only ones who had seen him and knew he had lost an arm were Yagu and that old witch doctor.
The natives of Qianhu Stockade called this place the Western Frontier.
Qin Sang recalled the topographical map of the Lesser Cold Domain, but could not remember any region called the Western Frontier. By direction, the west of the Lesser Cold Domain was home to the demon cultivators of Heavenly Demon Mound, where all mortals had long been relocated.
The Heaven-Traversing Alliance was a monolithic territory with no division known as the Western Frontier.
Nor had Qin Sang ever heard of a place that worshipped a Witch God.
However, mortals ultimately had limited horizons. To truly ascertain what place this was, he would have to encounter cultivators.
"When you first saw me, there was no disgust in your eyes."
Qin Sang sighed inwardly.
Though he had never questioned her directly, between their time together and the snippets of conversation he had overheard outside, he had already pieced together Yagu's background.
Yagu would turn sixteen in a few days.
She was born of Qianhu Stockade, and during his lifetime, her father had been the bravest man in the entire stockade—a martial artist of formidable skill whose renown spread far and wide, tacitly chosen as the next chieftain.
Yet Yagu had never spent a single day in the spacious, airy stilt houses of the front stockade since her birth, living instead in this thatched hut on the back mountain to this very day.
All because of the label "jinx."
On the day of Yagu's birth, her father had led a hunting party into the wilds, only to be ambushed by ferocious beasts, nearly wiping out the entire group. Three days after giving birth to her, her mother passed away to follow her father into death.
Coupled with the large birthmark that gave her face a fierce, ominous cast, rumors spread through the stockade that she was the reincarnation of an evil ghost who had cursed her parents to death and would bring ruin to the entire stockade. Branded a "jinx," the villagers had intended to drown her in the river.
In the end, Yagu's only remaining kin—her maternal grandmother, addressed in the Western Frontier as "A-po"—took the infant away from the stockade to live on the back mountain, thereby shielding her from harm.
Yet misfortune did not end there. At age three, she was discovered to be unable to speak, a natural mute. At age seven, another tragedy struck: A-po died as well, right before Yagu's eyes.
From then on, the moniker of jinx clung to Yagu inextricably. Everyone called her Yagu—Mute Girl—and her true name was lost to memory.
Even though no one else had died on her account over the past ten years, the people of Qianhu Stockade steadfastly refused to let her return. At a mere seven years old, Yagu had lived alone on the back mountain until now.
It was hard to imagine how a seven-year-old child had managed to survive.
Fortunately, the mountain where Qianhu Stockade stood was free of wild beasts, and the stockade maintained day-and-night boat patrols along the riverways below, making the back mountain relatively safe.
Moreover, the elders of the stockade were reasonably sensible. Mindful of their ties to her late forebears, they often sent her provisions. The old witch doctor in particular, who had historical ties to Yagu's grandmother, treated her the best.
Even so, none dared defy public anger by bringing Yagu back to the stockade.
Despite suffering ten thousand hardships, Yagu harbored not the slightest resentment in her heart; her eyes remained as clear and pure as spring water.
She had not resigned herself to despair. Independent and resilient, from the age of twelve onward she had supported herself through manual labor and weaving bamboo ware, declining any further charity.
Having met countless people, Qin Sang could tell that Yagu still preserved an innate innocence and purity. She yearned for acceptance and companionship; even when those girls showered her with venomous words, she still hoped to draw closer to them.
The line written on the ground laid bare her heart.
In Qin Sang, she had seen a glimmer of hope that someone might finally accept her.
Qin Sang looked into her expectant, trusting eyes, unable to bring himself to say much.
Yagu did not know that although he appeared young, he was a cultivator over a hundred years old who had seen countless genuine evil ghosts. Why would he ever be frightened by a mere birthmark?
Qin Sang had long passed the age of judging people by their appearance.
Could any lovely shell compare to the true forms of Chenyan or Granny Jing?
And no matter how ugly someone looked on the outside, how could it ever rival the ugliness festering in human hearts?
In his eyes, Yagu was far more beautiful than those pretty faces outside. A good girl like her deserved heaven's blessing.
"Everything will get better," Qin Sang said.
***
Mortal herbs held no curative effect for his injuries, but Qin Sang had drunk them all, unwilling to brush aside Yagu's kindness.
Once he swallowed the medicinal decoction, Yagu supported him into the inner room to rest, then returned to weave bamboo ware by the firelight. The Witch God Festival was approaching, and she wanted to make as many pieces as she could.
Through the thin curtain, Qin Sang watched her slender figure toiling by the hearth.
After a moment, he drew back his gaze and closed his eyes in quiet meditation.
The rain fell throughout the night, only tapering off toward dawn into a soft, pitter-pattering drizzle.
At that moment, lying on the bed seemingly in deep slumber, Qin Sang suddenly opened his eyes. A flash of pleasant surprise showed in his gaze. He had thought it would take two more days, but his recovery was faster than expected—he had already regained a sliver of spiritual sense.
*I should barely be able to open the Qianjun Ring!*
Exercising extreme caution, Qin Sang directed that sliver of spiritual sense toward the Qianjun Ring. At last, he forced it open, swiftly retrieving several items before his spiritual sense was exhausted once more.
A needle-like pain pierced his head.
Enduring the ache, Qin Sang fumbled for a jade bottle containing spirit pills that aided the recovery of spiritual sense. Impatiently popping the stopper, he shook out several pills and stuffed them into his mouth; the agony subsided considerably.
He then meditated for two hours. Once another wisp of spiritual sense returned, he opened his corpse puppet pouch and summoned the fully transformed Flying Yaksha.
Only now did his heart truly settle.
The Flying Yaksha's appearance had changed drastically. Resembling the most ferocious of evil ghosts, its skin had turned pitch-black and gleamed with a metallic sheen, as though cast from dark iron, harboring terrifying strength within.
This was a true Flying Yaksha!
Chapter 615