Chapter Thirty-One: God-Forsaken

In the pitch-black night, within Old Hua’s house, the sound of weeping could be heard. It was a woman, none other than Aunt Hua. Old Hua, meanwhile, was already fast asleep.

Fearless—who feared neither heaven nor earth—stepped out of his own house, wanting to go up the mountain alone to gaze at the clouds. For him, watching the clouds was the perfect remedy for a bad mood. He trekked several hundred miles deep into the mountains in the dead of night, not stopping until he could walk no further. There were no clouds to be seen, but, stubborn as he was, he insisted. He even threw a rock at the sky, demanding that the heavens produce a cloud, threatening to kill the sky if it refused.

As soon as he said this, Fearless was struck by terror. While he feared no earthly thing, he was terrified of the heavens and dared not offend the Almighty.

He walked alone to a great mountain and gazed at the western horizon. Still, there were no clouds. It was not until the dusk of the following day that he finally caught sight of the magnificent, fiery sunset clouds.

Just as he watched the clouds, he heard someone cursing him, swearing to beat him to death. Upon hearing this, Fearless dared not linger on the mountain. Clutching his black leather bag, he hurried back along the narrow mountain path.

Yet, he could hear someone following him. Whenever he looked back, he saw nothing, but as soon as he looked away, the footsteps returned. What kind of creature was this? Fearless did not know, but if it were a ghost, it surely would fear the gods. Just then, a temple appeared before him. Why not go inside and hide? Besides, it looked as if it were about to rain.

Fearless entered and shut the temple doors. Outside, a torrential downpour began.

It was a terrifying temple. A statue of Buddha sat enthroned, its face hideously ferocious, holding a red book in its hands. Its mouth was agape, as if speaking to someone, and its feet were clad in black shoes. As night descended, the mere sight of those shoes was unsettling.

Fearless had closed the door, but it would not shut completely. A crack remained, through which he could see outside. To his horror, he saw a face—a face covered in blood. The person outside was forcing the door, but Fearless pressed his weight against it, determined not to let them in; he knew that even someone as fearless as he would be scared to death if they entered.

Spotting a massive stone nearby, he pushed it against the door to hold it shut. After dusting off his hands, Fearless sat down in a pile of tangled grass, ready to sleep. Surely, the person outside would not find it so easy to push the door open now.

Fearless lay in the grass for a while before standing up to look outside once more. The rain was still falling, and as night deepened, the distant trees became obscured, though nearby rocks and weeds remained visible. Only then did Fearless realize that the temple was surrounded by dense, sprawling graveyards stretching for dozens of miles. There was not a sign of life for a hundred miles—not even a mouse.

The rain continued to pour, its desolation enough to make one weep, but to Fearless, this was no problem. He did not fear such things. On the contrary, he found it rather peaceful and ready for a long sleep.

As darkness swallowed the surroundings, Fearless remained in the temple. Before the giant Buddha, a single oil lamp flickered, appearing as if it might go out at any moment, yet it persisted.

Fearless lay beneath the lamp. Outside, someone was walking; the sound of footsteps, though faint, was still audible. Amidst the walking, there were calls, drifting near and far, impossible to pin down.

Fearless closed his eyes. Exhausted from the day’s journey, he yearned for sleep, and the quiet provided the perfect opportunity.

Suddenly, the lamp went out. The room was plunged into an unbearable, absolute darkness. While darkness is usually welcome for a sleeper, this was an unnatural, oppressive blackness.

Fearless could not sleep.

Outside, the rain continued, and the howling gale seemed to uproot trees nearby, while in the distance, a mountain collapsed with a thunderous roar.

Yet, the temple where Fearless lay remained unscathed, save for a few fallen roof tiles—a matter of no concern to the man inside. In the midst of that strange darkness, Fearless prepared to drift off. His day of wandering had finally come to an end.

When he awoke, he discovered the oil lamp was lit once more, though he had not touched it. Could the lamp light itself? Furthermore, the sound of knocking on the door resumed. Someone seemed to want in, but after pushing against the door and meeting the resistance of the stone, they ceased their futile efforts.

Fearless pushed the stone aside, intending to go out and see who was there. The rain was growing heavier, and he reasoned that since this was not his house, if he could enter, so could others.

But when he pulled the door open, he saw nothing—only the curtain of rain and countless graves. There was nothing else. How could he explain the knocking? Perhaps there was no explanation at all.

Fearless closed the door, replaced the stone, and lay back down in the grass.

Meanwhile, Old Dog was playing cards in the desolate village. Bored to death after a full day of gambling, he headed for the mountain, where it was rumored that a ghost resided. People said it was a female ghost, and this god-forsaken wretch intended to engage in illicit acts with her.

After walking for a while, he reconsidered; there were no ghosts in the daytime. He would have to wait until nightfall. He told no one, fearing he would have to share such a prize. When night came, Old Dog prepared a pig’s head and some spirit money, then set off for the mountain.

On the mountain, he encountered an old woman returning from gathering firewood. She was passably attractive, robust, and moved with a brisk, seductive energy that made his heart race.

Fate had decreed their meeting. They sat by a well to drink water. The old woman, having labored all day, needed a rest, so after drinking, she lay down on a stone.

Old Dog sat nearby, very close to her. He happened to have some candies, which he offered to her. After she ate them, Old Dog inched closer, claiming he was cold. The old woman, in a moment of kindness, allowed him to huddle against her.

Had she left or run away, that would have been the end of it, but the old woman began to moan and groan, her eyes closed as if drifting off to sleep. Seeing this, Old Dog, who had originally intended to let her be, felt compelled to act.

He touched her hand to gauge her reaction. When she did not object, he knew he had a chance. It was June, neither hot nor cold, and beneath the large tree, there was a thick layer of leaves, comfortable enough for two to lie upon.

"I'm too tired; I must sleep here," the old woman said, leaning against the tree and closing her eyes. Whether she was truly asleep, he did not know.

After a while, the old woman muttered that she was hot and took off her trousers, revealing a large, fleshy leg that twitched rhythmically, as if beckoning someone. Old Dog sat by, drooling—literally salivating—as the pale, heavy leg swayed more intensely.

The god-forsaken wretch crawled up and pressed himself against her leg, which began to tap rhythmically against him. Abandoning all restraint, he grabbed hold of her leg.

The rest followed accordingly. Just then, a scent of flowers drifted from nowhere, intoxicating the wretch and making him feel as though he were ascending to heaven.

After the act, the old woman departed. Old Dog, however, did not wish to return; he wanted to keep moving forward. He had heard there was a beautiful female ghost on the mountain, and he was not about to let such an opportunity pass.