The sallow light of late afternoon hit the monolith of the entrance to Forgetful Spring Village. Out of the dark galleries of the mountain pass, two uninvited ghosts staggered into view. They were a cracked and dirty patchwork of torn cloth, dust, and the swampy reek of dried blood. Their voices rose in a shivering rattle of a plea, a high-pitched wail for help that made Old Man Gu Chen (顾沉), the sentinel of the pass, feel his pulse start to red-line. He crept forward with the focused, urgent haste of a man who knew the world was full of bad actors.
"Salt Merchant Er? Salt Merchant Sha?" the old man barked, his voice thin as splintered glass. "What in the name of the gods has happened? How did you turn into such human wreckage?"
The two vultures didn't waste a heartbeat. Er Dao performed a fantastic rubber acrobatics of exhaustion, dropping to his knees. Lao Sha went further, his frame becoming a spent shell as he sprawled flat in the dirt, looking ready to give up the ghost.
"A tiger, Honored Uncle Gu!" Lao Sha shrieked, his voice a high-voltage rattle. "We met the beast on the trail. We fled until the world unhinged, falling off a cliff. We climbed back from the slaughterhouse by the skin of our teeth. We've returned to your glossy dream of a nest to beg for a temporary sanctuary."
Lao Sha scrambled to his feet, performing his part with a nursery-rhyme sweetness that made Er Dao's teeth ache. Er Dao felt a jagged jolt of irritation; his partner was overplaying the math. Still, they had to be careful. Teacher Mao had been clear: this pass was a sarcophagus of stone. If the guard smelled a ghost in the machine, he'd slam the wooden gates and pull the bolt, triggering a landslide of boulders that would seal the world out with a final thud of certainty. The gang would be locked out of the treasure-trove forever.
Er Dao's hand drifted toward the dark galleries behind his back, reaching for a blade. But the old man was no small-fry fool. Gu Chen stayed back, keeping a void of logic—ten feet of stagnant air—between them. Er Dao's fingers froze; he couldn't reach the target without stripping the gears of the plan.
"Let us in for a single turn of the clock, Honored Uncle," Er Dao pleaded, his voice painted with forced deference. "Our strength is a spent shell. There are no other nests in these mountains. We've come to darken your door only because the abyss gave us no other choice."
Old Man Gu Chen offered a slow, clinical nod, but his face remained a mask of cold knowledge. "Wait here. I must inform the Ancient Ones at the shrine. The Elders must process the math on this arrival." He turned as if to perform a total door-slam on the conversation.
"Uncle Chen! You've bird-dogged our trade for years!" Lao Sha interjected with a frantic Little Dance of desperation. "Can't we just step into the shade? Er Dao and I haven't processed a drop of water or a hunk of meat for two days. Our supplies are a washed-out memory at the bottom of a canyon. All we have left are our own skins and a pittance of trade-money to pay our freight!"
He begged with the predatory intensity of a man who knew that if that gate closed now, it was the end of the line.
Old Man Gu Chen whirled back toward the two vultures, his eyes scanning the empty trail behind them for a long beat. He let out a heavy blanket of a sigh. "Very well," the gatekeeper rasped, his voice as thin as splintered glass. "Seeing as you're peddlers who've bird-dogged this trail with your salt packs many a time, you've earned a turn in the shade. Step behind the threshold and process some water by the doors. But don't you dare strip the gears of my hospitality—stay put until I return."
"Aye, aye, aye!" the two thieves barked in a discordant unison, their voices painted with forced deference. They scrambled up, performing their fantastic rubber acrobatics of the wounded—dragging their legs like spent shells and wearing faces that were masks of exhaustion as they followed the old man through the monolith of the entrance.
Once past the heavy wooden slabs, Er Dao's hand drifted toward the dark galleries behind his back, his fingers itching for the liquid whipcrack of a blade to open the old man's throat. But the machinery of the hit unhinged instantly. Two elderly women, carrying woven bamboo baskets, were marching through the stagnant air of the lane directly toward them.
"Trouble's found you again, sisters, fetching slop for the gate-watcher every turn of the clock," Gu Chen called out, his face a fixed, radiant smile. He jabbed a finger at the two pieces of human wreckage. "These salt-merchants met a tiger and tumbled into the abyss. They've come to beg for a glossy dream of sanctuary while I report to the Ancient Ones."
"Grandmother Lin, Grandmother Xu! We've come to darken your door out of necessity!" Lao Sha shrieked, his voice a shivering rattle of a plea intended to taste like nursery-rhyme sweetness.
Er Dao eyeballed them through the digital fog of his own fury. One was Xu Suyun, the tofu-peddler; the other was Lin Xiuyue, who wrung greens from the dirt., Both were over sixty winters on the clock, their hair a washed blackboard of gray tracks. Lin looked like the senior model—her spine had a permanent bend like a piece of warped lumber.
Inside, the two vultures felt their pulses start to red-line. Big Brother Deng and Teacher Mao had ordered a focused, urgent raid, but a quiet kill was now a void of logic. If these fossils let out a high-voltage shriek or vanished into the static of the village, the gang would be looking for a head to put on a spike.
But the three ancients acted as if time were a glossy dream, jawing about the weather and the pantry while the machinery of the heist ground to a halt. Er Dao's mind performed fantastic rubber acrobatics—he wanted to draw his steel and turn them all into meat for the machine, but the math was ugly. They were only a few paces from the gate. If one of these small-fry triggered the bolt, the stones would tumble down with a final thud of certainty, sealing the bandits into a stone sarcophagus.
Fear began to bleed through Er Dao's mask of cold knowledge. Droplets of sweat began to pop across his pockmarked face like grease in a pan, each one a shivering rattle of the spirit as the stagnant air of the village closed in around him.
Lao Sha was in no better shape; his nerves were a shivering rattle. He was a massive wall of meat, yet the math of silencing three fossils without a high-voltage shriek making the air stagnant was a void of logic he couldn't bridge. He knew the score: stripping the gears of Big Brother Deng's raid was a one-way ticket to the slaughterhouse. As he moved with focused, urgent haste to whisper a new plan to Er Dao, a voice boomed from the dark galleries behind them.
"Greetings, Honored Ones. Sniffing the air alright today?".
The two vultures and the three ancient souls whirled around. Standing in the monolith of the entrance was a man—a jagged scrawl of a human being with a face as dark as a washed blackboard, splitting into a fixed, radiant smile. This was Deng Liang himself.
"Halt! Who goes there? How did you darken our door?" Old Man Gu barked, his voice thin as splintered glass.
Deng performed a servile, humble bow, nearly hitting the dirt, and as he shifted, a second shadow detached itself from his monolith of a frame. It was Teacher Mao—a scrawny piece of human wreckage with the eyes of a hawk, leveling a short crossbow at the three stone effigies.
"Close your traps," the small man hissed, his voice a sliver of ice.
"Lao Sha! Er Dao! Process the merchandise—get them trussed like spring turkeys!" Deng commanded, his voice a low, menacing rasp.
The two bad actors gave up the ghost of their disguise. They rose with predatory intensity, their legs scissoring across the floorboards.
"If they buck the machine, turn them into cold meat!" the leader added, his face a mask of cold knowledge.
Er Dao fished a length of rope from his pocket and beelined for Gu Chen. He saw the old man holding out his hands as if ready to join the dead-letter file, but as the vulture reached for the wrists, the world unhinged.
A boot flicked up, connecting with the point of Er Dao's jaw with a sound like a liquid whipcrack—KRUNCH!. Er Dao's vision went into a digital fog of white stars, and a world of pain slammed into his brain. He hit the battleship-gray concrete like a discarded rag, his mind performing fantastic rubber acrobatics of pure, unadulterated shock. It took a heartbeat for him to realize the fossil had just kicked him into oblivion.
"Watch it! This piece of human wreckage has got gears we didn't count on!" Deng bellowed, his voice a jagged rattle. "The fossil is a combat-processor!"
Lao Sha, that massive wall of meat, threw himself toward the elderly women, intent on turning them into a pair of hostages to grease the gears of the raid. But the world unhinged. The two women flickered like twin tongues of fire, moving with a focused, urgent haste that made them faster than eels in a grease trap. They scissored past his reaching talons without so much as a brush of fabric, their movements performing fantastic rubber acrobatics that defied their aged frames. Those three fossils, who had looked like spent shells only moments ago, suddenly jacked themselves into a run, vanishing toward the village with an agility that left the bandits staring into a void of logic.
"Bastard!" Deng Liang, the dark-faced leader, bellowed his fury into the stagnant air, barking at Lao Sha to kill the pursuit.
Teacher Mao, the scrawny advisor, didn't waste a heartbeat. He yanked a wooden whistle from his shirt and let out a high-voltage shriek—a signal for the rest of the vultures to swarm.
"Move it! The pass is clear! Raid!" Deng Liang, the Black Whirlwind, screamed. Thirty-odd vultures surged through the monolith of the entrance, their boots hammering the dirt in a discordant melody of greed.
Mao leaned in close to his leader, his voice a dry, shivering rattle. "Watch your back, Big Brother. The math is wrong here. Those three ancient souls... their gears were in perfect sync. This dirt has a roadmap of a history we haven't bird-dogged yet."
"To hell with it!" Deng declared, his voice a jagged, booming laugh. "Anyone who bucks the machine gets processed into cold meat! Forgetful Spring is under new management—it belongs to the Black Cloud Gang now!" He led his pack away from the pass, heading straight for the beating heart of the nest.
BANG! KR-RR-RROOMM!!
A sound like a final thud of certainty exploded behind them. The Black Cloud vultures spun around, their pulses starting to red-line. The wooden gates had slammed shut, and a landslide of boulders—large and small—plummeted from the cliffs, sealing the mouth of the pass in a crimson, chaotic mess of stone. The only way out was now a sarcophagus of rock. No one saw who pulled the bolt; no one saw the ghost in the machine.
"Dammit! We're boxed in!" the leader roared, though a clammy sliver of dread was already burrowing into his gut. He realized they were in a trap, a geometry of doom. "No choice now. Forward! Anyone you see, process them into dead meat!" Deng Liang, the dark-faced man with a heart as black as a washed blackboard, issued his commands with predatory intensity—but he slowed his own pace, letting his grunts take the point.
It was a short march—no longer than it takes to boil a pot of tea. The vultures gathered in the main street, but they found only a choking emptiness. The village was as silent as a grave. Every door was a door-slam; every window was a shuttered eye. It looked like an abandoned hull, a town that had simply given up the ghost. If it hadn't been for the merchandise sitting out on the stalls—the rice and the cloth laid bare like an interrupted dream—a man would have sworn the place was a monument to the dead, devoid of a single living soul.
The Community of Vultures ground to a halt. The bandits scanned the area with eyes performing fantastic rubber acrobatics, their minds a void of logic swirling with doubt. Forward was a dark gallery of unknowns; backward was a door-slam of stone. The weight of the world settled on Big Brother Deng, whose internal gears were beginning to strip and smoke. He knew now—he was certain with a cold lead of certainty—that this was no ordinary rat-warren of fossils. He'd expected a slaughterhouse of the weak, but the agility of those three ancients and the machinery of the trap that had boxed them in was a final thud of certainty.
Still, he kept his mask of cold knowledge tight. If he let the shivering rattle of his own nerves show, the rest of the pack would give up the ghost.
"Shall we raid, Big Brother?" Er Dao rasped, his hand working his jaw where the old man had delivered a world of pain. The pockmarked bastid's voice was thick with a jagged jolt of fury. "These fossils have tucked their heads in like turtles in a shell. Let's unhinge their nests one by one. Butcher every soul we find until the floorboards are wet and they beg to turn the key on their own surrender!"
Er Dao's voice wasn't small, and in the choking emptiness of the village, it echoed like a liquid whipcrack against the silent buildings. The vultures felt the pulse of bloodlust red-line in their chests. They were ready to turn the glossy dream of the village into a charnel house.
But the air suddenly unhinged. A laugh erupted—a high, brittle sound that drifted from the center of the village like a chemical curse, though the singer stayed lost in the static. Then, an artifact appeared: a white flag unfurling above the Happy Spring Inn like a shroud catching a sallow wind.
"A flag of surrender?" the leader grunted, his face a washed blackboard of confusion. He turned to Teacher Mao, the brain in the machine, and saw a piece of human wreckage. The teacher was ashy-pale, his legs performing a shivering rattle that threatened to dump him in the dirt.
"A dragon on a field of bone-white..." Mao whispered, his voice as thin as splintered glass. "The Plain White Banner (正白旗). They're here. We've stripped our gears, Big Brother... we've missed the math entirely!"
The scrawny advisor hauled the leader away from the group with focused, urgent haste. He ordered the grunts to hold the line and wait for a command. When they were out of the stagnant air of the crowd, Mao's voice began to vibrate with a high-voltage terror.
"The White Banner is one of the 'Upper Three'—the Emperor's private machinery of death. It's the army that answers only to the Son of Heaven himself: the Plain Yellow, the Bordered Yellow, and the White. The men of the White Banner are the bloodhounds of the dark. To put it in words of one syllable, Big Brother... they are the Emperor's designated butchers."
Big Brother Deng's eyes bulged like cracked porcelain doorknobs. Being a descendant of minor nobility, he knew the math on the Eight Banners; that white flag wasn't just an artifact, it was a death-hood pulled over the gang's head. His heart performed fantastic rubber acrobatics, but he knew that if he let the shivering rattle of his own nerves show, the machinery of the gang would strip its gears. In this purgatory of a village, he had only one play left: stir the vultures into a frenzy, buy enough time to find a key to the exit, and then vanish into the static.
"We snatch the Ancient Ones as hostages!" Deng hissed to Teacher Mao, his voice a dry, shivering rattle. "Wring the king's ransom out of them and make them turn the key on that sarcophagus of a pass. It's the only way to avoid the slaughterhouse." Mao offered a slow, clinical nod of agreement, his face a mask of cold knowledge. They beelined back to the center of the pack.
"We're raiding the Ancestral Shrine!" Deng bellowed, his voice reaching a high-voltage shriek. "We truss the seven elders like spring turkeys and the rest of these fossils will buck the machine and do as they're told!" He put Er Dao and Lao Sha on point—two bad actors who knew the roadmap of the place. The gang began to move down the main street, their boots making a discordant melody as they clutched their swords, spears, and pieces of war-gear, eyes performing fantastic rubber acrobatics as they scanned the silent hulls of the houses.
"They're out!" a grunt from the rear shrieked, his voice a shivering rattle of fear.
Deng whirled around. Out of the shadows of the dark galleries, the white and gray-haired inhabitants were flowing into the street like slow-motion ghosts. They weren't just common folk anymore; they were a sentinel line of human wreckage that had suddenly found its teeth. Some held long rifles, others gripped bows, horse-chopping sabers, or straight swords that glittered with a sallow, cold light. Some simply stood with their hands behind their backs—stone effigies with eyes like twin abyssal pits of absolute blackness. They trailed the gang at a distance of eighty paces, a silent patrol that tasted like cold lead in the bandits' mouths.
At the same time, more figures appeared on the rooftops—old men and women wearing white wooden masks carved into the likeness of ox-faces, looking like grotesque effigies from a charnel house. They leveled bows and crossbows with focused, urgent haste, their aim a final thud of certainty that pinned the bandits to the road.
The sight sent the vultures into a riot of panic. Deng and Mao screamed for them to hold the line, to keep their pace toward the shrine. But as they breached the narrow path that led up toward the Hall of Ancestors, the world unhinged. The armed fossils, who had been dogging their heels with predatory intensity, suddenly ground to a dead stop. The machine simply stopped breathing.
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