Chapter Nine: Before the Earthen Fortress

Although the world before his eyes was filled with marvelous Daoist arts, in many respects it could not compare to the twenty-first century—transportation, for instance. Every farewell here might well be the last. Watching the Daoist stride away with such ease, Liu Chen couldn’t help but feel a twinge of melancholy. They had only known each other for a single day—Liu Chen hadn’t even bothered to ask the man’s name. Yet in that brief span, a genuine friendship had already taken root between them.

Perhaps this was what the old books meant by “knowing someone for a lifetime yet remaining strangers, but meeting once and feeling as if old friends.” Such feelings did not linger long in Liu Chen’s heart, however. After all, he was a man from the twenty-first century. Though he had come to understand some things about this world, his knowledge was still largely intellectual, lacking true emotional resonance. The parting left him only somewhat wistful.

He glanced around the valley; it looked much as it did the last time he left. With a sigh, Liu Chen set out once more.

But unlike before, when all his thoughts had been bent on revenge, this time Liu Chen departed with a better grasp of this unfamiliar world. His goal remained the same—to kill the demon Daoist Lu Qingcai—but he now allowed himself to imagine what might come after that vengeance.

He had already begun to plan for such a future. After avenging himself, he intended to fulfill a dream from his former life: to wander and see the world. The thought made him realize that his current body—undead though it was—had its advantages as well.

“Even after crossing worlds, I can’t rid myself of idle fancies,” Liu Chen muttered to himself, before breaking into a run across the wild, open land, following the faint link in his mind that connected him to the demon Daoist, pressing ever forward.

As his speed increased to its utmost, Liu Chen gradually became aware of a distinct rhythm beneath his feet, the subtle ebb and flow of the earth’s energy with each stride. After some time observing this sensation, he had learned to match its unique cadence, moving ever faster. By now, his pace could truly be called “swift as the wind.”

Regrettably, if he tried to shift position quickly over short distances, his movements still felt as stiff as ever—as if this newfound speed was useful only for travel, not combat. Still, Liu Chen was not greedy. Though he could not have everything, what he had gained was already an unexpected boon.

After half a day of running, Liu Chen caught sight of Zhao Qian’s company of soldiers in the distance. Their troop, originally made up of fifteen hundred men in three battalions, had grown—no doubt swelled by recruits chosen from the five hundred prisoners they’d taken.

Their destination, like his, was Xincheng. Judging by their pace, it would take them more than a day to reach the city.

“I’d best settle things quickly. If a battle breaks out, it’ll be trouble,” Liu Chen thought, recalling the Daoist’s caution when speaking of the art of war. In a world where magic and spirits were real, the continued existence of imperial authority was due in no small part to the protective power of the military. Even the most enigmatic spirits and deities had, in the annals of this world, been slain by powerful armies. As for beings like Liu Chen—ghosts and monsters—their deaths were too numerous to count.

With these thoughts, Liu Chen slipped past the marching soldiers and continued toward Xincheng. As he drew nearer, his sense of the demon Daoist Lu Qingcai grew ever sharper.

Feeling this connection intensify, Liu Chen was tempted to press on at full speed and storm the city. But when he was still some sixty or seventy li from Xincheng, something felt amiss, and he prudently slowed his pace.

Compared to Licheng, Xincheng was far more prosperous. Even at this distance, he could make out several villages dotting the landscape. Yet as he passed through one, Liu Chen sensed something odd. The traces of everyday life were everywhere, but the villages themselves were nearly deserted.

“What’s going on here?” he wondered, pausing to investigate. After some exploration, he realized that all the tracks on the ground converged in a single direction.

After a moment’s hesitation, Liu Chen adjusted his course and followed the trail—mainly footprints and the occasional wheel rut—proceeding with caution.

After traveling some ten or so li, he found himself before a wall of earth and brick—a fortification that, in size and construction, was not far from being a small city. All the tracks seemed to lead here.

“Could it be that the people of this world also practice scorched earth tactics?” Liu Chen mused. Now he understood. He had heard in the army, during idle chats with Li Cui, that Daoists here possessed long-range communication abilities. Perhaps not much more advanced than wired telegraphs, but adequate for military matters. That they had managed to react before Zhao Qian’s arrival was not so strange after all.

What truly surprised Liu Chen was the organizational prowess displayed in this scorched earth maneuver. The resolute, decisive execution of the plan was worlds apart from the incompetence ascribed to the imperial court by men like Li Cui and Zhao Qian.

Seeing this, Liu Chen began to worry for the safety of Li Cui and Zhao Qian’s men. Still, he had no intention of lending a hand, and so prepared to leave.

Just then, a noisy group approached—the latest batch of villagers being herded into the fortress. It was clear that most were not arriving willingly; their angered voices, forceful and indignant, were not the wailing of the desperate, but protests from those compelled against their will.

The cause of this unrest was obvious: a man on horseback, whose appearance struck Liu Chen as familiar—more precisely, his clothing did. Without needing to recall, Liu Chen saw that the man’s blue-grey Daoist robe was identical to that worn by Lu Qingcai. Clearly, he was another Lingbao Daoist—Lu Qingcai’s fellow disciple.

“All of you from the mountains—men and women, separate now! There are rules in this fortress, do you understand?” the Daoist barked.

As they neared the gate, two burly men following the Daoist lunged into the crowd, roughly seizing several men and women who were walking together, intent on splitting them up.

“They’re family! The children need their mother—how can you separate them?” protested a tall, long-armed man from the crowd, grabbing the two enforcers by the arm, his brow furrowed in anger.