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Again and again, Zhu Yan found himself by the sea.
It was as if he was the moon being pulled towards the tides, something in him responding to a summons he couldn’t ignore. Even a great demon could be bound by certain rules of nature he didn’t understand. A roundabout cycle of return and punishment.
The split of rough waters and dark stones of the coast was a reminder of boundaries: two ways of life between two worlds; endless motion and enduring stillness; past and present. Life, human and yao alike, was supposed to thrive by the sea, painting it as a wealth of resources and often a picture of nostalgia, but any beauty of his time there before had all but washed away. Pain always lingered the longest, was most likely to resurge as a symptom of a dormant curse.
With the crashing of the waves as cue, the memories would play out for him again. Zhao Wan’er confiding in him as they sat on craggy rocks with sea spray blowing at their feet, the gentle smile and gaze of an older sister gracing her face. Then, her body splayed upon pebbles in the lapping tide, white robes drenched with salt water and blood.
He’d found a small abandoned dwelling outside Tiandu, far enough that it would be difficult to stumble upon, and set up a barrier as an extra measure. No humans and no yao. Wind whistled through the cracks between the rotting wood boards. Sometimes he found himself by the veiled window at dawn or dusk, the tampered glow of winter sunlight filtering through fabric, but he did not let himself look out. Most of the time, he kept his eyes closed.
He dreamed. Five different worlds in short bursts, a hazy stretch of an illusion that dragged on for too long, a nightmare that repeated again and again. Variations on a massacre, a smothering cage of malicious energy, a shard embedded in flesh. The gentle flutter of a pinwheel and rain splashing off an oil paper umbrella, followed by excited footsteps beside him thudding like drumbeats. Washing his hands of stains that would not fade, his fingers turning redder and redder in the darkening water.
When Ying Zhao’s message arrived telling him enough time had passed, he thought that it could be an illusion that his mind had produced. Numb, he’d staggered out to see the layer of snow that had covered the little house when he’d arrived had mostly melted. Had it been a whole month? Only one cycle of the moon? He resigned himself to a fate of wandering, a nameless boat drifting, always at distance from the shore.
Ying Zhao said that he was a conduit for the world’s malicious energy, one that would still exist with a different owner if Zhu Yan were to die. But the world put the responsibility on him, the insatiable Great Demon Zhu Yan shrouded in countless sins. Even if he was truly a mere vessel, he was the one burdened with the pain of the atrocities, the one that relived those violent moments again and again until there was no emotion left for him to feel.
I would rather die, he’d said. He knew he hadn’t yet done enough to deserve such a clean escape.
Still, he wished that the heavens would strike him down with a bolt of lightning, as many as they deemed sufficient as long as it finally killed him. Or, if years later he was as ever unworthy of an easy end, at least inflict enough pain for him to distract himself from the torment of memories and the swirling sensation of disgust.
In human medicine, some sources of pain were signs of blockages, and pressing on the pain point with acupuncture or massage could offer relief. But sometimes, if the pain was too acute, a single touch would only cause more harm, and it had to be dealt with in another medium: time; distraction; an unknown antidote.
His body was one that could not die – not yet. All he could do was accumulate the suffering that he was made for.
Every year, he carved the wounds into his back with his bare hands. It only seemed right, for maximum penance. It had to be more difficult, more painful than uttering a single syllable and watching the energy flow from his pointed fingers. A sharpened nail dripping claret, dragging through his flesh over and over again so that the scar would not heal. That one night, it had been his hands that were stained in the blood of many. Now, it was just his own. It could hardly be called enough for repentance.
Perhaps Li Lun was right. It was him who had dragged Li Lun out of the Wilderness. Even as it grew outwards, a tree’s nature was to stay rooted in a single place. If he had never brought Li Lun to the mortal realm – even if he hadn’t stayed with him forever, even if he’d broken a different promise – there might not have been such havoc wreaked.
In the mortal world, some said that the difference betweens humans and beasts was restraint. For humans and yao, it was morality; in the end, a yao could not be human because it did not know the difference between right and wrong, or perhaps that it did not care about the distinction. Humans, despite their own proven cruelty, in the end always repeated the same words: it was a yao’s nature to deceive for what it wanted, to draw blood and relish the taste of it.
Humans didn’t seem to know – or care – that yao also had dreams. Curiosity, freedom, excitement, warmth; it did not matter what a yao wanted, for they would never be able to prove that their intentions were pure. Empathy was not a privilege humans extended to a threat.
So he’d asked the Mountain God to promise him. If I lose control again, you must kill me. You mustn't hesitate.
Later – months, seasons, he wasn’t sure – he made a return visit to Tiandu to find out exactly how many people he killed in that daze, to learn at least some of their names. The previous leader and first inheritor of the Demon Hunting Bureau had been slain by his hand on that night, and only one descendant of the Bingyi Clan remained. He imagined a smaller version of that young man at the front of the group, a golden band circling his forehead above sparkling eyes and the glowing blade in less-practiced hands. He wondered if there would still be light left in those eyes now, after everything. Perhaps he’d take a look in a few years after the mourning robes were folded away.
He was sorry, and he would never feel sorry enough. He could only hope that the hatred would be enough to sharpen the boy’s intent to kill.
On his way out of Tiandu, he’d made the mistake of walking through a few lively streets, subconsciously drawn towards the amber glow of swaying lanterns. Children’s laughter pealed around him, accompanied by a rattle drum and the sizzling of heated sugar. He’d found himself almost smiling, and then the smell of roasted walnuts wafted towards him. Then: the image of Mount Kunlun, the contents of a burlap sack spilling onto snowy steps, and a verbal reminder that he didn’t belong in the mortal world.
Zhao Yuanzhou. A human name that had been bestowed upon him as a gift, and as thanks he’d taken the life of the one that had given it to him. A monstrous act to commit. His original name suited him better after all, characters for a bloodred prophecy of neverending hunger and disgust.
He learned to stay away from mortal cities in the winter, or at least the busier districts where food was sold on the streets. When he found himself straying closer, chasing after a foolish dream, the blood moon reminded him that some fates could not be altered. There would be another scar to carve in the place of wings.
In time, he would return to that little descendant of the Bingyi Clan. He would place a hand over the sword’s hilt and drive it through his chest. All the realms would celebrate, Kunlun would stand strong, and there would be no one left to miss him.
He dreamed of sunset splashing gold across an iced-over lake, a crescent moon already risen in a pale stretch of blue. In his palm he held the remains of a flower, its petals drifting onto the ice. The youth standing across from him watched silently, eyes glittering with tears of anger. A vow with an ending sworn to the heavens.
In his sleep, he smiled.