When the conversation ended, night had already grown deep.
After washing up, Yu Renwan climbed into bed beside Jiang Yan.
She was quite fond of her spot on the bed; if she stretched out her hand, she could reach Jiang Yan.
She called out to Jiang Yan, “Jiang Jiang, are you asleep?”
Jiang Yan didn’t answer her, so Yu Renwan said no more. She buried her face in the pillow, gazing out the window.
The two of them had just lain side by side when Yun Fanxing returned to the dormitory. At this hour, Xiahua had gone to another room, and Yun Mingyue was unable to return to school. Looking at the dorm, which now lacked energy or life, Yun Fanxing let out a soft sigh, put away her luggage, and carefully climbed into her bed.
Near eleven o’clock, Xiahua returned.
She didn’t turn on the light. Instead, she fumbled her way inside and immediately began making her bed in the dark.
Yu Renwan peered at Xiahua in the moonlight; the tear tracks on Xiahua’s face had vanished, as if the one who had broken down sobbing against the door earlier wasn’t her at all.
Noticing Yu Renwan’s gaze, Xiahua turned her face in puzzlement.
“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” She spoke in a soft whisper for fear of disturbing others.
Yu Renwan thought for a moment and said, “I wanted to see if you’d cry again.”
Zhou Xiahua smiled.
She shook her head. “No more tears.”
“I’m even stronger now than I was just before.”
Yu Renwan: “Hm?”
Zhou Xiahua: “What doesn’t defeat us makes us stronger.”
With that, Xiahua patted her pillow and undid her hair tie.
The high ponytail spilled free, her long, soft black hair falling over her shoulders. Yu Renwan caught a glimmer of tears in her eyes, but it happened so quickly that, in the end, she only saw laughter and encouragement.
“There are just a dozen days left. Let’s give it our all together.”
Late at night, everyone fell into a deep sleep.
It was impossible to tell the time, only that it was very late when Yu Renwan, half-awake, faintly heard voices in conversation. But she was too exhausted, managing only to lift her eyelids briefly.
She seemed to see Ye Tian and Fanxing.
The two were facing away from her, tearing something apart.
*
Upon waking, the new students officially entered their third day at Wuhai Girls’ School.
It was also the last day for answering questions.
This day was awash with overlapping storylines. Yun Fanxing and Zhou Xiahua broke into a fierce quarrel in the dormitory—over what was, in fact, a trivial matter. Yet Yun Fanxing insisted on dragging it out until both girls smashed their cups, and shards of broken porcelain cut open Zhou Xiahua’s eyebrow.
That day, Yun Mingyue and Ye Tian returned to school. In class, they sang and danced, only for Teacher Tang to mock them relentlessly and shove Yun Mingyue to the ground. Other girls shielded their dazed friend, turned on the teacher, and an all-out brawl broke out in the classroom, both sides screaming like bitter enemies. Xu Xing raged at Teacher Tang, shouting that she was unworthy to be Senior Sister Zhao Yao’s friend. Teacher Tang, in turn, locked everyone into the detention room.
Locked inside the detention room for an entire day, their razors were confiscated, and the knots in the ropes were tied so tightly they couldn’t be undone. Ultimately, Han Yinghuo broke free with sheer brute force, her wrists rubbed raw and bleeding. Zhou Xiahua lay there for a long time, and when she finally got up, her wrists were mottled with bruises—her own desperate attempt to stop pain with pain.
The timeline was in utter chaos. Stories spanning more than ten days converged into a single day. Just a moment ago, the sun blazed; in the next instant, a torrential rain poured down. Wu Mei pointed at Zhou Xiahua’s nose and declared that she was unworthy of friendship, just as bad as her own brother, and claimed that all her disgusting quirks were born with her.
Accusations spilled endlessly from Wu Mei. Zhou Xiahua held her ears, curled up in bed, while Yun Fanxing—back to both of them—was quietly writing. Yun Mingyue, meanwhile, did her own makeup as she sang, her peach-blossom cheeks and almond-shaped face almost unbearably beautiful.
The world’s beauty seemed utterly shut off from this school.
At six in the evening, as the sun set and crimson light flooded the sky, a distant, ancient melody rose and wafted through the air. Groups of people walked toward the river. All timelines converged, and all the quarrels ceased.
The evening of the sacrificial rite had arrived.
The girls donned moon-white robes, with strings of bells tied to their hands, tinkling clear in the evening breeze.
Jiang Yan left Dorm 508 to check on the other rooms.
At that moment, Han Yinghuo squatted in her dorm, silently fingering the shoulder strap of her backpack.
Hearing footsteps behind her, Han Yinghuo turned her head.
Jiang Yan asked, “Why aren’t you leaving yet?”
Han Yinghuo lifted her backpack to show Jiang Yan. “All the left shoulder straps on my bags have been reinforced and thickened.”
She said, “Every stitch hand-sewn.”
Shen Huanhuan entered the room just then. Hearing Han Yinghuo’s words, her expression turned deeply sorrowful.
Jiang Yan urged her, “Don’t dwell on it. It’s time.”
Han Yinghuo stood up. Her looks were plain, her skin coarse and dark from constantly helping butcher pigs at home, and she always carried an inerasable smell of blood. She smiled at Jiang Yan, and as she passed Shen Huanhuan, she gave her another big, simple grin.
It was a naive, honest smile.
After seeing Han Yinghuo off, Jiang Yan and Shen Huanhuan went to Room 509, where Shen Xiaoxiao was waiting inside.
Xu Xing was still leafing through the notebook Zhao Yao had left behind, the one filled with water-flow diagrams.
Jiang Yan asked Xu Xing for the notebook.
Xu Xing copied down the water-flow diagram, closed the book, and handed it to Jiang Yan.
“What do you need this for?”
Naturally, it was to have Shen Xiaoxiao channel Zhao Yao’s spirit.
But that couldn’t be said outright, so Jiang Yan replied, “We need Senior Sister’s radiance to bless us.”
Jiang Yan was tall enough that Xu Xing had to look up to see her face.
Yet the act of raising her head didn’t diminish her presence in the slightest.
Xu Xing was the smartest among the seven girls. Even though her mother had intentionally erased her gender, once Xu Xing was clear about who she was, she recovered quickly, immersing herself in the library day and night to fill her tragic early years with as much knowledge as possible.
But this story had no need for someone that clever.
The moment Jiang Yan saw the look in Xu Xing’s eyes, she understood that Xu Xing already knew.
“That night we went to the village chief’s house to steal a boat, I overheard a few things and deduced the rest,” Xu Xing said as she walked out. “The radiance of Zhao Yao truly shines upon us.”
At the door, she seemed to recall something and suddenly turned.
“Is my hair still short?”
Just then, Lan Lin arrived, casting a complicated look at Xu Xing. “It’s already longer than mine.”
Xu Xing replied, “Thank you.”
Apart from their group, all the other girls headed toward the river. Shen Huanhuan, standing atop the academic building watching them, finally voiced her long-held doubt:
“Are they real people?”
“In my heart, I know they’re not real, but they can talk with us and almost seem to truly exist. It’s as if—” She broke off, lowering her voice, “as if we really attended school here together.”
Lan Lin shook her head. “Of course they’re not real.”
“The tethered spirits imbued these NPCs with the true personalities they had in life. The personalities are genuine, but the people are fake.”
With that, Lan Lin sighed and looked at Jiang Yan. “Is it Zhou Xiahua?”
Jiang Yan gave a soft assent.
“The others have all disintegrated, their souls lost, unable to form an energy field.”
“It can only be Zhou Xiahua.”
*
After obtaining Zhao Yao’s notebook, Shen Xiaoxiao performed the spirit-communing rite.
She always felt as though she’d accomplished nothing in this scenario, so she was especially enthusiastic this time—so much so that the ritual succeeded faster than usual.
When Zhao Yao appeared, she seemed dazed, looking in shock at her surroundings. Her first words were:
“Why does Taoyuan Village still exist?”
Jiang Yan explained as succinctly as possible where they were. Perhaps Zhao Yao had experienced enough storms in her life, for after a brief moment of sorrow, she quickly grew calm.
Jiang Yan handed her the nine slips of paper—Taoyuan Village’s recorded history shown to the others by the tethered spirit.
After reading, Zhao Yao shook her head.
“These stories on the paper were presented to the girls in Taoyuan Village—they’re not the real history. The villagers concealed much of the ugly past, showing only scattered fragments.”
“Taoyuan Village’s story is far more complex,” Zhao Yao paused, as if searching for words to describe the village. At last, she said softly, “It is at once terrifying and glorious, filthy and magnificent.”
“The people inside have never ceased to resist, yet have also always been giving up. Every generation has its own duties.”
According to the slips, Taoyuan Village only started the sacrificial rites in the past hundred years, offering up seven girls to the Cow Immortal every eighteen years.
“That’s not how it was,” Zhao Yao said.
“The Cow Immortal didn’t return a hundred, but rather three hundred years ago,” she explained earnestly. “That day, the whole village celebrated the cow’s return. But soon they realized things weren’t simple. When the Cow Immortal began to wail, the mountains and rivers around Taoyuan trembled as if about to collapse. Everyone felt their souls squeezed and suffocated.”
“At that time, the village shaman said sacrifices were needed. There were many ways to help the Cow Immortal, but all were too difficult for us. The only thing we could manage was to offer sacrifices. By using such a wicked method, we could anchor its divine soul; only so long as the Cow Immortal lived could Taoyuan Village survive, and everyone within could live.”
“The village chief volunteered to be the offering, but the oldest elder stepped forward and took his place on the sacrificial boat.”
“After the ritual, the Cow Immortal’s cries ceased, the mountains and rivers stilled, and things seemed to return to normal. For the next thirty years, the Cow Immortal never wailed, and no further sacrifices were made.”
“But after thirty years, the Cow Immortal again voiced its anguish. Once more it was an elder who volunteered, and once again all the villagers lived in harmony, honoring every senior as their own. Yet this time, even after the ritual, the oppression remained.”
“The shaman said the Cow Immortal had grown ever more wicked and now required three sacrifices.”
“This time, the shaman herself took the boat. She taught all her knowledge to her daughter, then gave her spirit to Taoyuan Village.”
“From then on, each generation, the shaman would sense the Cow Immortal’s need. The interval between rituals shrank from thirty years to twenty-five, then to twenty-one, and finally to eighteen.”
“That was when I came of age and became the youngest shaman in Taoyuan’s history.”
“My mother said before boarding the boat that I would be the village’s greatest shaman and that I would surely find a way out.”
“At sixteen, I vaguely sensed a spiritual summons and rowed to the mountain cave where the Cow Immortal was hidden.”
“It was then I understood the Cow Immortal’s words.”
“It was weeping. It was begging someone to kill it.”
Zhao Yao’s gaze was gentle, filled with compassion. “Once, it left this world in haste, waging war to protect all living things, without time for a single word farewell. After being tainted, it returned here by instinct, but it lacked the strength to shatter Taoyuan’s barrier or even to speak with its worshipers. All it could do was seal itself in a frigid, ruined cave.”
“It never wanted sacrifices. But if it didn’t consume the offerings, it would die—and if it died, everyone in Taoyuan Village would perish. At first, it choked back its pain and ate the offerings. But sacrificial rites are too evil; each one only worsened its corruption.”
“In time, it lost its sanity and began to savor the sacrifices. That’s how it became a true evil god.”
Zhao Yao said, “That night, it was unusually lucid, so it summoned me, for through the years, I alone had the talent to understand its speech.”
“I remember clearly: the Cow Immortal told me both its body and soul were too powerful to take its own life. But existence was torment.”
Here, Zhao Yao let out a long, heavy sigh.
Everyone fell silent, even the live stream going mute.
That night, the Cow Immortal also told Zhao Yao the order in which it ate the offerings.
It confessed that, other than sacrifices, it only consumed the desire that came from anger. If one’s anger burned fiercely enough, there was the chance of escaping the cave—and once out, a few hours’ journey would see one leave Taoyuan altogether.
The Cow Immortal carved out seven portions of its conscious mind and entrusted them to Zhao Yao.
It told her to place these fragments in the chosen ones—ideally in newborn infants, whose innocence would nourish the spirits, making them powerful. Under this influence, those children would grow to be brave and radiant.
Zhao Yao said, “The Cow Immortal told me that during the sacrifice, those bits of spirit would awaken its mind, and it would do everything possible to help them leave the cave.”
“After I left, I found the village chief, who summoned all the villagers, and we devised a plan.”
“But plans never keep up with reality. From that day on, every child born was no longer a twin, but always a girl with a peculiar appearance. I think it was the Cow Immortal’s last bit of strength, for if every family could only have girls, there’d be no more descendants, and the village would die out within a century. No more village, no more sacrifices. Being trapped here was never the Cow Immortal’s will—it is truly in agony.”
When Zhao Yao finished her story, there was a moment of quiet.
At last, Jiang Yan began asking questions:
“How were the seven children chosen?”
Zhao Yao replied, “Taoyuan Village held two lotteries.”
“The first was to draw lots among the boys of each household, so they could choose which girl would disguise herself as a boy.”
“The second, after the girls turned five or six, was for me to draw lots to select the seven offerings. I then placed the Cow Immortal’s spirit in them.”
So Han Yinghuo hadn’t been picked by her mother—the decision had been made a decade before.
“Taoyuan Village truly is complex and warm,” Zhao Yao said. “Even those whose children weren’t chosen poured everything into their part. At home, families with the unchosen children loved them just as much, reminding them in front of the chosen girls that true affection is equal, that no child is ever unworthy of love.”
“They played educators; the chosen girls’ parents, the role of harsh oppressors.”
“In that stark contrast, the chosen girls grew up nursing fire inside. Only Fanxing was an exception—her body was simply too frail. Her parents couldn’t even pretend not to love her. Ordinarily, they should have chosen another in her place, but by then, the Cow Immortal’s spirit had completely fused with her.”
“No regrets,” Shen Huanhuan said softly.
Zhao Yao nodded. “Yes, no regrets.”
“No matter what, it could only ever be those seven girls.”
At that, Lan Lin voiced her own doubt: “I want to know, what does this anger actually mean? Is it the fury at being trapped in Taoyuan, of being unable to escape fate—is that enough?”
Zhao Yao shook her head. “No.”
“Evil gods delight in anger rooted in kinship and friendship. The fury at injustice in fate—they know all too well. They’ve tasted enough of that, and crave it no more.”
Zhao Yao had already spoken at length, and Shen Xiaoxiao’s time channeling her was almost spent.
Before departing, Zhao Yao glanced around at her surroundings, and then gazed far toward the riverbank:
“They were the first students of Wuhai Girls’ School, and also the last.”
“I died before they could really understand the world. How I wish I could see the rest of their lives.”
“But perhaps they wouldn’t want to see me.”
With this, Zhao Yao smiled wryly. “After all, I interfered too much in their lives, pointed far too many fingers—even if the sacrifice was meant to give them a chance at escape. Even if every villager declared them the luckiest children—still…”
“They still bore far too much hurt.”
Zhao Yao closed her eyes. “They never truly had a choice of their own.”
*
As the sacrificial rite was about to begin, Jiang Yan pulled out her exam paper. As she pondered what to write, she walked downstairs.
At some point, the staircase had changed.
The final seven steps gleamed gold, radiating light like a coronation, strangely gaudy amid the gloom.
Each step bore a golden plaque—
Inscribed with the names of the seven girls.
—[A gift from Wuhai Girls’ School’s Outstanding Graduates]—
The distant river began to flow. An unknown melody drifted forth, ancient and endless.
Girls clad in moon-white robes were bound with ropes and lashed to boats. Crowds amassed on the riverbank—Teacher Tang, Zhou Xiahua’s brother, every person from Taoyuan Village—all of them watching expressionless, doing their best to hide their sorrow.
The boats began to drift.
One after another, they sailed toward the cave veiled in mist.
Jiang Yan wrote [Zhou Xiahua] on the answer sheet.
Then turned to the second question.
—[Why am I in such pain?]—
Jiang Yan wrote quietly:
[Once you enter the cave, you understand everything, but can never go back again.]
[You never wanted to live such a lonely life.]
Red markings floated up—this time in exquisite script.
Progress: [80%]