Chapter 42: The Crimson Sky Sword of Virtue and Vice

His vision was dim, the world around him plunged into silence. He had no sense of how long he had slept, as if drifting through a dream, his body floating weightlessly in midair, utterly beyond his control.

Rogan blinked wearily, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself sprawled on the ground. The sight before him startled him: a lush bamboo forest lined up along a stone-paved path, stretching straight ahead, lending the place the air of a hidden realm. A breeze seemed to drift between the bamboo stalks, carrying the scent of bamboo leaves and earth, mingled with the freshness of spring. His ears began to pick up scattered, murmuring whispers, as if voices were telling secrets.

People hurried past all around him, but they seemed devoid of vitality—peasants, merchants, even officials—each with heads bowed, intent only on pressing forward. Faint points of light flickered around them, and as they reached the depths of the secret realm, their bodies floated upward, ascending into the air before vanishing into nothingness.

Rogan tried to speak to the passersby, but not a single one responded, nor did any seem to notice his presence. All living things were busy and preoccupied, each intent on flying to the end of the secret realm.

Curious and unable to escape his surroundings, Rogan followed them deeper into the bamboo grove. The path grew broader as he walked, the bamboo thinning on either side. The wind grew rowdier, now gritty with sand that pricked his eyes with an unbearable itch.

He walked on and on; these people seemed more like spirits. Though they came in an endless stream, their route was fixed, and Rogan could not touch a single one of them. At times, he felt sudden chills or waves of heat, making him deeply uncomfortable.

As he reached the heart of the grove, Rogan’s body suddenly lifted from the ground, drifting uncontrollably. Up ahead, a wall of bamboo loomed. As he was about to crash into it, his body moved on its own, bracing for impact—yet he passed straight through.

Bamboo stalks rose one after another, and Rogan soared into a towering shoot, his head spinning with dizziness. When it cleared, he found himself in a clearing at the very heart of the bamboo forest.

The clearing was ringed by bamboo, and at its center hovered a woman with the air of a shaman. Rogan, still somewhat dazed, swayed unsteadily and stepped cautiously into the bamboo glade. The shaman was a strange sight, dressed in a Daoist robe, beside the eight-trigram symbol on her chest were the words: “Fortune-telling. Cures for the incurable.”

The shaman spoke: “At last, you’ve come.”

Rogan, of course, was unaware, but in this world it was not unusual for strangers to recognize him—just as the wandering healer and the monk had before.

“Ma’am, you know me?” Rogan asked.

“Ma’am?” The shaman snorted. “By my setting, I’ve been here for three hundred years. You ought to call me ‘Great-great-great-grandmother.’”

Rogan was bewildered and at a loss.

“I just want to ask,” Rogan said, “wasn’t I in the dense forest? How did I suddenly end up here—?”

The shaman drifted to the ground, circling Rogan and prattling: “Curiosity is a habit. I was curious when I was young too, once an ordinary person, now learned in the heavens above and the earth below, versed in all things ancient and modern. Talented youths are always revered! I recall the three-thousandth disciple of Master Kong. In an age of prosperity, there would be far more students than that, so being a teacher is a good path…”

Rogan realized the shaman was hopelessly prone to digression and quickly steered her back: “Great-great-grandmother, I just want to know how I ended up in this place so suddenly?”

The shaman, a bit put out at being interrupted, but seeing Rogan’s earnest curiosity, brightened again. “Great-great-great-grandmother! You know, I’ve been here so long without seeing anyone. It’s been years since a candidate found this place. Who else could do this side quest? To start as a village peasant—that’s truly unfortunate! I almost lost my job. Anyone who draws this quest is unlucky enough to win the lottery!”

Rogan grew impatient, feeling as though he were casting pearls before swine, and quickly turned to leave.

Seeing her audience departing, the shaman became anxious and blocked his path. “Now that you’re here, it means we’re fated to meet. I have something good for you.”

Rogan turned back to see two bamboos standing before him.

One was tall and robust but rotten to the core; the other was a slender, young shoot. After a moment’s thought, Rogan chose the new bamboo.

“What happens after I pick one?” he asked.

“Excellent eye!” said the shaman. “You chose the new bamboo—very bold! Speaking of boldness, no one outmatches the Sima clan’s three warhorses. Their turnaround victories were no accident, but that’s another story. In fact, the reforms of the New Dynasty were earth-shattering!”

Rogan could no longer tolerate her rambling. Grabbing the slender bamboo, he prepared to leave. As he neared the edge of the grove, the shaman, still muttering to herself, finally noticed he had already walked far away.

He had intended to leave directly, but since he was here, perhaps the shaman could help. Rogan asked, “Have you seen Erhu and the others?”

“Who?” replied the shaman. “Never heard of them. But I did see a rather tigerish fellow trying to enter here. He failed, and only his soul remained.”

“Tigerish? What did you do to Erhu? Tell me!” Rogan, furious, seized the shaman by her robe, demanding answers, and the shaman was terrified.

“I’m only following the script,” she stammered. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just saw he didn’t make it to the clearing—his soul was taken along the way.”

A chill swept through Rogan. “What?”

Clutching the not-so-long bamboo, Rogan dashed out.

On the way, he passed again among those unfamiliar souls, their heads bowed, intent only on flying skyward. Suddenly, a bamboo wall blocked Rogan’s path. In desperation, he poked at the gaps with the slender bamboo.

All at once, the bamboo flashed with light and transformed into a crimson sword! It was just like the one the Dragon Man had drawn from the vegetable plot—this must be the same sword!

Overjoyed, Rogan swung the sword a few times, and the bamboo wall crashed down. He rushed in, only to find that after all his wandering, he had somehow circled back to the bamboo glade, where the shaman still hovered in the air.

The shaman rolled her eyes. “How is it you again?”

“I walked a whole loop out there, and I still ended up back here. What’s going on?” Rogan demanded.

“This is the Bamboo Forest of the Human World,” replied the shaman. “People come here for all sorts of reasons—money, love—and in this thicket, they see the shapes of their desires and lives. Some cannot bear the blow and dissolve into wandering souls.”

Rogan shuddered, fearing that Erhu had really lost his way in the thicket and become a drifting soul. The thought filled him with dread.

Just to be sure, he pressed, “Is it possible for someone who becomes a soul to recover their former self?”

“Of course it’s possible,” said the shaman. “The sword in your hand is the key.”

Looking closely, Rogan saw the blade was still bright red, streaked with black, exuding a heroic aura.

The shaman continued, “If you find that person, and if this sword remains aligned with good, you can use it to disperse their soul. Then you will see people restored to normal.”

“Good? Does the sword distinguish between good and evil?” Rogan asked.

“Yes. This is the Chixiao Sword, once the favored blade of Liu Bang, founder of the Han Dynasty. Legend says the Red Emperor’s son used it to slay the serpent and open the way. What’s more, the Chixiao Sword judges right and wrong on its own, influencing and being influenced by your own heart. If it becomes an evil sword, it can corrupt the mind. Use it wisely.”

Rogan nodded, took up the sword, and set out to find Erhu.