Shi Yang awoke with a start.
The world around him was red. He lay half-submerged in a river of blood, its sluggish current tugging at his limbs, carrying the copper scent of slaughter to his nose. Overhead, storm clouds churned, pressing the heavens low, and cold rain mingled with the warm crimson tide.
He staggered upright, gripping his temples. "...My spirit sea again?" he muttered, voice swallowed by the storm. It felt like it—his soul felt weightless, unanchored, his body more thought than flesh.
Then movement rippled beneath the bloodied waters. He froze. Shapes coalesced below—an image forming through the red mist.
A village woman, her sleeves rolled up, knelt by the banks, calmly scrubbing clothes in the river as though nothing was amiss. Her motions were gentle, practiced, her face indistinct, blurred like a memory half-forgotten.
Shi Yang's eyes narrowed. "Does this lead… to the sorceress' world?"
Thunder cracked, cutting through his thoughts. Lightning split the sky, and in that blinding instant he caught sight of a man streaking through the clouds on a flying sword.
Shi Yang's breath hitched. He lifted his hand to shield his gaze, straining to make out the figure. The storm bent around that blade, clouds trembling beneath its passage. He squinted, focusing harder—
—and found himself staring straight into the burning disc of the sun. His eyes seared, forcing him to hiss and look away, blinking rapidly.
When his sight cleared, the river was gone. The storm, the sword, the woman in the bloodied waters—all gone.
Instead, the sharp smell of fish assaulted his nose. He stumbled, suddenly standing in the middle of a bustling fish market. Crates of writhing eels and gutted carp spilled ice and scales across the wet pavement. Men shouted prices, women haggled, gulls shrieked overhead.
"Shi!"
The voice was achingly familiar, jarring in its clarity. He turned sharply.
His aunt stood at the edge of the crowd, waving him over, an umbrella tilting against the drizzle. "Don't wander off! Stay close, do you hear me?"
Her tone was ordinary, scolding, exactly as it had been in the mundane days of his youth. But Shi Yang's heart hammered. His mind reeled, torn between blood rivers, sword-bearing immortals, and the fish stench of modern streets.
He looked at her and went silent, his eyes meeting hers. He was about to open his mouth when she was called over by an old lady at her stall. "Little Yang Lianhua," the old lady called.
"Old Fenhua," Yang Lianhua answered, "do you have anything fresh for me today?"
The old woman's hands were wrinkled, her nails rimmed with scales and salt, but her smile was missing no teeth. She dipped her hand into a wicker basket and hauled up two glistening carp, their silver bodies still twitching.
"Fresh enough to slap your cheek, Lianhua," Old Fenhua croaked. "Caught before dawn, cleaned by my own hands. Or would you prefer eels today? They're thick, fat, still wriggling." She tugged another lid aside, revealing a knotted coil of slick black bodies that writhed lazily in the basket's shallow water.
Aunt Yang Lianhua nodded approvingly, umbrella shifting as she examined the catch. Shi Yang, however, was only half-listening—his mind snagged on that name again. Not Shi Lianhua, but Yang Lianhua. A subtle change, but consistent with the strange distortions of this place: his own name had been twisted into Yin Yang Shi, a joke turned omen.
So this really was another illusion.
He almost laughed. A moment ago he had been half-afraid his escapades were nothing more than drunken daydreams. If that had all been his delusions, he wouldn't have known what to do.
But why is my inner world like this, my second time around? Is this supposed to be me dealing revenge to my aunt who had been mistreating me for a while? But his life wasn't exactly bad enough for him to be traumatic enough to want payback on anyone.
After all, his aunt hadn't treated him that badly. She'd scolded him, sure. Pushed him around, yes. But she'd also let him do her laundry. Panties and bras included. He still remembered the thrill of stealing a pair or two when he was younger, grinning at his secret haul. His karma had always been filthy; that much was true.
He chuckled to himself, earning a sharp glance from his aunt, who was haggling with Old Fenhua over carp.
Then the crowd surged. Voices rose in astonishment, pulling his attention down the row of stalls.
"Bigger than a man!" someone shouted. "Impossible!"
Curiosity tugged him forward, and Shi Yang followed the rush until he stood before a ragged fisherman, his face browned by sun and sea-winds. With a flourish, the man heaved back a tarp—and unveiled the monstrous body of a crab.
Its shell gleamed dull bronze, cracked from battle. Its claws were thick as a man's torso, jagged edges stained with brine. Even dead, it radiated menace, like a beast that had crawled up from the abyss itself.
The marketplace erupted into gasps. Children clung to their mothers, elders muttered prayers. And then, predictably, the questions came.
"Where did you find such a thing?"
"Tell us, tell us! On which coast?"
The fisherman puffed his chest, basking in their awe. His tongue began spinning a story, with exaggerated movements. "It was a storm-wracked night, the sea black as ink," he declared. "Lightning above, waves below—and this demon-crab rose from the deep! Nearly took my leg, but I cut it down with a harpoon."
Shi Yang, meanwhile, felt his Dao stir. A deep thrum, vibrating through marrow and meridians both, as though the crab's corpse resonated with him. The sweat river, the blood tide, the dragon-breath circulation—everything in his inner world linked to this. His Dao was answering the illusion, feeding on it, binding itself deeper into him.
"How much for a piece of the meat?" Shi Yang asked suddenly, his mouth dry.
The fisherman turned, eyes narrowing as if weighing him. "Hah. A boy like you? Fifty yuan for a claw's scrap. That's treasure-meat, storm-bred, not for the poor."
Shi Yang patted his pockets instinctively—no money. Of course not. Illusions didn't hand out pocket change.
"Aunt?" he tried.
Yang Lianhua gave him a flat stare. "We came for fish, not foolishness. Don't start dreaming of nonsense—what demon crabs, I've seen bigger ones on TV, and we've already spent our money on what's needed."
She tugged his sleeve. "Come. Enough nonsense."
The fisherman laughed at him, tucking the tarp back over his prize. Shi Yang only sighed and let himself be pulled away. So be it. This was all just the dream's way of tempering him.
The drizzle thickened into rain as they reached her car. The crowd's chatter faded behind them. He slid into the passenger seat, watching droplets race each other down the window while his aunt started the engine.
The drive home blurred into the hum of tires and rain on glass. Shi Yang leaned back, eyes heavy, Dao currents still coiling inside him.
If this is my subconscious forging paths for me, he thought, then I'll let it run its course. Every vision, every beast, every illusion will just become another brick in the road toward my destiny.
—
A/N
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