Chapter 117: The Human Skin Mask

Truth and falsehood intertwined, the relentless pace of life left one weary. I had once believed myself the greatest fool, deceived for a whole year by a man wearing a human skin mask. Yet now, having truly encountered my master, I was compelled to reassess myself. If what my master said was true, then Old Mo San was far more cunning than I had imagined. When my master was defeated and fled, Old Mo San must have intended for me to believe his words, to inflict a profound psychological blow that would make me lose my true nature—so that when I met my master again, I would kill him without hesitation. Thankfully, I did not act rashly, or else a great calamity would have ensued.

My master helped me to my feet, brushing the dust from my forehead, then led me to a clearing beside a rock to sit down. Yes, this was my master—kind and gentle as he had been in the past. I asked why Leng Qing had allied with Old Mo San, and my master told me that Leng Qing had been arranged by Old Mo San from the very beginning. No wonder—this world truly harbored hearts grown cold. My master explained that for the past month, he had been residing in a valley called the Den of Ten Thousand Demons. After his defeat and escape, he had stumbled upon this place by chance. The valley was thick with fiendish energy, and following its trail, my master finally located its source: the highest peak in the valley. The legend of this mountain was familiar to him. Long ago, this towering peak was known as Broken Back Mountain. Its shape resembled a hunchbacked elder, with a hollow beneath its summit, hence the name.

My master’s purpose here was to suppress the demonic creatures dwelling in the Den of Ten Thousand Demons. These were no ordinary mutated beasts, but enlightened demons who had attained cultivation. Sealed here by some unknown force, their prison was lately showing signs of weakening. At night, the valley echoed with mournful howls—half ghostly wails, half wolf cries, mingled with the plaintive yowls of mating cats. The local inhabitants had long since abandoned the area. Even by day, stepping into the valley sent chills down one’s spine, making the hair stand on end.

That explained why, after trudging under the blazing sun for half an hour, I felt not heat but a creeping chill—not the crispness of autumn, but a bone-deep cold. My master led me into the great cavern I had accidentally uncovered. It was his home—hollowed out and enclosed by a makeshift wall of branches, complete with a wooden door. He asked me to gather dry wood inside, tying it with rope to block the entrance. Then he brewed a kettle of hot water, and we settled down to talk. Honestly, two months apart left much unsaid. My master began recounting the events that had transpired after my departure.

That day, after I left with Zhang Lei, Old Mo San arrived shortly after—his timing no doubt calculated. He had intended to capture my master to exchange him for the Heavenly Demon Manual in my possession. Of course, my master refused to yield. Old Mo San must have anticipated this. Though my master was stronger, he was not as unscrupulous. Taking advantage of a moment’s distraction, Old Mo San threw a white powder into his eyes. The pain was immediate, burning fiercely. Then Old Mo San struck him unconscious. When my master awoke, he found himself chained to a bed, immobilized, alongside a bound couple and a young child. Desperately, he tried to break the chains with his inner energy, but his qi failed him—some drug had sapped his strength.

After a while, the iron door creaked open. Old Mo San entered, brandishing a sharp knife. My master thought he was about to be killed and struggled fiercely. Having lived a long life, death no longer frightened him, but the innocent family beside him stirred his will to save them—though he was powerless. Old Mo San waved the knife before his face, then pulled a basin from beneath the bed and placed it by his side. My master saw clearly—a living infant, no more than two or three years old, lay in the basin. Old Mo San pressed my master’s face from side to side and sneered, “Zhang Yufeng, I never thought you’d live so long and still have no wrinkles. Practitioners truly are different.” My master’s name was Zhang Yufeng. I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. No wonder he had never revealed his true name to me. My master gave me a playful tap and I teased him, “Master, if the name’s not to your liking, you could have just changed it—there’s no ID card in this era anyway.” He tapped my head again, scolding, “Don’t interrupt. A name is given by our ancestors; it’s not something to be changed at whim.”

Resigned, I lit a cigarette and listened as he continued.

Old Mo San then raised the knife and stabbed the infant. The child was still alive. I could only scream helplessly, “Old Mo San, you beast! You won’t even spare a child!” But my powerless cries could not stop his madness. The knife plunged into the infant’s body as if slicing tofu. The child died without a scream; blood splattered across my master’s face. Unable to bear it, he turned away. A newborn, just arrived in this world, brutally murdered. Killers will one day be killed in turn, their souls tormented endlessly.

My master—my revered ancestor who had since passed into immortality—once told me that all things in this world are equal: a tree, a blade of grass, all bear life. As cultivators, we abhor killing. When it occurs, we must either halt it or seek to transform the hearts of those who kill. Yet now, bound and helpless, my master could only watch in despair.

Old Mo San skinned the infant, leaving behind a bloody husk lying silently in the basin. He carried it out, returning with the basin empty and filled only with clear water and a thin, translucent infant’s skin. Setting the basin on the bed, Old Mo San produced several small bottles, sprinkling powders into the water. Then he fetched a cooking stove, lit a fire, and placed the infant’s skin in a steaming basket. He dusted it with a fine layer of medicinal powder to disinfect. The fire was gentle—too fierce and the delicate skin would melt; too weak and it would not sterilize properly. Old Mo San was renowned as a master of disguise. I had heard whispers of his skill in crafting human skin masks.

After a short incense-burning interval, he lifted the steaming basket. Once cooled, he soaked the skin in clear water briefly, then began fashioning it into a mask modeled after my face. Before long, a thin human skin mask was complete. Old Mo San donned the mask, perfectly resembling me.

(Note: The content involving human skin masks is purely fictional, created by the author Xiao Qu. It is not to be emulated under any circumstances.)