Chapter 882 — The Cowherd Drunk by the Riverbank
The Herdsman of the Wasteland · Page 2 of 4
Shen Mu heard a familiar voice by his ear and several times tried to open his eyes, but he had suffered too much damage; his very source was wounded, and again and again he sank into slumber. He was no longer in grave danger. It was chiefly that in his desperate struggle to the death with Yutianzun, his foe had been too strong, forcing him to employ his own Dao-entering ultimate arts—from the first heaven of the Dao Realm to the twenty-eighth heaven of the Dao Realm, twenty-eight successive great Dao-entering divine powers—and he had had no choice but to fight with all his might. And after fighting with all his might, he was nearly a lamp burnt dry of oil, yet he had had to spend his last reserve of source power, using the Flawless Creation Mystic Scripture and the Three Primordials Immortal Consciousness to repair his body and his primordial spirit, which left his deficit all the greater.
Now, muddled and dim, he felt a bitterness in his mouth, as though someone were feeding him medicine. The elixir entered his throat and became a thread of heat flowing into his belly, then surging in all directions, flowing into his four limbs and hundred bones. He opened his eyes and dimly saw a familiar woman part her small lips and spit out a spirit pearl. The pearl circled him round and round, and his primordial spirit and damaged divine store felt an indescribable comfort. Shen Mu sank hazily back to sleep. By his ear came the voices of the woman and Long Qilin in conversation—clearly Long Qilin and the woman were well acquainted.
How long passed, he did not know, but other voices came to his ear—like the woodcutter, like Celestial Master Zixi, and seemingly Di Yiyue and the others. He did not know what they were saying, and then all fell quiet.
Shen Mu slept, and in his dreams he seemed to return to his early childhood. Time seemed to flow backward, and he was back in Yincan Village, training hard under the supervision of Old Master Huo, Zaifu, and the others. In the dream, time flowed forward again. He became an infant lying in a small basket, waving his hands and feet and babbling, his eyes bright as he looked at Grandmother Zhu, who stretched her arms toward him. Grandmother Zhu was very ugly, but her gaze was very gentle. She lifted him from the basket. Beside her stood a stone statue, and beside it the equally gentle Old Master Huo.
The scenes in his dream receded, and time seemed to flow backward again. He was still in the basket, and he saw a girl carrying the basket, fleeing in terror through the Yong River from gods and demons in pursuit. A world of black water swept over everything. In the swaddling clothes of the basket he stared blankly at the girl as she fought with all her strength against the gods and demons, guarding his safety. Her body was covered in wounds; she was utterly spent.
"Aunt Juan'er..."
The infant in the swaddling clothes raised his short little arms, wanting to stroke her face, but could not reach.
He had never found his memories of the time he drifted from Youdu to the Huangxu. He had been too young; Tubo had sealed him, and his mother had handed him to Aunt Juan'er, who escorted him out of Youdu and into the Huangxu. Aunt Juan'er had sunk into the Yong River to protect him; Grandmother Zhu had lifted him up when the darkness came. That stretch of memory was a blank to him, and yet this time, in his dreams, he had hazily seen it.
In the darkness, the black waters of the Yong River surged, blotting out the sky, and among the black waters and along both banks ravening gods and demons pursued them. Aunt Juan'er's wounds grew ever worse; she could no longer protect him. Then, in the dream, snow-white mist came sweeping through his memory. Aunt Juan'er, carrying the basket, staggered into the mist. The pursuers cut into the mist as well.