Chapter Thirty-One: The Lady of the Yellow River

A wind rose over the river, growing stronger by the minute. I only understood what Chen Tao was saying after he repeated himself twice.

Tong Xiaomeng cried out in disbelief, “The Lady of the Yellow River?”

I glanced at the water; though the two red lanterns still drifted beneath the surface, the boat itself began to sway gently with the waves. I couldn’t help but ask, “Can we leave now?”

“We can, but the boat can’t go any farther. We have to swim,” Chen Tao replied.

Jin Yitiao’s face turned ashen. “Swim… swim across?”

Crouching down, Chen Tao lifted the hatch at the prow and pulled out a package wrapped in oilcloth. He opened it before us, revealing six crisp one-hundred yuan bills.

“This is the extra six hundred you gave me. It’s not for me—it’s your passage money to cross the river,” he declared.

Chen Tao raised his hand and flung the bills into the air. The red notes, caught by the river wind, fluttered wildly above our heads, yet as if drawn by some invisible force, each note drifted straight down onto the water, spinning gently in place.

Tong Xiaomeng and I crouched down to watch. The bills didn’t sink right away; they floated and spun quietly on the surface. Then, in a blink, it seemed as if a hand reached up from the water, seized each note, and pulled it beneath, vanishing from sight.

“The river sprites have accepted your offering. Go now, quickly,” Chen Tao said, and without another word, he jumped into the water. Tong Xiaomeng and I followed at once. Only when I turned in the water to look back did I remember, upon seeing Jin Yitiao’s pale, terrified face by the boat’s edge—he couldn’t swim.

Some people, growing up by the river, learn to swim after nearly drowning; it’s instinct. Others, once frightened, never dare enter the water again.

I silently cursed myself for forgetting this, but just then, Tong Xiaomeng cried out in alarm. I turned quickly, following her gaze, and saw a pale mist rising from upriver, drifting swiftly downstream toward us.

This white fog wasn’t carried by the wind; it seemed to cluster around something, thick and unbroken, slowly advancing from upstream.

A mist?

Suddenly, I recalled the “Record of Buried Treasures” and its explanation about strange fogs encountered during treasure sealing rituals. It described a kind of “bewildering mist,” often formed by the resentment of powerful spirits. Ashen-white and unscattered by wind, to be enveloped in it was to feel a chill that raised the hairs on your skin, accompanied by the phenomenon known as “ghost walls”—an inescapable maze.

By the time I realized this, Chen Tao had already slipped back to the boat’s edge. He surfaced, grabbed Jin Yitiao’s ankle, and, without a word, hauled him into the water.

Though Jin Yitiao couldn’t swim, with the help of the river’s water spirits, he managed to paddle awkwardly without sinking. Tong Xiaomeng slowed her pace to stay behind him, ready to assist if needed.

Never in my life had I imagined I’d swim across the Yellow River.

The boat was anchored near the center. To reach the far bank, we’d have to swim at least three or four hundred meters. The three of us were capable swimmers, but the encroaching mist pressed closer, like a death knell from the underworld. I felt a chill, not from the river, but from the mist itself, seeping into my bones. The white fog turned ashen, and faintly, I could hear the eerie sound of instruments playing, drifting out from the shrouded water.

“Bite your tongue, beware the ghost walls!” I shouted, almost in unison with Chen Tao. We exchanged startled glances, but there was no time to explain. Both of us clamped our teeth onto our tongues, hoping to make it to shore before the mist reached us.

“It’s almost too late,” Chen Tao said, glancing back. He untied the rope from his shoulder and tossed it to us. “This mist is formed by the drowned dead of the Yellow River, escorting the Lady of the Yellow River to her wedding at the river’s eye. Close your eyes. No matter what you hear, don’t open them! If you see something you shouldn’t, not even immortals could save you!”

His words rang with authority. I risked a glance back; the ashen fog had already enveloped our boat in the river’s center, rolling toward us relentlessly. As my vision was swallowed, I turned away and squeezed my eyes shut.

The thick mist swept over us like a storm, dew beading instantly on my skin. I shivered in the water, gripping the rope tightly to avoid being carried off by the current.

One end of the rope was tied to Chen Tao’s waist. He pulled us through the water, his skills as a river spirit revealed. I thought, if we survived this mist, I’d bring him to Tianjin—no matter the cost. Money that could buy back my life was worth everything I owned.

Boom!

A deep, ancient bell sounded across the water. Instantly, the riverbed below erupted with commotion; something brushed past my feet, one after another, as if a procession marched beneath us. My hair stood on end.

Was the legend of the drowned dead true?

Eyes tightly shut, I could only imagine what was happening through sounds and sensations. The terror was overwhelming. I tried to block out forbidden thoughts, but my calves cramped uncontrollably. Then I heard Jin Yitiao swearing, “Damn it, something’s grabbing my leg!”

I nearly opened my eyes, but a hand gripped my arm—slender fingers, almost certainly a woman’s. I started, then realized it was just Tong Xiaomeng beside me.

Was it just my imagination?

I grasped the hand on my arm, feeling a faint warmth from her palm, and my heart finally eased just a little.

Jin Yitiao’s anguished cries, Tong Xiaomeng’s startled shouts, Chen Tao’s urgent commands—all merged into a hellish cacophony. Though I kept my eyes shut, the mental torment was indescribable.

That moment stretched endlessly, as though a single second lasted a day. Clutching the hand in mine, I gritted my teeth and endured. When the chill finally began to fade, Chen Tao let out a long breath. “It’s over. We can cross now.”

I exhaled and slowly opened my eyes—only to find myself face-to-face with a deathly pale woman!

My breath caught in my chest. I stared at her; cold swept through me. In the corner of my vision, I noticed that the hand I’d been holding was hers.

She floated with her upper body above the water, clothed in a brilliant red wedding gown, gold phoenix crown atop her head, her face white as snow, eyes black and empty as ink. She fixed her gaze on me, and instantly, I knew her name: the Lady of the Yellow River.

Her hand was ice itself.

Held in her palm, my own felt locked in a winter freeze. I tried to pull free but couldn’t. She led me forward, toward the mist, her grip inescapable.

Only then did I notice, less than ten meters ahead, a small, festively decorated boat at anchor. Two maids stood at the prow, each holding a red lantern, bowing low as they lifted the green gauze draping the canopy.

In the fog behind the small boat, I glimpsed the shadow of an enormous vessel, dozens of times larger, looming still and silent. Focusing on it, I heard another deep bell toll, echoing through the mist.

All thought fled. Stunned, I let the woman pull me to the boat’s side. She slowly turned, her black eyes locking with mine. “In seven days, at the river’s mouth, by Heaven’s decree, the wedding will take place,” she intoned.

With those words, she suddenly released my hand. Behind me, I heard the frantic barking of a dog, while my eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Darkness closed in, and I lost all consciousness.