Chapter Four: Farce

Wang Anjiu hung his head low, his cracked lips revealing blood-stained gums beneath. He struggled to open his swollen eyes, gazing at Wang Xiaobo beside him.

This was his son, bound alongside him to a tree stump, bare-chested, suffering under the scorching sun and the villagers’ curses.

“Xiaobo… Dad…”

Smack!

A stone struck Wang Xiaobo’s face, leaving a crimson mark tinged with bruises.

Wang Anjiu glared, fury blazing in his gaze as he looked around at the gathered villagers.

His sight settled in a corner where a group of children stood, most with pigtails. The stone had been thrown by one of them.

He recognized that child—once a guest at his home for lunch, often playing with Xiaobo. The other children were much the same: all youngsters of the village, companions in mischief and climbing trees.

Yet now, these children, following their parents, parroted filthy words they scarcely understood, their childish voices full of hateful venom directed at the two of them.

The adults did not stop them; instead, they patted the children’s heads with encouraging smiles. Soon, a contest seemed to erupt, the children shouting louder and louder, their voices swelling like a tide.

Pairs of eyes, once bright with youthful energy, now gleamed like bloodthirsty wolves.

Wang Anjiu was stunned. For a long moment, he turned to look at Wang Xiaobo, finding his son’s eyes vacant, unable to comprehend why his former playmates had become so cruel.

“Burn them!”

Someone raised a torch and hurled it toward the pile of straw and wood beneath the stump.

Smoke curled, sparks danced.

“Dad… it’s hot…”

Wang Xiaobo trembled, his swollen eyes reddening again, his voice hoarse and frightened, his thin, dirt-smudged face twisted in terror.

“Xiaobo! Xiaobo…”

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have told the elders your birthday… I should have taken you away, run far from here…”

As flames flickered beneath them, this farmer—who’d spent most of his life tilling fields—was now weeping uncontrollably, tears and mucus streaming down his honest, square face, wrinkled like a piece of paper trampled underfoot.

Wang Anjiu wailed and tried to comfort his son, but the child suffered more with each passing moment, his cries for rescue growing ever more desperate.

The crowd’s shouts rose in tandem with the fire.

The farmer’s voice slowly faded, only a guttural sound remaining in his throat, as he watched his son engulfed in flames. He retched, as if the overwhelming despair might force his heart and lungs to burst from his chest.

He regretted it all—regretted trusting those neighbors he’d always considered close, believed in that upright, energetic elder of the village.

“Shaman! Use me! Use me instead!”

The man strained his neck, mustering his last ounce of strength, ignoring the flames licking at his body. His face contorted, veins bulging, as he shouted, “My son is innocent! Dragon King… let the Dragon King take me instead! I have more flesh, surely the rain will come if you eat me… it’s enough to take me… please…”

“Don’t take Xiaobo, I beg you… please…”

The anguished cries echoed across the clearing, quickly drowned out by the roar of the crowd—a furious blaze, the condemnation of a ‘selfish’ father by hundreds of villagers.

“Wang Anjiu! I once thought you were honest! Now you’ve angered the Dragon King—if not for yourself, you should think of us! How could you try to escape with that little brat?”

“If you run, how will we explain to the Dragon King? What about the offering? If the Dragon King is enraged, won’t we all perish?”

“Your flight would force the rest of us to pay the price! That’s just not right!”

“Yeah, after all the help we gave your family with harvesting, now you prove yourself an ungrateful wolf!”

Wang Anjiu was overwhelmed, dazed, mumbling that it wasn’t his choice, that the elders hadn’t told him Xiaobo would be the offering.

Then the shaman spoke, raising her staff, uttering wild cries, convulsing, and finally pointing at the two bound to the stump:

“Burn them! Let the Dragon King judge!”

The villagers erupted—some knelt, some bowed.

Some shouted for the Dragon King to show his power and bring rain; others echoed the call to burn the two as an appeasement.

Boom!

Suddenly, thunder rolled across the clear sky.

The elder glanced at the shaman, waiting for her next move, but she stood silent.

Thud, thud, thud!

Hurried footsteps struck shoulders. As the villagers looked up in confusion, two dull, explosive sounds erupted in the crowd.

Bang! Bang!

Like the tolling of a drum, the sounds burst forth. Instantly, every villager felt thunder at their ears; their hearts clenched tight. The two blasts seemed to carry other tones, alternating tension and release, but any attempt to discern them made their heads throb as if about to split.

Thud!

Bodies began to collapse in succession.

The elder wavered, about to fall, when footsteps approached. He tried to look up—

Splash!

A handful of hot blood splattered across his face. The old man froze, his heart skipped, his mind dissolved in an instant, dizziness overwhelming him as darkness swallowed his vision.

He collapsed to the ground.

…

Wang Anjiu had never imagined such a day would come—his child bound and offered to the Dragon King by villagers he once considered friends and brothers.

Nor had he imagined himself tied to a stake, forced to watch his son burned alive, condemned to die amidst those desperate cries for help.

But at that moment, everything seemed to change.

“…You… Dragon King?”

His breath was faint, trying to memorize the ethereal young man who appeared, yet the stranger’s otherworldly aura made him feel as if facing a deity, unable to look directly.

In his eyes, the newcomer’s gesture had laid low over a hundred people, including the shaman and the elder—a feat beyond imagination, worthy of an immortal.

But wasn’t the Dragon King supposed to have horns? This must be another deity.

A god has descended to save us!

So… will it rain now?

Before he could think further, the stranger gently ran a hand along the thumb-thick ropes. They snapped instantly.

With a stomp, dust rose to smother the flames.

“Leave this place. Go somewhere else.”

The immortal spoke softly, yet his words seemed etched into Wang Anjiu’s mind, impossible to forget.

Clatter!

A money pouch, stained with blood and embroidered with two lotus flowers, dropped at Wang Anjiu’s feet.

“Take this, and take the child far from here.”

The man picked up his child, whose feet were burned, a heartbreaking sight, but thankfully still alive, his legs intact and able to walk.

Wang Anjiu was about to beg the immortal to forgive the village’s sins and grant rain, offering himself as a sacrifice if need be.

But the stranger was unmoved, turning away.

His figure soared like a great bird, vanishing swiftly.

On the empty ground, Wang Anjiu stared blankly at his surroundings. Seeing the villagers begin to stir, he wasted no time, snatched up the money pouch, and carried his child toward the edge of the village…

In the forest, Chen Yu, hidden among the trees, watched the stranger depart before turning away himself.

“A farce…”

He shook his hand, plucked a few blades of grass to wipe away traces of blood from his fingertips. For some reason, he felt an inexplicable irritation.