[To Become a River of Stars] Dong Xiange - Chapter 3

After dinner, by the time Shiliu finally finished cleaning up and returned to her tent, she was so exhausted she could have collapsed straight into sleep. Counting the days on her fingers, she thought that no matter what kind of monster Prince Ding turned out to be—even if he were a fierce tiger with bulging eyes and a white forehead—she’d rather be devoured quickly than continue this rough, exposed journey.

They had camped in a clearing before the forest. In such places, the brighter the day, the deeper the darkness at night.

The faint glow from the tents could not pierce the dense night woods. The light barely touched the vines and branches stretching from the darkness before being swallowed whole, leaving no trace.

Suddenly, a night wind rose—sinister and damp, as if coated with a cold, sticky residue. It whistled through the oppressive foliage, stirring faint ripples before being devoured by the silent forest.

The place seemed frozen: the wind congealed, the fog congealed, even the leaves congealed. The wind stirred only to slowly and heavily churn the darkness, not dispersing it but making it more stagnant.

The moaning grew louder. The wind began to swirl, as if growing hands, relentlessly teasing the flames before the tents. The blazing fire flickered, bright then dark, plunging into blackness—a darkness that startled like a ringing bell. Just as goosebumps rose, the flames shifted to an eerie blue, emitting a ghostly glow that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

He Chong was the first to notice something wrong. He pushed open the tent flap with his sword and flashed outside, only to see dense, sharp tree shadows cast against the grey tent fabric—twisted, hook-like branches and claws aimed straight at the hearts of those inside.

“Not good!”

The forest should have been pitch black, with their camp the only source of light. Why were these sinister shadows projected from the woods? Phantoms lurked; the shapes were too bizarre and sharp—this was clearly unnatural!

He Chong shouted for everyone to evacuate the tents. Chaos ensued, but as cultivators, they remained relatively calm, drawing their swords and rushing out. Amid the confusion, he counted heads and realized even the pot-bellied Deputy Director had stumbled out clutching his stomach—but Shiliu was missing.

For convenience, he had assigned her a small tent slightly apart from the others. He never expected something like this to happen.

“Shiliu! Shiliu!” He called out, shoving through the crowd to search for her.

But then a thick fog arose—black and viscous, clinging to the skin and seeping a bone-deep chill. It felt tangible, entangling their bodies. Though their minds were clear, their vision swam with nauseating distortion.

Blindness bred panic. They bumped into one another, swords in hand, yet none dared strike.

“Shiliu!” He Chong fumbled for his fire starter, continuing to call out amid shouts of “Protect me!” from the Deputy Director.

“Senior Brother!”

Finally, a faint reply came from not far away. He Chong’s heart eased slightly, “Stay where you are! I’m coming to find you!”

But the fog seemed to grow heavier, sinking to their feet. Though the wind moaned, it only stirred the fog thicker, and the black mist at their ankles intensified, tangible as shackles that made stepping forward impossible.

He Chong steadied himself, bit his fingertip, and drew blood. Before it could drip, he smeared it along his blade, awakening its edge, and drew a talisman in the air.

“Disperse!” he shouted. The surrounding disciples immediately retreated about 3.3 meters.

“Break!” He Chong slashed his sword, and the blood-drawn talisman finally pierced the oppressive fog, charging forward.

But in that instant, a sharp whizz cut through the void—so violently it tore the air, its wind becoming blades that sliced the thick fog and scattered the darkness.

It was an arrow—a burning arrow.

It flew swiftly, wherever it passed, lit by blazing light, raising a mournful wail as if hell itself were being scorched by true fire.

Before anyone could react, the arrow streaked through the darkness, past the stunned crowd, and shot toward Shiliu at the rear!

He Chong’s eyes widened in fury. He desperately tried to intercept the arrow, his sword moving swiftly, gleaming with light—but it missed by a hair.

Thwack!

Shiliu stood frozen, her eyes still retaining the arrow’s dazzling flame—piercing her pupils, leaving only a dazzling afterimage of its burn.

The arrow was embedded deeply into the tree trunk behind her. A strand of hair slipped from her Taoist bun, its end singed, falling to the ground.

Hoofbeats sounded ahead. He slowly turned to look and saw sudden flames—no longer demonic, but torches held by a crowd, a group of armed and fully equipped people.

At their lead, seated high on a black horse, was a figure. The horse’s coat was sleek as satin, gleaming, its four hooves stark white against the darkness like freshly fallen snow.

Its master wore practical riding attire, holding a crow-feather bow. His hair was tied high—not tucked into a crown nor adorned with any accessory, but simply bound by a red string, allowing the ink-black strands to cascade freely down his back.

This was a youth. A youth of extreme beauty.

His skin was pale as jade porcelain under the moonlight, his eyebrows stark black, arching with a sharp, formidable curve that seemed to cut through the very air. His pupils were exceedingly bright—so bright that in such darkness, they seemed like a moon ignited.

Like his arrow.

The youth’s thin lips curved slightly.

“So it’s a bunch of Taoists.” He raised a hand, his fingertips pale as snow. He looked at them like cats trapped in a cage, a faint flicker of interest in his eyes, but his words were merciless.

“Kill them.” His finger dropped, his tone icy and detached, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than ordering a massacre.