Chapter Fifty-Seven: Black Mosquitoes of the Encircling Mountains, The Mire of Corpses

Black Cloud Mountain lay a hundred miles northwest of Yunzhou City, its peaks encircling each other in overlapping rings. Above the mountain range, black clouds hovered all year round, mushroom-shaped and ominous.

Han Chong stood outside the mountain, studying it closely. A weight pressed on his heart, as if he stood on the verge of a storm.

He concealed his presence and paced around the outer perimeter. A fetid stench assaulted him, and a faint buzzing, like that of mosquitoes, emanated from within the black clouds, their forms hidden from sight.

Suddenly, he sensed from all directions the approach of gray-black mosquitoes, swarming toward him. Though he was hidden, these mosquitoes seemed able to detect the blood in his veins.

One after another, the black mosquitoes landed on his body, extending their thin, needle-like proboscises, ready to pierce his flesh. Han Chong remained still, curious to see what made these mosquitoes so unusual.

In the blink of an eye, his body was covered in a dense carpet of black insects. He felt no pain, only a subtle depletion of his blood—so slight that, without close attention, it might pass unnoticed.

Were he an ordinary man, he would likely have collapsed from blood loss after only a few steps, dying under the relentless bites of thousands of mosquitoes. Even with his current strength as an innate cultivator, escape was impossible; he could not last long.

With a sinking heart, Han Chong sank into the earth, leaving the mosquitoes swirling above, their droning intensifying.

It seemed he could only explore the mountain’s depths by traveling underground. A strange thought occurred to him: these were no ordinary mosquitoes. Even monsters, encountering such a swarm, might not escape death.

Such terrifying creatures never strayed from the mountain’s black mists, almost as if they were raised deliberately.

If that were true, Yunzhou City could become a ghost town in the blink of an eye, emptied by the mosquitoes’ bite.

No, he had to uncover the truth behind these insects and their weaknesses, or he could not rest.

Emerging again where he’d been before, Han Chong spat out a tongue of red flame. The circling mosquitoes were instantly reduced to ash; it seemed even ordinary fire was deadly to them, their flesh unremarkable.

Yet two of the mosquitoes, each as large as a housefly, wobbled from the ashes, alive, and fluttered weakly back toward the heart of the mountain.

So these mosquitoes had ranks among them?

Han Chong did not finish them off but followed their retreat, burrowing through the earth to see where they would go.

As he went deeper, the air grew ever more foul, reeking of blood, rot, and stagnant sludge.

He crept on for more than ten miles when an itchy numbness crept over his body, and the ground beneath him turned soft and sticky, as if he’d reached the edge of a swamp.

Rising to the surface, Han Chong was startled to find himself in a vast marsh of black mud encircled by mountains. Countless human corpses littered the mire, only arms and legs occasionally protruding.

The two large mosquitoes he’d followed plunged into the black-red slush, but after only a moment, they rose again, vigorous and whole, as if nourished and healed by the foul mud.

At once, many mosquitoes seemed to sense the hidden Han Chong and swarmed toward him. He quickly retreated underground.

Emerging at another edge of the marsh, he observed the ring of mountains. Several black-gray suspension bridges, hundreds of yards long, spanned the peaks, half-lost in the ever-present cloud. Without careful scrutiny, they would be invisible.

Figures in black robes carried wooden frames across the bridges. In the middle, they would overturn the frames, dropping corpses into the mire below, where they vanished with a splash.

Afterward, the black-robed figures shuffled back like soulless shells.

Han Chong, disgusted, slipped underground again. Who were these people? Where had they found so many dead bodies, and why cast them into the marsh? Was it to feed the bloodsucking mosquitoes?

He burrowed beneath one of the bridges toward the mountain’s edge but found no way up. If he climbed, the mosquitoes would surely descend upon him; if he used fire, he might alert the enemy.

With no other choice, Han Chong steeled himself, smeared mud over his body, and climbed. The trick worked; the mosquitoes ignored him. He scaled the steep wall, his strength as an innate martial artist barely sufficient for the task. After half an hour, he reached the summit, where a narrow, winding stone stair climbed from a well.

Beside the well, a winch lowered a basket large enough for two black-robed men, who carried out a starved corpse, skin and bone, pitiful in death.

The two men reeked of rot; they, too, had smeared themselves with mud to evade the mosquitoes.

Once they left, Han Chong stepped into the basket and descended into the mountain’s heart. The deeper he went, the wider the shaft became, until at the bottom he found a space as vast as a city, thronged with black-robed figures.

Among them were men in black iron masks, the same style as the bronze enforcers’, wielding short whips to drive the others to work.

Han Chong drifted through the crowd, counting roughly hundreds of corpse-bearers and dozens of masked overseers. He had not expected such an organization hidden within Black Cloud Mountain.

He moved to the side of a stone building, where torture devices and sundries were stored. There, he ambushed and subdued a black iron-masked man, dragging him inside.

“Where is your leader?” Han Chong demanded, wrenching the mask away and gripping the man’s throat. “Speak, or die.”

“Spare me! The leaders are in the secret chambers halfway up the mountain.”

“How do I get there?”

“In the middle of the mountain, there’s a guarded well—ascend through it.”

With a crack, Han Chong dispatched the man and buried him on the spot. Leaving the stone house, he made his way as directed.

At the well, four masked men stood guard. The basket rested at the bottom.

The shaft was narrow, so Han Chong braced himself against the walls and climbed. At last, he reached the mountainside, where several secret chambers lay open, lacking doors.

In the largest chamber—a council hall—six bronze enforcers sat chatting. After some tea, they dispersed to their rooms.

Han Chong wandered into one, where the enforcer had already fallen asleep. Swift as lightning, he stabbed the man through the throat, muffling his cry, killing him instantly.

He might have used the same method to eliminate all six, but he feared the master behind them would remain hidden. Instead, he stuffed the corpse into his storage pouch, then transformed his appearance to match the bronze enforcers.

Several hours passed.

“Number Five, hurry out! The master calls a meeting—move quickly!” A voice summoned him. Han Chong rose and went out with the others, who suspected nothing.