Chapter 114 - The Blood-Stained Lotus
Still waters run deep, and dragons lurk in the abyss.
The small fry that had been scrambling for scraps along the shore had long since dispersed. Only now did the true monsters, those concealed in the lightless depths of the lake, begin to stir the silt and emerge from their lairs.
Traveling north from the wide, open reaches of Lixin Lake and navigating past several verdant islets, one would eventually encounter the Lotus Ferry, a secluded cove cradled by the surrounding landscape. Enclosed by islands on three sides and facing the lake on the fourth, the ferry was shielded from the winds of all four seasons. This unique microclimate allowed the lotuses here to bloom for three-quarters of the year. At the height of the season, the entire expanse of water was dyed a delicate, ethereal pink, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Yet, despite its breathtaking beauty, this secret realm bore no trace of life. No bees or butterflies danced among the petals; no waterfowl nested in the reeds. Even the water remained eerily still, devoid of the rhythmic ripples of fish. Perhaps this was the intuition of nature—the myriad spirits of the wild sensing the murderous intent hidden beneath the paradisiacal facade of the lotus pond.
To those unacquainted with the murky undercurrents of the martial world, it would never occur to them that such a serene and languid place served as a dark nest for the realm’s most lethal assassins.
High upon the cliffs overlooking the Lotus Ferry stood a massive terrace, its origins lost to time. The structure’s open front faced the divine shrine on Qionghu Island. In ages past, it seemed the mountain villagers had used it as a stage for theatrical performances. Later, when the rising lake waters swallowed those villages, the terrace was left isolated halfway up the mountainside, a lonely sentinel of a forgotten era.
Abandoned for decades, the upper two stories had completely succumbed to decay. Beams had collapsed, and brackets hung at precarious angles, leaving only a square, solid foundation. However, the lowest level, partially embedded into the earth, remained remarkably intact.
This hidden space, a blend of hewn stone and rammed earth, existed half-above and half-below the ground. Its walls and floors had been meticulously smoothed and polished, suggesting it had once served as a preparation chamber for Nuo rites and shamanic ceremonies—a place for performers to bathe, change, and prepare sacrificial offerings. The murals that once adorned the walls had long since peeled away into indistinct blotches, leaving only the bronze mirrors hanging in the four corners to catch the dim light. The windows near the ceiling were narrow and cramped, barely half the height of a man and devoid of any ornamentation. Looking in from the outside, one could see a series of strange, earthen steps descending into the gloom.
On this day, those barren windows flickered with the glow of lanterns and the low hum of human voices. In the silence of the Lotus Ferry, where not even the chirp of a cricket could be heard, the sight was profoundly unsettling. It was as if the spirits of the place had been usurped, and the ancient divine stage had been transformed into a gathering hall for demons and monsters.
Li Qiao stood for a moment at the entrance, which was draped with a heavy, embroidered curtain. He adjusted the cloth mask covering the lower half of his face, then reached out to lift the veil. Step by step, he descended the stone stairs, entering the cacophonous depths of the subterranean market.
Since leaving the Villa, he had not set foot in a Lotus Market for many years.
Just as the merchants of the Jianghu frequented the Qingyang Fair every year, the shifting, ephemeral Lotus Markets—which appeared and vanished along the rivers and lakes—were the primary haunts for assassins seeking "business."
The Lotus Market did not trade in flowers; it traded in human lives.
Hiring blades, orchestrating assassinations, posting bounties... every conceivable transaction involving death was carried out here in hushed tones. As long as one offered the appropriate amount of gold, any life could be purchased. With a few extra coins, more specific demands could be met—the delivery of a finger, an eyeball, or perhaps a secret piece of intelligence.
A single high-priced contract was enough to turn "sellers" against one another, leading to bloody skirmishes that erupted without warning. The victor would walk away from the blood-scented altar with the choicest cut of the spoils.
A newcomer to this place might be surprised to find that the majority of those lingering in the market were remarkably young. The more seasoned among them were barely twenty-five or twenty-six, while most were only eighteen or nineteen.
They were people with no attachments and nothing to their names. They feared no loss and felt no hesitation in using the most depraved methods to seize what they wanted. They could endure the filthiest hardships and perform the most brutal tasks. A mere handful of gold was enough to buy their young bodies and souls, making them willing participants in a cycle of blood and karmic debt.
Most of them would never taste freedom or find another way to survive. As they aged, they would quickly be discarded and replaced by a new generation—younger, fiercer, and even less afraid of the grave.
They were the products of this ruthless system, much like the lotuses growing in the blood-tinged waters. they struggled to break the surface, bloomed, went to seed, and were ultimately harvested after the late autumn—or left to rot into the mud, nourishing the next crop of flowers and fruit.
In stark contrast, the true "buyers" rarely appeared in person. They were either of noble status, refusing to set foot in such a sordid place, or they maintained a facade of innocence, desperate to distance themselves from these bloody affairs. They knew full well that those seeking work here were the lowest of the low, individuals who could not withstand moral scrutiny. No young person with a modicum of wealth or a shred of hope for the future would ever be found here. Thus, the elites sent servants and subordinates to find a "rag" capable of wiping away the stains on their lives, only to toss the rag back into the filth once the job was done.
Li Qiao watched with cold detachment as arrogant buyers arrived with exquisite chests filled with gold. Then, he shifted his gaze toward the "jackals" who had come to feed.
As he had grown, his features and stature had changed. Most of the familiar faces he had once known in these markets were gone. They were either buried in remote mountains or resting at the bottom of rivers, having vanished into the turbid waters of the martial world without leaving a trace.
Despite this, he remained cautious, keeping his face half-hidden. Such attire was common in the Lotus Market; many even wrapped their weapons in coarse cloth to avoid recognition. For an assassin, every day lived was another enemy made. A single moment of negligence could invite a fatal disaster.
The young, hungry "wolves" sniffed around, trying to judge where they might find an opportunity to use their claws. These opportunities were laid out on straw mats along the central corridor, held in the hands of the cold-eyed Lotus Girls.
Since ancient times, the consumption of lotus seeds in summer was a luxury the nobility refused to miss. The lotus was considered noble and pure, its heart bitter but medicinal. It was said that by simply peeling a seed and placing it on the tongue, even those most steeped in the stench of corruption and the grime of officialdom could instantly feel refined and elegant.
But those who ate the seeds knew nothing of the hardship of the harvest. The stems were rough and abrasive, and the work was done under the scorching midsummer sun. A picker could spend an entire day navigating the leaves and still fail to gather a significant amount of fresh, plump seeds.
To the poor, lotus seeds were precious and bitter. The women who became lotus pickers were women of tragic fate.
And the Lotus Girls of this market were not only tragic of fate, but cold of heart.
Their complexions were fair and beautiful, their hair unadorned. They wore either veiled hats or simple cloths to shield themselves from the sun, appearing no different from ordinary pickers. However, a close look at the hands they used to sort the lotus pods would reveal "iron hands"—calloused palms and protruding knuckles.
Such hands were capable of more than just plucking a pod; they could snap a man's neck with ease.
And such hands could only be forged within the World's Number One Villa.
The Lotus Market lasted for roughly twelve hours, from sunrise to sunset. During this time, countless assassins would come to blows over contracts or old grudges, yet no one ever dared to provoke the Lotus Girls. The girls, in turn, never interfered in disputes or failed negotiations. Even if blood splattered onto their robes, they would not spare the dying a second glance.
They cared only for the lotus pods and paper flowers on the mats before them.
The pods were ordinary green lotus pods, while the flowers were folded from the coarsest yellow hemp paper. In front of each paper flower sat a pile of pods—some had only a few scattered stems, while others were piled as high as small mountains.
These were the targets and the rewards.
The name written inside the paper lotus was the target of the bounty, and the number of pods before it represented the weight of the reward. If someone decided to take the job, they would fold and remove a single petal bearing the name, signaling that the "business" was closed and no other sellers would be sought.
Today, on the mats of dozens of Lotus Girls, the paper flower with the largest pile of pods had just been claimed.
Though the Lotus Girls did not speak, the usual cold stillness of their faces was disturbed by a ripple of emotion. It was said that something monumental would happen at this year's Sword Appreciation Assembly; looking at the bounties now, it seemed the rumors were true.
At the mat in the furthest corner, the Lotus Girl who had just handled a massive contract was briskly tidying her remaining pods.
A pair of dusty boots stopped before her mat. She looked up and met a pair of light brown eyes hidden behind a cloth mask. The owner of the eyes appeared quite young.
The Lotus Girl glanced down at the saber at the youth's waist. The hilt was visible, showing faint traces of rust, as if it hadn't been drawn in eight hundred years.
However, the martial world was never short of eccentrics.
She hesitated for only a heartbeat before a practiced smile bloomed on her face. Her voice was soft and inviting as she called out, "Would the guest like to look at these pods? They were all freshly plucked today. I have singles, tens, and twenties. Please, take your pick."
Ten Gold Lotuses made one pod. Sometimes, a single pod was enough to buy a life.
Li Qiao looked at the dew-covered green pods on the mat, then up at her smiling face. He remained silent for a long moment.
It was a smile he knew all too well. Every curve, every degree of depth had been meticulously trained. Once, he had smiled exactly like that.
Seeing that he did not speak, the Lotus Girl’s smile slowly faded. "Does the guest not wish to see the pods?"
The masked youth’s eyes remained devoid of emotion. He stood there a moment longer before reaching into his robes and producing a paper bundle.
"I am here to collect the seeds," he said.
As he spoke, he slowly unwrapped the bundle and took out a paper lotus.
It was an old, faded paper flower. Its folded petals had been flattened by time, and it was marred by several dark brown spots.
That was the color of ancient, dried blood.
He set that one down and took another from the bundle.
After the second came a third...
The Lotus Girl’s eyes initially followed the youth’s movements, but as he continued, she became frozen, staring in disbelief.
One by one, the blood-stained paper flowers were lined up before her. Some were years old, the hemp paper nearly crumbling; others bore fresh bloodstains, the edges of the crimson blooms still sharp. They were lined up from left to right—seventeen flowers in total.
The surrounding area suddenly fell into a heavy silence. No one turned their head to look at the youth before the mat, yet the "jackals" knew that every pore of their bodies was focused in that direction. The air grew thick with the scorched scent of burning ambition and predatory focus.
Li Qiao placed the final paper flower down and spoke softly to the Lotus Girl.
"Please calculate the total. I wish to settle the account all at once."
***
