Chapter 12: Du Daya

Chapter 12: Du Daya

Days passed in the rhythm of rising and setting suns.

Wang Guaifu’s disappearance stirred the village.

Some claimed she’d fled beyond the border with her daughter, desperate to return to her hometown. Others whispered she’d lost her mind, selling her child to a slaver in Chang’an City. But these were just rumors—idle talk about an outsider widow who reeked of filth and lingered on society’s fringes. Who cared whether she lived or died? At most, villagers pitied the girl, barely four winters old.

Village Chief Li Huairen certainly didn’t care. He reported her missing to the magistrate, then seized her land for his household, inciting curses from rivals who’d coveted it. This was the sum of Wang Guaifu’s legacy in Li Village Fortress…

*

Gurgle-gurgle!

Old horses strained to pull the heavy stone roller.

Summer harvest loomed, golden wheat waves rippling across fields. Though reaping season hadn’t arrived, labor never ceased. Women gathered mulberry leaves for silkworms and cooked for their families. Men retrieved sickles, wooden forks, shovels, and rakes from storage, repairing tools for the coming frenzy. The threshing grounds, too, needed smoothing with the stone roller. Harvests were battles—missteps in preparation could invite disaster, and a single rainstorm might ruin an entire year’s yield.

Li Yan fed hay to the horses at the threshing ground.

“Yan-brother, this here horse is top-notch!” Coachman Du Sixi grinned, his crooked teeth flashing as he hawked his wares. “Ten years old, in his prime, never been injured! Can’t promise a thousand miles a day, but trips to Chang’an? No sweat!”

“Traveling the jianghu? What’s a blade without a steed?”

Li Village Fortress was poor—only Chief Li’s household kept workhorses, ridden occasionally for leisure. The youths envied even this. Li Yan wanted a horse not for vanity, but to practice mounted archery and ease his future journeys to Chang’an. Yet today, his mind wandered.

Watching Du Sixi’s endless boasts, Li Yan seized the moment. “Old Du, any famous Daoist temples in Chang’an?”

Wang Guaifu’s family had vanished days ago. No one knew the monstrous thing that had slithered into their village. Though the crisis passed, for Li Yan, it was just beginning.

First, he knew his family’s curse—his father’s and his own predecessor’s deaths, both tied to a Maleficent Binding hex. Their enemies had wielded dark magic, even tampering with imperial gifts. Their power was no trifling matter. If they learned the curse failed, they might strike again. Li Yan had no intention of waiting idly.

Second, Wang Guaifu’s words haunted him: he’d awakened the Yang Six Roots, gaining Divine Olfaction. This gift would draw malevolent spirits like carrion to vultures. Entering the Mystic Gate was now urgent.

Du Sixi, a cart driver from neighboring Du Village, ferried passengers and goods between settlements. These days, he hauled stone rollers for nearby villages. Unassuming as he was, he navigated the jianghu—the “Five Trades and Eight Crafts.” The Five Trades governed transport (carriages, boats, inns, porters, brokers), while the Eight Crafts encompassed blacksmiths, carpenters, tanners, and more. The jianghu wasn’t just bloodshed—it was survival. Even notorious bandits respected certain factions.

Southern rafters had the Raft Brotherhood; northerners, the Canal Brotherhood. The Porter Guild controlled docks, and inns served as both rest stops and information hubs. Carriage guilds were no different—without protection, how could one traverse the realm?

Chang’an’s two giants, Tai Xing Cartage and Chang Sheng Cartage, monopolized transport across Guanzhong. They partnered with escort agencies, inns, the Canal Brotherhood, and brokers—less for martial prowess than their web of intelligence.

Du Sixi belonged to Tai Xing Cartage, nicknamed “Du Daya” for his crooked teeth. Lowly as he was, he’d once owed Li Yan’s father, Li Hu, a favor. Hence Li Yan’s query.

“Of course!” Du Sixi chuckled. “Chang’an’s seen wars, but as a former capital, its hundred-and-eight wards hold countless temples and shrines. Need a place to burn incense? I’m heading there tomorrow…”

Li Yan cut him off. “Old Du, I seek true Mystic Gate masters!”

“Mystic… Gate?” Du Sixi stiffened. “Why chase such folks?”

He knows something! Li Yan’s heart leapt. He shifted closer, calling him “Uncle Du” to flatter.

Flattered, Du Sixi lowered his voice. “The Mystic Gate has two branches. One’s state-sanctioned—registered under the Imperial Rites Bureau, holding official Daoist or Buddhist Ordination Scrolls. The most revered? Tai Xuan Zheng Jiao.”

“The other branch? Fortune-tellers, shamans, esoteric martial artists—outcasts to the orthodox, but revered in the jianghu. Some are charlatans, others genuine. The powerful ones get hired by gangs.”

“Do you know any?” Li Yan pressed.

“Me? A lowly driver, barely a cog in the wheel. But… there’s one man who might—Sha Lifei!”

Sha Lifei?! Li Yan’s face twisted.

*

Back home, Li Yan found his grandfather, Li Gui, sulking on the doorstep, puffing his pipe.

“Grandpa, what’s wrong now?”

“The bastard Li Laoshuan cheated at chess! Cheapskate couldn’t afford a decent meal in his life!”

“Calm down. We’ll beat him tomorrow,” Li Yan joked.

The old men’s chess games were battles of wit—and insults. Losing a match mattered less than losing an argument.

Since the Plague of Curse hex broke, Grandpa Li had lightened. No longer coiled in bitterness, he fished, played chess, and even talked of watching operas in Chang’an. Li Yan rejoiced… yet seethed at the curse’s architects.

Two lifetimes had taught him one lesson: he never let insults slide.

Walking home, he’d pondered. His father, a jianghu veteran, should’ve explained the Mystic Gate. Why hide it? Had Li Hu secretly investigated the curse? If so, why let the hex fester on their door? The more he mused, the murkier his father’s death seemed.

“Grandpa,” Li Yan knelt beside him, “who did you offend back then?”

Li Gui’s white brows shot up. “Why dig up old bones?”

“Curiosity! Maybe I’d be some magistrate’s spoiled son, cursing my luck!”

“Spoiled?!” The old man spat. “Born a dirt-grubber, die a dirt-grubber. Let the past rot. The bastard’s dead anyway.”

“Dead?!”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end