Chapter Forty-Eight: Reflections

“My lord, do you know just how much I missed you during your absence?”
A fawning smile crept across Duan Lingqi’s face as he spoke.
Yet he was unaware that he now existed only as the soul of a wicked flood-dragon, his human form long lost. That ingratiating smile, when stretched across his draconic visage, appeared all the more menacing.
“Did you really miss me so much?”
Su Yuanbai strolled along the streets of Yinbei City, glancing sidelong at Duan Lingqi, who bent low, rubbing his hands together obsequiously.
“Of course! While you were gone, I languished in that accursed prison, unable to sleep, tasting nothing of what I ate.”
Noticing Su Yuanbai’s gaze, Duan Lingqi hurriedly tucked his clawed forelimbs behind his back, though his scaly dragon body was impossible to conceal.
“I care little for such niceties among spirits; you need not hide your true form. Is it true you could not sleep? But in this underworld, the sky is ever gray—there is never a glimmer of sunlight, nor is there true nightfall.”
Su Yuanbai let out a soft laugh.
“It’s the truth! Should I utter a single falsehood, then… then…”
Duan Lingqi stammered, at a loss for words.
“Then may thunder strike you down, shattering your spirit until nothing remains, obliterated from the world.”
Su Yuanbai’s smile faded, and he looked calmly at Duan Lingqi.
This pronouncement made Duan Lingqi quiver with fright, trembling where he stood. If anyone else had spoken such words, he would have scoffed; but when they were uttered by this master, he truly feared the power behind them.
“I was only jesting. You need not take it to heart.”
Su Yuanbai lifted his chin slightly, his deep black eyes observing the spirits darting through the city’s alleys.
There were ghost children weeping at street corners, odd-looking ghosts with hair standing like needles, and slow-moving big-headed ghosts, their oversized craniums resting in their hands as they shuffled along.
On either side of the road, shops and homes bustled with spectral comings and goings, each door adorned with a white banner inscribed with the establishment’s name—a teahouse, an inn, a pawnshop, a tavern, and so on.
Though the buildings were all fashioned from paper, there was little to distinguish them from those of the living world.
When Su Yuanbai’s foot touched the ground, there was no heavy thud as in the world of the living, but rather a crisp, light crunch, as if treading on a thin layer of snow.
“You… can make jokes?”
Duan Lingqi trailed behind Su Yuanbai for a long while in silence, before finally asking, staring at Su Yuanbai’s profile.
Joking? In the three centuries he’d spent imprisoned, he’d never once heard their master make a jest; even the slightest trace of a smile on his face was as rare as blossoms blooming on dead wood.
“Do you remember what I asked you in the dungeon?”

Su Yuanbai stepped onto a bridge, glancing at a painted barge gliding beneath. At the prow, a ghostly beauty in a woman’s skin sat plucking a qin, weaving a haunting melody.
Beside the painted-skin ghost stood a fearsome spirit with a wide mouth, bulging eyes, and animal-like horns sprouting from its head, gripping a spiked club studded with nails, standing guard.
It seemed the painted-skin ghost had hired a spectral bodyguard.
“The letter sent to Yimeng Mountain?”
Duan Lingqi racked his brain, pondering for a moment before answering hesitantly.
“No.”
Su Yuanbai shook his head, his gaze following a rakshasa ahead who cleared the way of wandering spirits.
“You’ve asked me so many things… Forgive this old servant’s stupidity, I truly cannot recall.”
Duan Lingqi felt his mind about to burst with the effort, and could only bow low and sigh in defeat.
“You are, by nature, a proud and unruly flood-dragon. There is no need to belittle yourself before me or call yourself ‘old servant.’ I have no wish for you to turn that humility against me should I ever fall from grace.”
Su Yuanbai spoke calmly.
“I wouldn’t dare…”
Duan Lingqi forced an awkward smile, his mouth twisting with embarrassment.
“Truly?”
Su Yuanbai turned, his gaze serene as he fixed it upon Duan Lingqi’s uneasy, sycophantic face.
Duan Lingqi lowered his head, unable to reply.
“Which of the Four Dragon Kings do you think holds the highest position?”
Without pressing further, Su Yuanbai looked ahead and asked in a level tone.
“The east is the place of honor, and the Azure Dragon is one of the four sacred beasts, so of course, the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea reigns supreme—he controls rain, floods, thunder, and tides.
But the heirs of the Eastern Sea Dragon King have suffered many hardships. It is said that one Dragon King’s third son was skinned and flayed, and another’s child was killed by a transcendent undergoing a celestial ordeal.
Thus, the current Dragon King of the Eastern Sea is strict with his offspring and secludes himself in the Crystal Palace, shunning worldly affairs.
Unless summoned by imperial decree to the Dragon Pool, or commanded by the Emperor of Heaven, he alone performs the rites to summon rain.
Otherwise, the Dragon Kings of other rivers, lakes, and wells fulfill these duties themselves.”
Duan Lingqi sighed lightly.
And not only have successive Eastern Sea Dragon Kings met with tragedy, but among all cultivators, which one does not covet a dragon as a mount, to display their own majesty?
Since the Divine Sovereign ascended the world-tree to heaven and released celestial energy upon the mortal realm, countless cultivators of myriad ranks have arisen across the Twelve Prefectures of Ancient Qin, in addition to the outer sects and recluses.

These cultivators slay dragons to refine magical artifacts, or bathe in dragon blood to temper their bodies.
For dragons are treasures from head to tail—dragon scales for armor, horns for alchemy, sinews and hides for garments, not to mention the priceless dragon pearls. If they cannot use them themselves, they trade them among one another.
“Do you wish to become the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea?”
Su Yuanbai halted, looking calmly at the sighing Duan Lingqi.
“My lord, perhaps your memory has not yet returned. Though the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea has suffered much, he still rules over a vast domain—not like those lesser dragon kings of rivers and lakes.
The Four Seas are the eastern, southern, western, and northern oceans of the world.
The Cang Sea beneath the Mulberry Isle, though originally under the Southern Sea Dragon King’s rule, was once granted its own dragon king by imperial decree before the Divine Sovereign ascended.
Thus did the Cang Sea break away from the Southern Sea, establish its own palace, and its own Dragon King.”
Duan Lingqi explained in a hushed voice.
“But do you want it?”
Su Yuanbai pressed.
“Please, don’t jest, my lord. No matter how one wishes, the position of the Four Sea Dragon Kings is not a matter of desire—they are appointed by the Emperor of Heaven, who now remains unseen.
Unless the Divine Sovereign returns to the mortal world, not even the current Son of Heaven could alter these posts.”
Duan Lingqi only thought Su Yuanbai was joking, shaking his head with a bitter smile.
“I only ask if you desire it.”
Su Yuanbai asked once more.
“…Yes, of course I do. But as I am now, merely a flood-dragon, even if by great fortune I became a dragon, I would be at most a three-clawed dragon—if luck smiled, then perhaps four claws.
How could I ever hope for the true five-clawed form? What merit or achievement could possibly earn me the title of Dragon King?”
Duan Lingqi gave a helpless, wry laugh.
He knew his limits well. A millennium of cultivation on the Eastern Ruins Mountain had only brought him from serpent to flood-dragon, and though he had fought for the chance to become a true dragon, he had failed each time. He understood that this was likely all he would ever be.
“Very well.”
Su Yuanbai nodded and continued walking forward.
Duan Lingqi heaved a soft sigh where he stood, then slowly followed. Yet his draconic form stooped lower with each step, his pride entirely gone.
It was as if an invisible mountain pressed down upon his back, inescapable and inexorable.