Chapter 95: Silence in the Gloomy Cold Wild Mist, The Blood-Spirit Girl in the Corner of the Turned Stone

No sound moved through the cold wild fog; beneath a corner of a half-turned stone lay a sprig of blood-spirit herb.

By the time Han Moyi had finished vomiting, his stomach felt like a riven sea, and when he finally made his way, face turned white, toward White Wolf, he only then noticed the wolf’s contemptuous look.

“I’m telling you, White Wolf, couldn’t we not do this next time? Honestly, brother, I can’t stand it anymore,” Han Moyi said, forcing a grin that looked more miserable than a cry.

“Awoo.”

White Wolf shot him a look, tossed its chin, and strutted with a proud, teasing air, as if to say, Not a chance. I’m absolutely going to do it.

White Wolf had already become huge, and like this it seemed a defiant lump of snow. Han Moyi had to hold back a laugh, though he did not dare let it escape.

Seeing him trying to laugh, White Wolf growled in displeasure twice, then shook its head, and in the time it took to blink it was once again small again.

Before this, in the uproar of all that vomiting, Han Moyi had no time to look around. Now the sky had grown paler, and when he took a glance, there was nothing but yellow sand everywhere.

“Hey, Snowball, why did you bring me here?” Han Moyi dusted off the sand clinging to him and asked.

“Wuff.”

White Wolf snarled two sharp sounds of displeasure and flashed its teeth at him.

It was the first time Han Moyi had ever seen White Wolf’s teeth. Normal wolves’ teeth are long and pointed, about half an inch in length, with the lower fangs often slightly longer at the roots. Most are chipped at the tips from tearing prey, the roots dark and almost soot-black, and the whole dentition tinted yellow-green.

White Wolf’s teeth, however, were smooth and rounded, with not a trace of wear. Most importantly, they were as white as its coat, without a single speck of stain.

Han Moyi smiled and, looking at White Wolf’s deliberately fierce expression, found it suddenly quite handsome. A bold thought flickered through his mind.

White Wolf clearly sensed something was off about him. But before it could react, Han Moyi reached out and hugged its head.

White Wolf only had to shake once to slip from his arms, stepping back a few paces and watching him warily.

“Ha, ha. Sorry. I couldn’t hold it in,” Han Moyi said awkwardly, and then quickly laid out his thought.

“White Wolf, um…,” Han Moyi rubbed his hands, embarrassed but stubborn. “I’m wondering, could you spare me one tooth? It looks like ivory. I bet I could sell it for a good price. Then I’d buy you a yellow sheep. They’re delicious, you’d like it. Don’t bite me, okay?”

He had not finished when White Wolf, eyes blazing with fury, leapt and bit into his arm.

“Fine, if you don’t want to give it, just don’t! Why bite me?” Han Moyi gasped through clenched teeth, winced, and then realized the wolf had only taken a playful nip.

Han Moyi rubbed his arm and waited for it to heal. This time, to his surprise, the bite healed only after a long while, much slower than knife wounds he’d had at Cangying Fortress and Mobei Inn.

Still, White Wolf was more dependable than Han Moyi by far. With a low growl, it led him toward a distant dune.

Han Moyi now understood it had not brought him out here merely to make him a fool; White Wolf had reason to come to this spot.

White Wolf led the way while Han Moyi followed close behind. It crossed one dune and then another before stopping behind one of them.

He looked around. Aside from the endless yellow sand and a massive stone, there was nothing else.

“Snowball, why did you bring me here?” Han Moyi asked in rising worry. He had been gone long enough to wonder about Ma Ruobing in the poplar grove—no water, no one around her; what if the wolves ate her?

White Wolf only gave him a look. Its forepaws settled on the large stone, nearly half a zhang in length and over a foot high, and it growled low in its throat.

“Snowball, you mean you want me to push this giant stone away?” Han Moyi asked, all but baffled.

When White Wolf instantly understood and nodded, even the glance it gave him held relief.

That stone weighed two or three hundred jin, and after days and days of being sunk into sand by wind, sun, and rain, it was fixed as if part of the ground. Han Moyi could not move it no matter how hard he tried.

“Snowball, lend me a hand,” Han Moyi panted. White Wolf’s reply was a lazy stare and another insolent look.

Then Han Moyi suddenly did something unexpected and unfastened the Minghong Demon Blade from his back.

No one would have thought the famed demon blade, praised as the foremost of all in the world, no worse than the Sword of Xuanyuan, could be used as a crowbar. He almost wondered whether the mythical Emperor Xuanyuan would come in the middle of the night and rage at him for it.

Whether Xuanyuan appeared or not, someone did not take it patiently.

The instant Han Moyi drove the blade beneath the stone and reached to pry, a colossal force surged through the blade, nearly toppling him to the ground.

“Next time you dare to waste an elder’s legacy this way, even if it offends that man, the Minghong Ancestor will erase you from this world,” the sneering voice whispered in Han Moyi’s ear. At that moment he almost admitted it: the blade truly was an ancestor in name as well as blade.

Though Minghong Ancestor sounded stern, he was probably afraid Han Moyi might shatter his reputation for a whole lifetime by treating him like a mere crowbar. A ribbon of black qi rose from the blade’s edge, and with effortless force it shifted the stone that Han Moyi had not moved an inch.

As soon as the stone slid aside, Han Moyi saw several clumps of green herbs beneath it, each crowned with tiny red flowers.

“Blood-spirit herb?”

His eyes lit up. He dropped to his knees in excitement and examined them carefully. It was exactly what he had guessed.

The Han family had dealt in medicinal herbs in Three Banners Town, and growing up Han Moyi had read a few medical texts. Their family manual had mentioned this plant.

Blood-spirit herb is unique to the desert: it has thick, short stems with many root fibers; single leaves growing from the base, lance-shaped or narrowly lance-shaped and tapered at both ends, blunt or sharply pointed tips, bases gradually narrowing, margins finely serrated. The leaves are green above and pale green beneath. Its terminal umbel-like inflorescence bears red stems and red blossoms. Crushing the blossoms and applying them to a wound brings remarkable effects against bleeding and inflammation.

“Snowball, you even know herbs. I’m impressed,” Han Moyi said, and swiftly plucked every plant beneath the stone, wrapped them in a cloth, and slipped them into his pouch.

“Let’s go. We’re going back to save her,” he said, then mounted White Wolf and turned back.

On the way home, White Wolf did not toy with him. It carried him fast and steadily—faster than before.

By the time they reached the poplar grove, the sun had just crested the horizon, the coldest hour of the day.

Han Moyi instinctively pulled his clothes tighter. At least he no longer felt the dizzying effects of wolf-ridden distance; he already felt much better.

When he dismounted, Han Moyi saw the pack had not eaten Ma Ruobing, nor even the horse tied to the tree. He couldn’t help but admire White Wolf’s absolute command. To keep such a beast’s wildness under control was no small feat.

He checked Ma Ruobing thoroughly. When he saw she still had breath, he finally let himself breathe.

He took out the blood-spirit herb and chewed it without thinking. But as he bent over Ma Ruobing, he hesitated.

He had removed her leather coat, but the knife wound on her back was nearly stuck to her shirt; without taking off her clothing, there was no way to apply medicine properly.

At that thought Han Moyi almost swallowed the herb whole. He hesitated for a long moment, then, with sudden resolve, unfastened Ma Ruobing’s shirt.