Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Saintess's Story

The Holy Maiden gently shook Nightless Abyss on the ground and called to him in a soft voice. He lay there sprawled out and fast asleep, utterly at ease. No matter how she shook him or called to him, he would not wake.

She sat quietly beside him, hugging her knees and looking up at the moon in the sky. The full moon hung overhead, its white light spilling over the earth and casting the lonely silhouette of the Holy Maiden.

“Senior, the moon is beautiful tonight. Let me tell you a story,” she said suddenly, as if a thought had just come to her.

On a deep and still night, in a mountain village so poor that even its quiet seemed tinged with desolation, a baby’s cry suddenly shattered the silence.

The cry echoed through the valley. Another little life had come into the world, and it was a girl. In such a destitute village, the arrival of a new life was hard to call a blessing or a sorrow. It was a blessing because one more life had been added, and everyone could glimpse a little more light and hope. It was sorrow because her mother had paid for her arrival with her own life...

Because she was born in spring, her family named her Bright Dawn. White and plump, she was impossible not to love.

The little girl was treated exceptionally well. She had her parents’ affection, was adorable in appearance, and was the family’s only hope. Yet fate is never so easy to hold in one’s hands. Perhaps seeing how happy you are, it wants to test you, to add a little color to your life, whether black or bright, and whether you are an infant or an adult.

Thus the happy days slipped by one after another. Before long she was about to turn one; it was to be her first birthday, and the family had long since begun preparing to celebrate. But then Dawn fell ill. The lively child who had once smiled and made a fuss suddenly stopped smiling, stopped crying, as if exhausted. After a grave illness, she also spoke very little. By the time she was three, she still could not walk. At five, she often wet the bed. Bit by bit, her family’s patience eroded. Gradually, the laughter that had once filled the home vanished, replaced by repeated beatings, shouting, cries, and pleas. At night it sounded so tragic. By seven, Dawn seemed to have grown sensible, and to understand many things.

She seemed to know that such treatment of her might be only natural. A seven-year-old child ought to be at the happiest stage of childhood, when all children are delighted simply by eating breakfast made by their mothers. Yet she had to rise an hour earlier than everyone else, no matter winter or summer, because from then on she had to wash her own clothes. Only after washing them could she sling on her schoolbag and go to the village school.

At dinner, there should have been a place for her at the table. Instead, she could only fill her bowl, pick out a little food, and eat standing outside the door. Watching the other four at the table, her father and mother and two older sisters, it felt as though she were separated from them by several entire worlds.

Once the dishes were cleared, she never dared take food a second time. Once she had finished her rice, she never dared serve herself another bowl. And so she lived a life beneath everyone else. No one understood what she truly thought, and when they saw her, she was still always smiling. Yet the beatings and abuse had never ceased.

Later, her family built a small house in the village. Though they had moved into a new home, none of it seemed to concern Dawn. Her circumstances did not change at all. The family lived in the rooms on the first floor; the rooms upstairs were empty and unused, usually only storing odds and ends. Yet she was assigned to live on the second floor.

That year she was nine. A nine-year-old child should still have been clinging to her father and mother, spoiled and pampered in their bed. But Dawn had to summon courage no child should need, and live alone on the deserted second floor. One day, a child her own age asked her, “Aren’t you afraid living alone upstairs?”

She thought for a moment and answered softly, “Afraid... very afraid...”

At that moment her eyes were red. Something wet shimmered in them, trembling at the edges of her lashes, but she held it back.

One day, Dawn’s “father” bought some candied hawthorns. He returned home in a good mood, and seeing the children there, he chose two especially fine sticks for his two daughters.

When he saw Dawn standing nearby, his expression darkened at once. He picked out a stick that was nearly rotten through and gave it to her. At that, Dawn’s uncle saw it and clashed with her father, demanding to know how he could be so biased. In the heat of the argument, Dawn let out a faint voice: “Uncle, forget it. Don’t quarrel for me.”

Her voice was so choked with tears that it was barely audible. She knew that although her uncle was standing up for her, she also knew how terrible the storm would be after he left.

In the end, her uncle left as well. Her father cursed her fiercely and drove her outside, refusing to let her eat dinner.

Famished, she ran into the mountains and dug up some wild greens and other edible roots and fruits.

The sky slowly darkened, and Dawn became lost in the great mountains. It was pitch-black inside them, and she was terrified. She crouched alone in the forest, trembling all over, afraid that some wolf, tiger, or other beast would appear and devour her.

Just as she was trembling in fear, she saw the village erupt in a towering blaze of fire. Amid it came the roar of strange beasts.

Then, from deep within the mountains, came the howls of many wolves. That night there was no moon; the path could not be seen in the darkness, and pairs of green, glinting eyes appeared among the trees.

She was frightened beyond measure, trembling as she cried out, “Don’t eat me, don’t eat me,” and other such words.

One fierce and strong wolf after another appeared before her. Terrified, she burst into tears. In an instant, dozens of wolves pounced together, gaping jaws lunging for her. She shut her eyes in terror.

Just when she thought she was about to die, a crackling burst of sound reached her ears.

When she opened her eyes, a woman shrouded head to toe in a black robe stood before her. The dozens of wolves all lay dead on the ground, stripped of life. After witnessing such a terrifying scene, Dawn did not cry out, did not make a fuss, did nothing at all. She simply stared blankly at the figure before her, not knowing whether it was human or ghost.

“I wish to take you as my disciple and pass down immortal arts to you. Are you willing to bow to me as your master?” came a woman’s voice from the shadow. It was lovely, the most beautiful female voice Dawn had ever heard, as if imbued with some supreme magic.

Dawn nodded dumbly, indicating that she was willing to worship this suddenly appeared woman as her master. Since childhood she had heard the village elders speak of the outside world—of immortals, demons, gods, ghosts, monsters, and such—which had always filled her with wonder.

Then the woman, her entire body veiled in blackness so that her true face could not be seen, took out a veil and said to her, “To become the Holy Maiden of our Sacred Moon Sanctuary, the direct heir, your true face must never be seen by others. If anyone sees your face, kill them.”