Dragon Boat Secret Realm 27: Vengeful Spirits

Only one day and night remained before the Flower God Festival.

Building a ship—especially one that would never capsize—in such a short time was daunting.

But for someone commanding nearly all of Falling Spring Island’s resources, it wasn’t impossible.

After Lords Chen, Li, Song, and Wang turned into fish-men and vanished, their absence raised no suspicions. Known for carousing together, their families assumed they were off indulging, which was typical.

Even if suspicion arose, Su Qing didn’t care. She only needed to control the situation for three days—enough to plan and kill the fish demon.

Chen Manor’s wealth flowed like water. The island’s craftsmen were summoned to a manor estate, tools in hand.

The directive was simple: with the Flower God Festival approaching, Lord Chen called for a divine ship to be built as a blessing.

Given the tight timeline, each craftsman received blueprints for a specific part. Once completed, the parts would be assembled together. Working simultaneously, they could finish in a day and night.

The idea came from Xiao’e.

Before dawn, she was gently shaken awake. Groggy, she opened her eyes, expecting her nagging sister Kui, but saw her playmate instead.

“Where were you all day yesterday? Your mom came looking, and I covered for you, or you’d be in for an ear-twisting! You owe me…” Her voice trailed off, catching in her throat.

Another girl with a cold expression stood in the room, alongside the Second Lady.

Though Xiao’e no longer feared the Second Lady as much, her sudden presence startled her.

She sat up straight, dropping her playful demeanor.

Surely they weren’t here to reclaim the wood? She’d already polished it, just needing to carve the name. She wasn’t giving it back.

Zhang Wenhui, seeing Xiao’e’s childish demeanor, doubted her ability to craft an unsinkable ship. Even a genius child faced limits—she wasn’t optimistic.

“Xiao’e, Tian Ge,” Su Qing said earnestly, “we need your help. You’re the only one on the island who can do this.”

“Why so serious? Of course I’ll help—I’m loyal!” Qiu Yange straightened, a flicker of panic rising. “What’s the task?”

“Listen…”

After hearing the truth, Xiao’e’s eyes reddened. “It’s not hard. I can do it. I’ve played games with village kids, pouring water from a height into a basin to test whose boat wouldn’t tip. I found that a low center of gravity keeps it steady…” She choked, tears and snot streaming, her face a mess. “What about my sister?”

“I don’t want her at the Flower God Festival! Damn it, how can people—or fish—be so evil?”

Before Su Qing could console her, Xiao’e, with her wild hair, leapt from bed to the table.
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Biting back sobs, she lit a candle, its yellow glow flickering as she sniffled, grabbed a charcoal pencil, and sketched on a wooden board.

She could build an unsinkable ship.

“No need to worry,” Zhang Wenhui sighed. “She’s tougher than I thought. No wonder she dared sneak into my place.”

Those who achieve greatness often have extraordinary resolve.

Su Qing, still in Qiu Yange’s illusion, knew this trial might be her creation. She couldn’t underestimate its master. Xiao’e would succeed.

While Xiao’e worked, Zhang Wenhui even took Su Qing and Tian Ning for breakfast.

She served wheat porridge and homemade pickles—simple, rustic fare. Tian Ning blew on her steaming clay bowl, sipping eagerly.

As the festival neared, Su Qing’s heart raced, nerves taut, stomach too full to eat. She wasn’t just carrying her own fate—Tian Ning was amnesiac, relying on her, and Tang Yueling’s safety hung in the balance. What if she was suffering in the fish’s belly with her fiery spirit?

Zhang Wenhui, despite years of planning, remained calm, her face wooden, unhurried. She ate heartily, sweat beading on her dry skin, eyes squinting contentedly.

By Su Qing’s bowl, her raspy voice was reassuring. “Don’t rush. Eat up. You’ll need strength.”

Su Qing forced herself to sip the porridge, its warmth grounding her, fueling her resolve.

After breakfast, they returned to Xiao’e’s home. She’d finished the blueprints—not one, but a sheet for each part. Her eyes were still red, but her face radiated determination.

Su Qing paused on one sheet. “A four-person boat? We’re only three.”

“Don’t you know how foolish it is to sail without a craftsman?” Xiao’e said firmly. “I built this ship—you have to take me!”

“You’re too young,” Zhang Wenhui said, gripping her thin shoulders to calm her. “We’ll handle it. Stay here—your sister will be fine.”

“I’m not small!” Xiao’e’s dark eyes blazed with fury, thinking of her boat carrying her sister to the demon’s lair. Her fists clenched, knuckles white, as if to quell her hatred. “I won’t always be small. One day, I’ll be the elder sister. I’ll kill it myself!”

Meeting her gaze, Su Qing felt the same rage.

She was certain—this was the illusion’s will, Xiao’e’s will.

Tian Ge, if this illusion reflects your past, did you fulfill your vow? Did you kill it?

Having seen the future, Su Qing knew Qiu Yange succeeded.

But at what cost? Why create this trial, forcing participants to relive her past?

Were you dissatisfied with that outcome?

Su Qing lowered her eyes, avoiding Xiao’e’s searing gaze.

A faint sorrow stirred, but it only fueled her anger.

She’d strive for a better ending.

…

The unsinkable ship was completed the morning before the festival.

Xiao’e hung a polished peachwood plaque on it.

“What’s the ship’s name?” Su Qing asked.

“You said the fish demon aims to become a dragon, blocking the path to the outside, killing our people, trapping us here,” Xiao’e said bitterly. “Killing it ends this. My sister will be safe, Wenhui can be free, and I can leave this island.”

“I’ll call it—”

Su Qing already knew.

As a child, Xiao’e had excitedly shared her dream: to build an unparalleled ship, soaring to the clouds, far beyond the island’s fishing boats.

Now, she gave this ship the same meaning.

“Dragon Boat.”

…

The Flower God Festival’s main ceremony was at the island’s largest dock.

Each dawn, thousands of fishing boats sought fish schools; each dusk, they returned laden with writhing catches.

It was the island’s lifeline.

On festival day, the dock buzzed at dawn. Boats, instead of sailing, were adorned with vibrant silks and flowers—real for in-season, fabric for off-season—creating a dazzling floral display.

Stalls lined the main path, selling flowers, jewelry, paper cuttings, sachets, fans, and sweets. Girls roamed freely, unburdened by chores, adorned with flowers, arm in arm, bantering, haggling with vendors, and buying trinkets with pocket money.

Tired, they’d buy snacks, board decorated boats, and row leisurely, chatting, enjoying sea views and the lively dock.

They played all morning. After noon, the festival’s climax began.

The Flower God would arrive from the sea, selecting ten girls to join her in cultivation, promising endless life and beauty.

Afterward, the remaining girls released colored paper cuttings into the sea, letting petals and water carry away misfortune and illness.

Su Qing recalled her “mother” urging her to make a cutting for the festival to ensure safety and health.

Knowing the Flower God was a demon, she didn’t believe in it and, amidst the chaos, had no intention of making one. But after breakfast with Zhang Wenhui, her heart calmed.

She’d done all she could. Now, she waited for the “Flower God.”

In the anxious wait, she, Tian Ning, Xiao’e, and Zhang Wenhui followed the custom, making paper cuttings with colored paper and scissors.

Young Zhang Wenhui had been deft at embroidery and cuttings, consulted by village girls each New Year.
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Though aged and less nimble, she wielded scissors confidently, shaping them swiftly.

As she cut, she hoarsely sang a childhood cutting song:

“One cut brings spring’s warmth,
Two cuts bring luck and charm,
Three cuts banish illness and harm,
Four cuts weave a marriage of grace,
Five cuts hold joy in eternal embrace.”

At “marriage of grace,” Su Qing grimaced, unenthused.

Zhang Wenhui chuckled. “So reluctant?”

Her own marriage had been a source of lifelong misfortune, yet she didn’t see a good match as bad.

“I’m still young—too early for that talk,” Su Qing muttered. “Wishing marriage on a girl is a curse…”

Tian Ning glanced over, ears sharp. “Talking nonsense again?”

Su Qing blinked. “Memory back?”

Tian Ning shook her head. It was just a reflex remark.

“How about wishing me wealth? That’s practical!” Su Qing said.

Zhang Wenhui, amused but acquiescing, said, “Fine, four cuts for rolling wealth.”

Wealth wouldn’t solve their current plight. Su Qing amended, “Four cuts for all things to go my way.”

Following Zhang Wenhui’s guidance, she cut a humanoid shape—a round head, flowing sleeves, and skirt, resembling a girl, simple to craft.

Xiao’e finished hers quickly, then fretted over the Dragon Boat. “When do we leave?”

“The Flower God on the island is the demon’s avatar; its true body hides in its lair,” Zhang Wenhui said. “The ten girls will go with it partway. We follow, intercept them, send them back, and take their place.”

Worried for her sister, Xiao’e was restless but, seeing everyone’s calm, channeled her frustration into furiously cutting paper.

Su Qing knew their calm was a facade, their minds racing with plans, tempered only by the cutting.

…

At noon, three drumbeats echoed. Boats at sea hurried back, their silken decorations fluttering vibrantly.

Half an hour later, the dock quieted. Islanders gathered, holding their breath, awaiting the Flower God. The crowd pressed close, adults with children—whose mouths were stuffed with candy to prevent cries—while elders muttered tales of past festivals.

Bright flowers bloomed along the dock, petals glistening with dew, their fragrance intoxicating. Men, women, young, and old faced the sea, hands clasped, expressions devout and expectant.

As the scent grew richer, the crowd’s excitement swelled.

Su Qing, Tian Ning, Xiao’e, and Zhang Wenhui, disguised, hid at the back. As the sun peaked, a woman’s silhouette appeared at the horizon.

She approached the island.
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Her black hair cascaded, adorned with flowers, her skin snow-white, cheeks plump like spring petals. Her gold-and-silver silk dress, embroidered with seasonal flowers, bloomed with each step, as if flowers sprouted beneath her.

This was the Flower God, truly walking across the sea.

Tian Ning covered her nose, frowning.

“So fragrant,” Xiao’e said, entranced, then slapped herself awake. “Why so fragrant?”

Zhang Wenhui’s fingers dug into her palms, glaring at the approaching figure. “What a stench of decay!”

Su Qing asked Xiao’e, “What do you see?”

“Like every year,” Xiao’e said honestly, “the Flower God.”

Su Qing pursed her lips. She saw a red-lipped skeleton.

A pile of bones wrapped in rotting robes, covered by a thin, dried-up skin. White maggots writhed in the flesh, hollowing the bones. Countless tormented souls struggled to escape its eye sockets and mouth, trapped, wailing in agony.

“The fragrance is wrong,” Su Qing realized. “It triggers illusions.”

As the Flower God neared, the crowd grew ecstatic, kneeling and kowtowing.

“It’s the Flower God!”

“She’s here!”

“Goddess, bless my unborn child with health and peace!”

“I’ll offer incense forever—grant my elders a century of life!”

“And me! Bless my daughter with a good marriage!”

“Heal my illness, Goddess!”

“Make me rich—piles of money!”

…

Countless wishes rose, spawning golden threads of willpower, thick as fireflies. Su Qing gasped at their density.

Willpower, a form of spiritual energy tied to karma, was potent and unpredictable, boosting cultivation immensely.

No wonder the timid fish demon sent an avatar every three years, masquerading as the Flower God, harvesting both sacrifices and willpower—a double gain.

If it continued, it would grow unstoppable, turning the island into its feeding ground.

Those who struck the deal were utterly despicable.

The golden willpower merged into a beam, absorbed by the skeleton, locking the wailing souls within, silencing them.

The ethereal Flower God smiled divinely, spreading her arms like wings, as if ascending.

Her soft, serene voice reached every ear: “The Flower God blesses you—”

Before she finished, the lame walked, the sick glowed, expectant mothers beamed, elders touched wrinkle-free faces, estranged couples reconciled, and the poor held sudden wealth.

Everything improved, reborn.

All thanks to the Flower God!

The crowd, delirious with joy, kowtowed like reeds in a storm.

“Thanks for your grace!”

“Thank you, Goddess!”

“It’s all illusion,” Su Qing said, resisting the urge to close her eyes, forcing herself to see. “All suggestion and illusion.”

“There is no Flower God. I see trapped, suffering souls crying for release!”

Each wail begged for salvation.

Each dark mouth screamed:

Save me,
Save me!