Dragon Boat Secret Realm 30: Escaping the Illusion

The fish demon was dead.

Su Qing watched as its last remnants were absorbed by the peach tree, not a single scale remaining. It had vanished from the world, leaving no trace.

Simultaneously, the peach tree in the cave’s center grew taller, its blossoms vibrant with life.

Qiu Yange steered the Dragon Boat shakily to Su Qing. Zhang Wenhui pulled her from the water.

Soaked and freezing, Su Qing’s face was pale. Zhang Wenhui, startled by her cold hands, showed a flicker of heartache, warming them with her rough palms.

Tian Ning leapt onto the boat from midair.

Exhausted, she lost control, landing heavily, rocking the boat. Ignoring it, she slumped in her seat, panting.

The four rested, slowly easing from their tense state.

Su Qing’s frozen skin began to burn, warmth returning to her face. Taking a deep breath, she said, “We did it. We killed it.”

“But it’s not over.”

Zhang Wenhui felt no joy or relief, only a deep fatigue, as if her heart were shrouded, numbing her emotions.

Wiping a wound on her cheek, Qiu Yange rallied, alert. “What’s next?”

They remained in the illusion, unchanged despite the demon’s death.

Su Qing was certain the demon was tied to the illusion.

But with it dead—utterly dead—and no clearance, it meant one thing: killing the demon wasn’t the goal, but a step toward it.
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Su Qing leaned forward, scanning. “Paper figure, are you there? What’s left to do?”

The cave rumbled violently, the boat swaying on turbulent waves, as if something was emerging.

Su Qing clung to the rail, steadying herself.

After a surge, countless paper fragments rose from the sea, reforming into paper figures, soaring upward.

Leading them was Su Qing’s own figure, glowing softly with golden light.

It had absorbed all the demon’s willpower.

Following it were exactly one hundred ten figures—the souls of the girls killed by the demon, now residing in thin paper, bathed in holy golden light.

The figures freed them from the demon’s bones. Their cries shook the paper, their deaths unchanged by the demon’s demise. They wept for themselves, yearning for release.

The lead figure spread its sleeves like wings, floating freely.

Su Qing heard countless voices—youthful and weathered—joyful and tearful, chanting the enduring Falling Spring Island paper-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.”

The chant repeated, the figures’ golden light intensifying.

Though mere spiritual objects, born of rough paper and cheap dye, fragile in water, they were the island’s true guardians, birthed from countless girls’ hopes.

Their mission: destroy the source of tragedy and tears—the fish demon.

Even with paper bodies.

The demon’s death wasn’t just their doing. The island’s daughters saved themselves—and them.

Nurtured by pure willpower, the souls’ anguished faces calmed, their dark resentment dissipating into smoke, revealing their true selves.

They found peace.

Su Qing’s eyes welled. She heard choked sobs. Qiu Yange trembled, lips bitten, crying without understanding why—she knew everything, yet nothing.

Tian Ning lowered her lashes, tears falling.

Zhang Wenhui held her, a single tear tracing her wrinkled face—a true tear, washing away endless anger, leaving quiet sorrow.

Then, the lead figure moved, leading the soul-bearing papers upward into the peach tree. The tree shuddered, radiating brilliant golden light.

It grew again, branches sprouting, piercing the cave’s ceiling, its roots filling the demon’s lair.

The roots drained the water, stranding the boat. A branch gently lifted it, pushing it toward the distance.

The ground quaked, dust scattering.

“This tree has some destiny,” Su Qing said. “Let’s leave. There’s work on the island.”

The paper figure had done all it could. As a spiritual entity, it didn’t understand human affairs. The rest was hers to handle.

They sailed back to Falling Spring Island.

Exhausted to their limits, they soon fell asleep, heads drooping.

Qiu Yange woke first, rubbing sore eyes, confirming their course. On track, they’d reach the island in a day.

Afraid yet hopeful, she glanced back toward the demon’s lair.

Her eyes widened.

She nudged the dozing Zhang Wenhui, then Su Qing and Tian Ning, sleeping in a pile.

“Look!” she shouted, pointing.

Blearily, they turned, eyes widening.

On the distant horizon, a towering tree stood, its sturdy branches and beautiful blossoms like a silent giant.

Its presence was proof, guiding Falling Spring Island to the wider world.

…

A month passed on the island.

Su Qing hadn’t left the illusion but kept busy with three tasks.

First, she revealed the Flower God’s true nature as the fish demon.

Despite evidence, some refused to believe. But her sword convinced dissenters.

Most saw the truth. Families who’d sent daughters to the “Flower God” collapsed, weeping. Onlookers mourned the tragedy.

They grasped Su Qing’s hand, asking repeatedly, “My daughter’s at peace? She didn’t suffer? She’s in the Flower Kingdom now, right?”

Su Qing assured them, “They’re truly at peace.”

This offered faint comfort, but their tears flowed.

Second, she built a temple.

She had craftsmen erect it facing the peach tree, honoring the hundred-plus girls killed by the demon over a century.

Some suggested naming it “Flower God Temple,” as they were the island’s true guardians.

Su Qing refused. “They’re not gods, nor need to be. They were living people.”

Who willingly sacrifices themselves for godhood? They were forced into martyrdom.

No girl truly wished to leave home forever, cast into the vast sea.

The temple was built with a peach tree sapling—grown from Zhang Wenhui’s branch—planted at its center.

A stone tablet listed all one hundred ten names, none missing.

The other side told their story, their brave, tearful sacrifice for the island’s peace.

Funds came from confiscating wealth from families colluding with the demon, leaving them a fraction for their uninvolved kin and servants.

Half funded the temple; the other half went to Qiu Yange for shipbuilding.

The third task: Su Qing told the islanders of the wider world.

“See that tree?” The demon’s lair tree was visible from the island. “Follow it. It’ll guide you.”

A week after the new ship was built, Su Qing took it to sea, having learned basic navigation from Qiu Yange.

At dawn, with pale light and soft clouds, a breeze carried the tide’s scent.

A fine day for sailing.

Tian Ning, with a cloth bag and sword, boarded beside Su Qing.

She unpacked a wrapped pastry, chewing slowly.

Since starving at Chen Manor, she carried food always—a habit she might keep outside the illusion.

“Want some?” she offered.

Su Qing took a peach blossom pastry from her hand.

Sweet and delicious.

The temple’s peach tree bloomed instantly. Girls, after consulting them, gathered petals to make pastries, shared freely at the temple.

Their skilled hands made them delightful, and Su Qing loved them.

Qiu Yange and Zhang Wenhui came to see them off.

At just over thirteen, Qiu Yange led the island’s craftsmen. Initially, they resented her, but her talent, diligence, and courage silenced them.

Her world would outshine all others on the island. It could only hold her briefly; her future lay beyond.

“Go ahead. In two years, I’ll build a new ship and follow,” she said, envious yet reluctant. “I’ll find you.”

The impulsive Xiao’e had matured, her eyes resolute, though her wild hair remained tangled, likely from sleeping on blueprints. Her sister Kui would fret.

Su Qing smiled, promising, “We’ll meet again.”

Zhang Wenhui, no longer feigning madness, stood neatly dressed, a stern, spirited elder.

She managed the temple, her purpose renewed, and would continue cultivating.

With Su Qing’s teachings, she’d oversee the island, its only cultivator, ensuring stability.

Efficient as ever, she packed their boat with supplies. Though reluctant, she said breezily, “It’s not like we’ll never meet. Once the island’s settled, if I’m still alive, I’ll join Xiao’e outside.”

Her clouded eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Trapped here my whole life, it’s time to see the world.”

Each had their path, their tasks.

Though bittersweet, farewells were brief.

Su Qing waved, steering toward the peach tree.

Qiu Yange shouted, “Safe travels!”

Turning, Su Qing saw her jumping, waving, a small figure trying to stand out. Zhang Wenhui stood quietly, wiping her eyes.

Tian Ning waved back gently.

Su Qing sensed her mood. “You’re happy?”

“Happy,” Tian Ning said, her distant eyes warm. “I like this ending.”

Su Qing smiled. It was the better ending they’d fought for.

Would the real Qiu Yange, outside the illusion, like it too?
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Looking ahead, Su Qing saw the shimmering sea, boundless.

Their boat passed the pink giant tree, standing silently in clear blue water. As if sensing them, its branches swayed, petals raining down, tinting the sea pink, like a gentle storm.

Petals filled the boat, covering Su Qing and Tian Ning.

Su Qing spat out a petal, grimacing. “It’s bitter.”

Tian Ning, mid-bite of pastry, blinked. “Sweet in pastries.”

“Because of all the sugar.”

They exchanged glances, laughing.

With sea breezes and rippling waves, they sailed toward the wider world.

…

Su Qing’s eyelids twitched, and she snapped awake.

She was out of the illusion!

Perhaps from sleeping too long, her vision blurred. Before her thoughts settled, a familiar voice—surprised yet annoyed—rang out: “If I’m not mistaken, you’re here to save me, right? Why are you both passed out, leaving me to guard you? Wake up, or we’ll all be fish food!”

A resonant, ancient hum interrupted, like timeless wind or an echoing tremor from antiquity, carrying vast information. It stunned Su Qing’s mind briefly.

The familiar voice faltered, then grumbled, “What’s with this lousy boat shaking? It’s none of its business!”