The air hung thick and damp, heavy with the scent of pine resin, decaying leaves, and the perpetual mist that clung to the upper slopes of Mount Qingcheng like a shroud. This ancient peak, rising steeply from the fertile plains of Shu, was a place steeped in mystery, its dense forests and hidden valleys long considered a haven for Taoist hermits seeking enlightenment and, according to local lore, home to spirits far older than any human temple. Downslope, where the primeval forest yielded slightly to human endeavor, lay the temporary logging camp established by Foreman Lin Bao, tasked with harvesting timber needed for renovations at a distant monastery. The rhythmic thud of axes and the rasp of saws usually echoed through the lower valley, a testament to human industry against the vast wilderness. But recently, that rhythm had faltered, replaced by fearful whispers and the heavy silence of abandoned work sites.
A sickness had fallen upon the loggers, insidious and strange. It began not with fever or cough, but with the mind. Men working deeper into the newly opened 'Mistwood' sector – a tract of ancient, moss-draped trees perpetually veiled in swirling vapour – reported hearing voices. Not ordinary sounds, but uncanny echoes, perfect mimicry of their own shouts to companions, distorted fragments of their private thoughts whispered back from the trees, or phantom calls in the familiar voice of a friend, luring them towards treacherous ravines or impenetrable thickets. Following these deceptive sounds came confusion, disorientation, a bone-deep fatigue, and then a debilitating delirium accompanied by a low, wasting fever. Several strong men had succumbed, carried back to the main camp babbling incoherently about trees that watched and voices that stole thoughts, their recovery slow and uncertain.
Tools vanished from work sites, only to reappear days later placed with unsettling precision high in the branches of ancient trees, far beyond easy reach. Axes were found blunted as if chewed by stone, saw blades twisted into spirals. A pervasive feeling of being watched, mocked, by an unseen, intelligent presence settled over the Mistwood sector. Loggers grew jumpy, mistrustful even of their own companions, their work halting, their camaraderie dissolving into anxious suspicion. Foreman Lin Bao, a sturdy man whose face was usually set in lines of pragmatic determination, found himself battling not just falling trees, but rising panic. He was losing men, losing time, and felt the weight of the forest's disapproval pressing down on him.
Xuanzhen arrived at the edge of the logging camp as evening mist crept down the mountainside, blurring the outlines of the tall pines, making the familiar world seem suddenly uncertain. He had been meditating at the ancient Shangqing Temple higher up the mountain, sensing subtle disturbances in the mountain's qi – chaotic eddies of energy, tinged with fear and confusion, emanating from the lower slopes. His inquiries led him to Foreman Lin's troubled camp.
Lin Bao received the Taoist priest with a mixture of desperation and skepticism. He recounted the strange illnesses, the mimicking voices, the misplaced tools, his voice rough with frustration and underlying fear. "Master Taoist," he said, gesturing towards the mist-shrouded forest edge, "my men are strong, not prone to fancy. But this place... it plays tricks. The air itself feels wrong. They say... they say it's the Shanxiao."
The name hung heavy in the damp air. Xuanzhen knew the legends – the Shanxiao, mountain spirits or demons, often depicted as strange, ape-like creatures dwelling deep in remote mountains, known for their ability to mimic sounds, cause confusion, illness, sometimes even steal souls or inflict physical harm. They were considered powerful, unpredictable spirits of the wilderness, deeply territorial.
"The Mistwood sector," Lin continued, "we opened it two months ago. Old-growth timber, never logged before. The elders in the village below warned against it, said it was 'spirit ground'. I thought it superstition..." His voice trailed off, regret mingling with defiance.
Xuanzhen nodded slowly. "Ancient forests hold ancient spirits, Foreman Lin. Cutting into undisturbed territory, especially without proper respect or acknowledgement, can awaken dormant powers or provoke territorial guardians. The Shanxiao often acts as such a guardian, its mimicry a tool to confuse, deter, or punish intruders."
He requested to speak with one of the afflicted loggers who had partially recovered. Lin led him to a small hut where young Ah De rested, still pale and weak. Ah De described his experience in the Mistwood, his voice trembling. He spoke of hearing his own name called, perfectly mimicking his friend Wei's voice, leading him towards a dense bamboo thicket. Then, the whispers began – echoing his own worries about his sick mother back home, twisting his thoughts into fearful shapes. He felt an intense cold, a draining fatigue, and then confusion descended like a thick fog, leaving him wandering, lost, until his friends found him hours later, delirious. "It felt... like it was inside my head, Master," Ah De whispered, his eyes wide with remembered terror.
Xuanzhen placed a calming hand on the young man's shoulder, subtly assessing his qi. It was depleted, frayed, and held the faint, chaotic residue of the mimicking entity's influence. This confirmed his suspicion: the Shanxiao wasn't just making sounds; it was psychically interacting with its victims, feeding on their confusion and fear, draining their vitality.
He knew he had to enter the Mistwood himself, confront the source. Despite Foreman Lin's anxious warnings, Xuanzhen prepared, gathering not weapons, but tools of harmonization and demarcation: a small bronze bell tuned to a clear, piercing frequency, talismans inscribed with characters for clarity (明 - míng), boundary (界 - jiè), and respect (敬 - jìng), and offerings of uncooked rice, pure salt, and strong rice wine – simple gifts acknowledging sovereignty.
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As dawn broke, painting the mist in ethereal shades of grey and rose, Xuanzhen entered the Mistwood sector alone. The silence here was profound, broken only by the dripping of condensation from unseen leaves and the faint, almost subliminal humming vibration he had sensed earlier. The ancient trees loomed like shadowy giants, their bark thick with moss, their upper branches lost in the swirling vapour. The air felt heavy, watchful, charged with an intelligent, mischievous, yet fundamentally alien qi.
He walked slowly, deliberately, along the faint logging track, his senses fully extended. Almost immediately, the phenomena began. A perfect echo of his own footsteps sounded just behind him. A birdcall he recognized from the lower slopes was repeated flawlessly from deeper within the mist, but slightly off-key, unsettlingly so. Then came the whispers, brushing against his mind like dry leaves – fragments of Taoist scripture twisted into paradoxes, echoes of his own fleeting thoughts on the journey, subtle temptations questioning his purpose.
Xuanzhen remained centered, reciting the Heart Sutra silently, maintaining a shield of calm, clear qi. He recognized the entity's tactics – mimicry designed to confuse identity, sow doubt, provoke fear, creating psychic openings for its draining influence. He didn't react, didn't engage with the phantom sounds, simply observed, mapping the energy field.
He found the focus point deeper within the sector, near a cluster of enormous, ancient camphor trees whose roots formed intricate, cave-like hollows at their base. The air here was coldest, the mimicking qi most intense. Misplaced tools – an axe, a coil of rope – lay incongruously near the tree roots, coated in damp moss. Xuanzhen sensed the Shanxiao's presence strongly here – not physically visible, perhaps dwelling within the trees, the earth, the mist itself – but its consciousness was sharp, ancient, territorial, and deeply resentful of the intrusion. He felt its scrutiny, cold and assessing.
"Spirit of this ancient wood," Xuanzhen spoke aloud, his voice calm but resonant, carrying clearly through the mist. "Guardian of Qingcheng's slopes. We acknowledge your domain. The intrusion was born of ignorance, not malice. We seek not conquest, but balance. Allow us to define a boundary, offer respect, and coexist."
The response was immediate, chaotic. The whispers intensified, becoming a cacophony of mimicking sounds – Xuanzhen's own voice twisted into mockery, fragments of chants distorted, animal cries warped into threats. The mist swirled violently around him, forming fleeting, grotesque shapes – half-seen ape-like figures with glowing eyes, shifting faces composed of leaves and shadow. A wave of intense confusion and fear washed over him, trying to break his concentration.
Xuanzhen stood firm, striking the small bronze bell. Its clear, piercing tone cut through the psychic noise, shattering the auditory illusions. The frequency seemed to cause the entity discomfort, disrupting its ability to mimic and project. The swirling shapes faltered.
He then quickly laid out his offerings at the base of the largest camphor tree – the rice, the salt, the wine – symbols of respect and sustenance. He took his prepared talismans and, moving deliberately, affixed the 'Boundary' (界) talismans to prominent trees marking a clear perimeter around the ancient grove, defining a space to be left undisturbed. He placed the 'Respect' (敬) talismans facing outwards from this boundary, towards the logging areas.
"This space we honour as yours," Xuanzhen declared, his voice firm, projecting his intent clearly. "Beyond this boundary, humans must work, but they will do so with respect, leaving offerings, disturbing the earth no further than necessary. Accept this demarcation. Let harmony be restored."
He struck the bell again, holding the pure tone, visualizing the boundary solidifying, the chaotic energy calming, the Shanxiao's resentment softening into watchful acceptance. The entity tested him one last time – a final, perfect mimicry of Abbot Jieran's voice (from the Serpent Pagoda incident) echoed beside him, filled with sorrowful warning. Xuanzhen ignored it, holding his focus on balance and clear intent.
Slowly, the resistance faded. The chaotic whispers ceased. The mist grew still, losing its menacing quality. The feeling of being watched lessened, replaced by a neutral, ancient awareness. The Shanxiao, its territory acknowledged, its nature respected rather than feared or attacked, had seemingly accepted the truce.
Xuanzhen bowed respectfully to the ancient trees, then retreated carefully from the Mistwood sector. Back at the camp, Foreman Lin and the loggers felt the change almost immediately. The oppressive atmosphere lifted. The strange sounds ceased. Ah De, still recovering, reported his mind felt clearer, the lingering confusion gone.
Xuanzhen explained the situation and the established boundary to Foreman Lin, emphasizing the absolute necessity of respecting it and making regular, simple offerings. He warned that crossing the boundary or showing disrespect would likely provoke the Shanxiao again. Lin, humbled and deeply relieved, readily agreed, chastened by the experience.
In the following weeks, logging resumed cautiously outside the marked boundary. No further illnesses or strange incidents occurred. The loggers worked with a newfound respect for the ancient forest, leaving small offerings of rice or wine near the boundary trees, their axes striking with mindful purpose rather than careless force.
Xuanzhen departed the Qingcheng mountains, leaving behind a fragile peace negotiated between human need and ancient wilderness. The Mimicking Demon served as a potent reminder that the spirits of nature, especially those guarding ancient, undisturbed places, possessed intelligence and power that demanded respect. Expansion and resource gathering, pursued without awareness or acknowledgement of these guardians, invited confusion, sickness, and fear. Harmony often lay not in conquest or exorcism, but in understanding boundaries, offering respect, and finding ways to coexist, listening not just to the echo of one's own voice, but to the subtle, ancient whispers of the world itself.
