A Mermaid’s Excursion

9. Pleasant Scenery, Withering People

The last surge of briny seawater slipped away from her waist. Bai Mu was finally free of the ocean’s embrace, lying prone on the fine, cool sand.

Air rushed into her lungs. Sunlight poured down and wrapped around her in an instant. It was a weight utterly unlike the buoyancy of seawater—solid and real, warm, even faintly scorching.

At the very moment the sunlight touched her skin, the scales at her waist receded like a tide. A subtle yet peculiar tingling swept over her as the tail slowly vanished, the outlines of two legs growing ever more solid, ever more natural.

They were the long, straight legs of a human woman. Bai Mu wiggled her toes, feeling the rough friction of sand grains.

She pushed herself upright. These legs tried to stand—awkward at first. The first step nearly sent her tumbling. The second was steadier. By the third, she began to walk.

She had done it. She was truly standing on land. Soon her movements grew more coordinated, nimble like a newborn fawn.

Ursula had been right. These legs were healthy and strong, without the agony of walking on blades.

The beach, baked dry by the sun, was hot beneath her feet. Fine sand shifted and flowed as she stepped. Through the soles of her feet, the earth conveyed a deep, steady support.

Behind her lay the vast, boundless blue homeland that had nurtured her. Ahead, farther on, stretched lush, unfamiliar green, and beneath the horizon line rose the faint, dark-cyan silhouettes of mountain ranges.

Prince Allen’s kingdom lay to the north. He had said there would still be a mountain and a forest to cross.

Bai Mu tightened her grip on the moon-glow herb and continued forward, heading into the dense woodland.

Rolling green unfurled in winding layers, like a great expanse of frozen emerald waves. The warm afternoon sun filtered through tiers of leaves, scattering flickering patches of light like golden jewels.

The whole scene resembled a medieval oil painting—bright, radiant, and richly colored.

The air was filled with the mingled scents of leaves, soil, and countless unknown blossoms.

Her feet pressed into earth and small pebbles, producing unfamiliar sounds. Birds sang, the wind joined in harmony, and leaves rustled softly.

In the distance, clouds seemed caught by the treetops, unable to escape, snagged among the branches.

How beautiful it was. Yet Bai Mu did not linger long. The urgency of saving someone drove her onward. She found a faint path leading north and set out along it.

After some distance, the tender soles of her feet began to burn and ache. She did not stop, only adjusted her stride, learning to walk more efficiently.

When she grew thirsty, she found a stream in the woods and, for the first time, cupped clear water in her hands to drink. It was cool and sweet, utterly unlike the salty bitterness of the sea. When hunger struck, she picked berries; they burst in her mouth, fresh and juicy, tart and sweet.

Night fell, and the forest turned pitch-dark. Strange sounds and the distant howls of beasts set her nerves on edge.

She found a large tree and sat on a rock beneath it. She gazed up at a sky so clear, so vast, unbroken by wavering water. Through gaps in the leaves, the Milky Way flowed across the deep indigo heavens.

The air was cool and comforting. Gradually she calmed, and rested there for the night.

The next day, she continued north.

At last, she emerged from the forest’s edge, and the mountain rose before her.

The climb tested her legs and her will even more severely. The sun grew fiercer, and sweat slid across her skin—a novel, sticky sensation.

Bai Mu took a deep breath, using both hands and feet, gripping tufts of grass in rocky crevices. Her panting echoed clearly in the quiet mountains.

Her legs ached, yet she did not stop.

Blisters formed on her soles, burst, hardened into thin calluses—only to give way to new ones.

Finally, Bai Mu reached the summit.

Gales roared, nearly knocking her off her feet. But the sight before her made her forget all fatigue and pain in an instant.

Farther still, at the edge of her vision, loomed the faint outline of towering city walls. Several ominous columns of gray-black smoke rose from within, drifting lazily into the equally gloomy sky.

That was Prince Allen’s realm—the land under the shadow of plague.

At the last dusk before descending, she came upon a broader road.

Its surface was packed earth, stamped with deep wheel ruts and tangled footprints. The air now carried a hard-to-describe scent—of decay, of burning.

And beneath it all, a faint trace of… sorrow and fear. The complex aura that clung to places where humans gathered.

Bai Mu’s heart lurched. She ignored the exhaustion in her legs, ignored the dust and grass clinging to her body.

Those legs—tempered by sand, forest, and stone—moved once more, striding forward with unwavering resolve toward the death-shrouded kingdom.

Behind her, the sun cast a long shadow—lonely, yet steadfast.

The night-pearl silently gathered it all in: the lush green of the woods, the rugged mountain paths, the hardship of the climb, and the ever-nearing human world, steeped in despair yet tinged with a fragile hope.

Continuing forward, Bai Mu’s bare feet stepped onto a road paved with smooth stone slabs. This was Allen’s kingdom.

The first thing that flooded her senses was, unexpectedly, breathtaking beauty.

On both sides of the river grew rows of neatly planted ginkgo trees. It was autumn; the fan-shaped leaves had turned a clear, translucent gold. When the wind passed through, they drifted down in showers, scattering across the surface of the water.

White walls and red tiles lined the streets. Beneath the eaves, exquisite wooden carvings jutted out, and some windows were inlaid with colored glass that refracted jewel-like fragments of light in the sun. A sweet fragrance hung in the air, drifting from large clusters of roses spilling out from private courtyards.

Farther away, at the heart of the city, rose a towering castle and a spired cathedral, solemn and magnificent.

The scene almost perfectly matched her most poetic imaginings of the land. For a fleeting moment, she felt dazed, nearly forgetting why she had come at all.

Yet almost immediately, cruel cracks appeared in this enchanting tableau.

Beneath the sweet floral scent clung a stubborn, inescapable bitterness—an acrid blend of inferior medicinal herbs, long-accumulated filth, and a faint hint of rot, like spoiled fruit. It was everywhere, seeping into delicately carved window frames, drifting through the beautiful streets carpeted in golden leaves.

Then she saw the people.

So many people. Sitting or lying about, slumped against walls or beneath colonnades. They were wrapped in thick garments that could not hide the stains. Their faces bore an ominous ashen pallor, or an unnatural flush. On the exposed skin of some, deep purple or dark red blotches were visible, painfully conspicuous.

Coughing rose and fell without pause—dry, racking, tearing through the silence of the streets.

A woman leaned against the door of her house, its surface adorned with vine reliefs, cradling a child who lay utterly still. Her hollow gaze stared at the leaf-strewn street.

Not far away, several people with headscarves tightly wrapped over their mouths and noses struggled to lift stiff bodies, bundled in old blankets, onto a wooden cart.

Many doors and windows were shut tight. Those who still ventured outdoors hurried along with lowered heads, cloths covering their mouths and noses, eyes wary and frightened. They avoided making eye contact with anyone—especially those figures moaning in pain along the roadside.

The sunlight remained bright, illuminating the stained glass without discrimination, and just as mercilessly shining upon the lives withering beneath it. Once-bustling streets were now steeped in an air of refined stillness and a slow, creeping panic of decay.

The scenery was still pleasant. The houses still splendid.

Only now, that pleasantness and splendor had become the most bitterly ironic—and most heart-wrenching—backdrop to this silent catastrophe.

Her journey, after crossing seas and mountains, truly began here, amid this vision of extreme contradiction.

As Bai Mu stepped onto the city’s main thoroughfare, she immediately realized how conspicuous she was.

In this human city ravaged by plague, her appearance was no longer merely eye-catching—it was a spark that ignited fear and suspicion.

Her long silver hair had not been carefully arranged, falling like silk washed in cold moonlight. Amid the streets full of dull gray and sickly yellow hair—hair matted and greasy from illness—its brilliance was painfully out of place.

Her skin, pearlescent and flawless like a treasure from the deep sea, stood in stark contrast to the waxy yellow, the strange purplish-red hues, and the blotched faces around her.

Whispers spread like a tide wherever she passed, turning into countless glances that darted away yet could not pull free.

“Look at that woman…”

“Her hair…”

“Not a trace of sickness… how is that possible?”

The sick who crouched in corners lifted their dull, unfocused eyes toward her. In the murky depths of their gazes, there flickered first an instinctive, momentary daze at such overwhelming beauty.

Even the patrols guarding the street crossings, their expressions hard and cold, visibly stiffened when they saw her, hands unconsciously pressing against their sword hilts. She was too conspicuous—like a walking enigma.

In a time when everyone lived in fear, when faces withered and even staying clean required exhausting effort, this woman of unknown origin possessed a dazzling beauty seemingly untouched by any corruption. The silver hair, the skin, the eyes… even the way she walked barefoot carried a natural, effortless grace.

Bai Mu felt the omnipresent rejection, fear, jealousy, and suspicion. It was sharper than mountain thorns, more suffocating than the darkness of the abyss. She lowered her gaze slightly, trying to let her disordered hair hide part of her face, and quickened her steps.

From her arms, the moon-glow herb radiated a gentle warmth—like a silent comfort from her deep-sea homeland, and a reminder of her purpose.

Bai Mu pressed her lips together. Slowly, she lifted her head. The deep-ocean blue of her eyes fixed more clearly on the road ahead. If she was destined to stand out, then let that conspicuousness become a needle—one sharp enough to pierce the numb façade of this deathly silent city.