Old He hadn't seen the Sea of the Undead before; he had only heard fragmented accounts from Wang Jue and me on the road, so the term was unfamiliar to him.

He asked me then, "This is the Sea of the Undead?"

I wasn't entirely certain, only feeling that this river of gore before me bore some resemblance to the Sea of the Undead from my memory. However, there was a way to verify if it truly was the Sea of the Undead.

Back when Wang Jue, Hou Dayong, and I were drifting upon the Sea of the Undead, two incidents left a deep impression on me. The first was the mermaid Wang Jue subdued with a dagger; upon returning to the Sea of the Undead, she quickly regained her vitality and brought back a host of mermaids seeking revenge. The second was when a ghost infant bit off my finger on the boat. Hou Dayong scooped up a pool of the sea's blood and poured it over my hand. When the wound soaked in the ichor of the Sea of the Undead, it slowly healed within moments.

If this current river of blood was the Sea of the Undead, then Xiao Shu’s fate might have a turning point. Perhaps we could bring her back unharmed.

Verifying whether this river was the Sea of the Undead was not difficult. I pulled the folding knife from my pocket, flipped open the blade, closed my eyes, and savagely sliced my left forearm.

Old He had no idea what I intended to do. Seeing me mutilate myself, his face turned pale with shock. He snatched the knife away, threw it on the ground, and roared, "What are you doing? I am older than you and Xiao Shu. I brought you up the mountain, and I will certainly find a way to bring you back down."

I smiled at him, pinching my upper arm with my right hand to slow the bleeding slightly, and said, "I just want to see if this river can save Xiao Shu. You need to give me a hand."

Hearing this, Old He dropped his look of terror, picked up the knife skeptically, wiped it clean with a piece of paper, and returned it to his pocket.

"I need to go into the river to see if it can heal my wound. Can you hold onto me from the bank?" I continued.

The gurgling river water lay at the foot of the slope. Though not far, the bank was somewhat high—not like a shallow beach where one could simply walk over and squat down to touch the surface. To lean down from the embankment before us to scoop up some river water required extreme caution; one slip could send a person plunging in.

Old He leaned over to survey the scene, estimating the difficulty of approaching the water. Without another word, he pulled his leather belt from his waist, tied the buckle end to my belt, looped the other end several times around his hand, and then pulled with all his might to test its strength.

And so, Old He and I, one in front of the other, carefully descended to the riverbank, treading on loose, slippery stones.

As we neared the water, Old He found a solid patch of ground to stand on, bent over, and gripped the belt connected to mine.

I slowly leaned forward, using Old He’s stabilizing pull to incline toward the surface, slowly approaching the water. I cupped my right hand and gently scooped up a handful of the river water, pouring it over the wound on my left hand.

As I neared the surface, an almost unbearable stench of blood rushed to meet me. It was somewhat similar to the odor imprinted in my memory. Thinking this a good omen, I scooped up more of the river water and splashed it across my left arm, letting the crimson liquid saturate my entire limb.

As expected, in less than two minutes, the wound began to mend. The exposed skin curled inward, growing from both sides toward the center. When the edges met, a thread of bloody moisture soaked the seam. I shook my arm, flinging off the excess blood. The original gash had vanished entirely, leaving behind only a thin, reddish-pink line to testify to the former injury; the surrounding tissue showed no trace of having been cut.