Xianxia Dragons: The Benevolent Rainshade Dragon: Part 2

Part 2: Into the Misty Ravine

“In which Xū Hán follows a trail of missing tribute, unearths a deception, and meets a dragon who hoards wind chimes and roast ducks.”

The Storyteller

The fire crackled as the storyteller leaned forward, lowering their voice to a near whisper.

“My friends, let me ask you this: what would you do if you suspected your god was a fraud? Would you ignore the signs, bow your head, and keep praying? Or would you be like Xū Hán—reckless enough to march straight into the dragon’s lair?”

A hush fell over the crowd.

“Because that’s exactly what she did. But the path to Máng Lóng Gōu, also known as the Misty Ravine, was no easy one…”

I. The Journey Begins

Xū Hán left Luòhé just before dawn. The town was still, save for a few early risers tending to their chores. A woman swept her doorstep, a farmer loaded bundles of dried herbs into a cart, a child half-dozed against a doorstep, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

No one noticed her departure.

Good.

She had no intention of announcing her plans—if Zhāng Lǎo got wind of them, he’d likely brand her a thief, a heretic, or both.

The road leading away from Luòhé was well-trodden and wide. That was her first clue something was off.

This wasn’t a narrow, winding path meant for a lone traveler. It was a proper road, clearly built for heavy transport. The packed earth bore the deep grooves of wagon wheels, the occasional indentation of hooves.

Her frown deepened.

If Yǔ Bì Lóng was truly divine, why would it need such a steady stream of offerings? Gods did not eat roast ducks, nor did celestial beings have use for bolts of silk. A true dragon of legend should have no need for mortal goods.

And yet, here was a road—wide, worn, and well-traveled—suggesting that tribute was not an occasional ritual, but a constant demand.

But something didn’t sit right.

She knelt, brushing her fingers against the indentations in the dirt. The grooves were deep at first, but as she followed the tracks further, the marks gradually grew shallower.

She straightened, following the road with her eyes.

It didn’t lead directly into Máng Lóng Gōu.

It veered off, curving around the far side of the ravine.

The wagons had been heavily loaded when they left the small town.

By the time they reached this point, they had been lightened.

And yet, no one questioned it.

Zhāng Lǎo personally led every tribute procession. The handlers were always the same villagers, handpicked by him. The tribute never passed through open hands, never lingered in the village square for curious eyes.

Had anyone other than Zhāng Lǎo’s chosen few ever even seen the dragon?

The realization settled like a stone in her gut.

Of course. That’s why no one questions him. Because no one else knows the truth.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

This wasn’t just about the dragon anymore.

The tribute was being manipulated.

And she intended to find out how much of it was even reaching the Máng Lóng Gōu at all.

II. The Fallen Basket

She moved cautiously, following the narrow path into the ravine.

Here, the ground was uneven, roots twisting across the dirt. The trail was well-used, but no longer fit for carts or animals.

Whatever had been offloaded did not come down this way.

Then she saw it.

A fallen basket lay half-hidden in the underbrush, its woven lid askew.

She crouched beside it. Finely woven. Not for grain or common trade goods. This was a tribute container.

Empty. But it hadn’t been there long—the straw was still stiff, with only a few damp leaves caught inside.

Her fingers hovered over the weave.

Had someone dropped it on the way in?

No. The lack of contents told her this was discarded after the delivery. Whoever had carried it no longer needed it.

Her mind turned over the pieces.

The wagons were full when they left the village.

By the time they reached the far side of the ravine, they were lighter.

And now, here was evidence that only a portion of the goods actually made it down this path.

Her lips curled slightly.

“Well. That’s not suspicious at all.”

Shaking her head, she continued on.

III. First Impressions

At the bottom of the ravine, a vast crystalline pool sprawled before her, its surface glassy and still.

And there, coiled in the shallows, lay Yǔ Bì Lóng.

The dragon’s serpentine body shimmered like liquid sapphire, golden horns curling elegantly atop its head. Its piercing golden eyes locked onto hers.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, it sighed.

“Another mortal,” it drawled lazily. “What do you want?”

Xū Hán crossed her arms.

“What do I want? I want to know why an all-powerful dragon needs roast ducks and wind chimes to do its job.”

The dragon blinked, then let out a rumbling laugh.

“Dragons do not have ‘jobs.’ We exist to manifest the whims of the universe.”

Xū Hán cocked an eyebrow. “And yet, you take payment from the villagers of Luòhé, and provide them with a service in return.”

IV. The Master’s Shadow

The dragon’s tail flicked, making a nearby wind chime sing. Its golden eyes gleamed with amusement.

“I like you,” it said. “You notice things.”

Then, suddenly, those eyes narrowed in recognition.

It studied her again—closer this time.

Then, Yǔ Bì Lóng sighed.

“Ah. That explains it.”

Xū Hán raised an eyebrow. “Explains what?”

A slow, knowing smirk.

“Jiāng Báihóng. That irritating old man.”

Xū Hán blinked. Then she grinned. “You’ve met my shīfù.”

The dragon groaned theatrically. “More than once. He is… insistent.”

Xū Hán barked out a laugh. “That he is.”

The dragon sighed, coils shifting in the mist.

“Wonderful. Another one of his troublemakers.”

Xū Hán smirked. “Well, since I’m here, let me ask you something, Yǔ Bì Lóng.”

The dragon tilted its head. “Oh? And what would that be?”

V. The Truth Behind the Rain

Xū Hán folded her arms. “If you’re so powerful, why do the villagers say the rain doesn’t always come on time?”

The dragon sighed theatrically, coiling itself more comfortably. “Mortals are so impatient.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So it’s true?”

A lazy shrug. “Summoning rain requires effort and Qi.” He flicked his tail, sending ripples across the crystalline pool. “It’s far easier to wait for the natural conditions to be favorable. Why waste my energy forcing it?”

Xū Hán frowned. “So that’s why it’s sometimes late.”

A flick of his golden tail. “It arrives when nature is most agreeable.”

She crossed her arms. “And if they needed it earlier?”

The dragon’s gaze sharpened slightly. “They have never lacked for rain. I have given them decades without drought. Even a slight delay is nothing compared to what mortals endured before my arrival.”

Xū Hán opened her mouth to argue, but…

He wasn’t wrong.

The villagers weren’t suffering from drought—they were suffering from excessive taxation.

And the dragon, for all his intelligence, had no idea.

She hesitated, then asked, “So you don’t even know how much tribute you receive?”

A slow blink. “I receive what I requested. The villagers have never failed in this.” He flicked his tail dismissively. “Why do you ask?”

Xū Hán tilted her head. “Because what you receive… is far less than what was offered.”

The dragon stilled, his gaze sharpening.

“…Oh?” His voice was deceptively mild, an invitation to continue.

She gestured toward the scattered offerings—the lanterns swaying in the mist, the few jade ornaments glinting at the water’s edge. Even some empty baskets, darkened with grease, which presumably had contained roast ducks. “This is what you were given this season?”

The dragon gave an indifferent nod.

Xū Hán exhaled sharply. “I saw the tribute carts leave the village yesterday. There were at least four of them, stacked high with bolts of silk, grain, livestock, and enough roast ducks to feed the entire village for a week.”

Her sharp gaze flicked over the dragon’s hoard again. “I don’t see four cartloads here.”

Silence.

Then, Yǔ Bì Lóng exhaled slowly through his nose, sending a faint ripple across the pool.

“…How tedious.”

Xū Hán rolled her eyes. “You don’t care about the villagers, do you?”

A huff of air, like the distant roll of thunder. “Not particularly.”

She grinned. “But you do care that your name is being used to trick people, and that your reputation might be tarnished?”

The dragon’s golden eyes narrowed.

“I am beginning to see,” he murmured, “why your master is such an irritating man.”

Xū Hán’s grin widened. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

The dragon exhaled slowly, tail flicking against the water.

“Well,” he mused, “I suppose this must be dealt with.”

The Storyteller

The storyteller leaned forward, their grin widening.

“And so, with great reluctance, the Rainshade Dragon prepared to handle a problem he had never realized existed. But how does a dragon correct a deception without admitting he was deceived?”

They tossed another log onto the fire, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky.

“Come back tomorrow, my friends, and you shall see.”