Prologue

“It’s not him I saved.” The fox’s already long, narrow eyes curved like a crescent moon. “What I saved was a young man from a cold night many years ago, who wanted to walk the martial world with a sword in hand, warmed by campfire and strong wine.”

The first year of the Taiping Xingguo era, Chengdu, on the outskirts.

“Here you are, honored guest, your pickled vegetable and shredded pork noodles!” The waiter set the steaming bowl of noodles down briskly in front of her, flicking the cloth on his shoulder out of habit, then turned to the little monk seated beside her. “Little master, your plain noodles will be just a bit longer.”

She sniffed the fragrant noodles, her brows lifting with delight. “Smells delicious already. They say Shu is full of good food, and even a small bowl of noodles doesn’t disappoint.” She lifted a chopstick-full of noodles and blew on them; as her sleeve fell back, it revealed a wrist tied with a red string, from which hung a small golden bell, all the more bright and lovely against her snow-white skin—yet no matter how much she moved, the swaying bell made no sound at all.

With a slurp, the noodles went down, and she let out a satisfied breath, giving the waiter a thumbs up.

“Glad you like it, honored guest.” Pleased at the praise, the waiter couldn’t help stealing another glance at her—what a pretty little girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with eyes like apricot kernels, bright and glistening, curving into crescents when she smiled, with a pair of playful dimples. A smile like that made you taste sweetness without even needing your tongue. Her clothes were lovely too—red top and red skirt, festive as a New Year’s painting, with a fist-sized black cloth pouch tied at her waist with plain hemp cord, neither quite a purse nor quite a sachet, bulging full. Everything about the girl was fine, except her hair, which was done up carelessly in two messy braids, one clearly thicker than the other, hanging lazily in front of her. Then there was the little monk beside her, six or seven years old by the look of him, in an ordinary grey monk’s robe with prayer beads, his little shaved head gleaming under the lamplight—except that from the moment they’d entered the inn, his face had worn the sullen look of someone owed money.

It wasn’t often you saw a monk travel with a lay girl and stay at an inn together. The waiter scratched his head and asked her, “You’re not from around here, are you, honored guest? I don’t believe I’ve seen you or the little master before.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, the window beside her blew open with a gust, and the cold wind swept in a few flakes of snow. The waiter hurried over to shut it properly, worried she might catch a chill.

A snowflake landed right on the tip of her nose and melted at once. She turned to the waiter. “Shu doesn’t get snow like the north, does it?”

“Not often, and even when it snows, it’s rarely this heavy.” The waiter blew on his hands. “You didn’t get cold, did you?”

“I’m eating noodles, how could I get cold.” She smiled. “Your inn’s name isn’t very good. So many inns are called ‘Joyful Arrival’ or ‘Eternal Peace’—much better. But you had to go and call it ‘Wind and Snow Inn.’ There was no wind and snow to speak of, and you went and summoned it yourselves.”

Another cold gust swept past the doorway, and the lantern under the eaves swayed precariously. In its meager light, the four characters “Wind and Snow Inn” trembled on the sign. On a night like this, with snow so heavy and few travelers about, this was the only lit place for dozens of li around—anyone who saw it would want to come in, escape the wind and snow, and eat a hot bowl of noodles.

“You’re joking, honored guest.” The waiter laughed. “The name was the innkeeper’s idea—he meant it to suggest favorable weather and a bountiful year from timely snow.”

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly the meaning.” The stout innkeeper, who’d been absorbed in his abacus at the counter, had sharp ears indeed and cut in, “You’ve come at a good time, miss. Tomorrow morning the snow outside will be nice and thick—you can build a snowman, have a snowball fight, great fun!”

She didn’t respond, focused on her noodles.

“I’m hungry…” the little monk finally spoke, two words.

She set down the chopstick-full of noodles she’d been about to eat and generously pushed the bowl toward him. “Eat up!”

The little monk frowned. “Monks don’t eat meat!”

“Then go hungry.” She pulled the bowl back quickly and deliberately took large bites.

The little monk pursed his lips and turned away, and after working up his courage for a while, asked the waiter quietly, “Um… how much longer for my plain noodles?”

“Coming right up, coming right up.” The waiter shouted toward the kitchen. “Plain noodles, quick! The little master can’t wait any longer!”

Besides her and the little monk, there were two other tables of guests eating there. One table was full of four travel-worn merchants, sturdy men whose horses were tied in the stable behind the inn, loaded with several large wooden crates. The other table held just one guest—a refined young gentleman past twenty, fair and delicate-featured, his black hair neatly bound atop his head with a white jade hairpin, wearing a slightly worn grey robe, with a matching cloak draped over the stool beside him. Only a pot of wine and a plate of cold dishes sat before him; he drank alone.

The plain noodles finally arrived at the table. Just as the little monk lifted his chopsticks in blissful anticipation, the whole bowl vanished.

She cradled his plain noodles and, ignoring the heat, slurped them down in two great gulps, then patted her stomach contentedly. “Full.”

The little monk’s hand trembled around his chopsticks, and after murmuring several “Amitabha”s, he said aggrievedly, “Buy me another bowl…”

“No money left.” She spread her hands. “I just tried to feed it to you and you wouldn’t eat it, so now you’ll have to go begging for alms.”

“Never mind eating. As the Buddha says, all is empty—having noodles is the same as having none, and having none is the same as having noodles.” The little monk’s lips pursed even further, and he set down his chopsticks, pressing his palms together to silently recite scripture instead.

The innkeeper, overhearing, couldn’t help laughing. “Now, miss, don’t tease the little master so. It’s freezing out—he has to eat something. If you’re short on coin, I’ll treat him to a bowl of plain noodles.” He raised his voice to the waiter. “Go on, have the kitchen make another bowl of plain noodles for the little master.”

Hearing this, the little monk hurried to his feet and pressed his palms together toward the innkeeper. “Amitabha. Benefactor, plant such a good cause and you’ll surely reap good fruit.”

She heard this, the corner of her mouth curling up, but said nothing, only smiled.

The merchants seemed to be enjoying their meal immensely, talking loudly, a pile of gnawed bones at their feet, cup after cup of strong liquor going down.

The young gentleman in grey, who had been quiet the whole time, suddenly broke into violent coughing after finishing the last of his wine. He pressed one hand hard over his mouth, the other jabbing at points near his heart as if trying to suppress it, but the coughing didn’t ease—if anything, it worsened.

The half-drunk merchants, seeing this, said carelessly, “Isn’t that a consumption case? If you’re sick, go back to your room!”

Seeing this, the little monk hurried over to the grey-robed gentleman. “Benefactor, are you unwell?”

The gentleman waved a hand at him, his pale face flushing red, and seemed about to say something—but suddenly his throat burned, and he spat out a great mouthful of blood, dark, nearly black in color.

The little monk’s face changed. He quickly caught the man’s arm, asking anxiously, “Benefactor, where does it hurt?”

The gentleman shook his head, one hand still pressed tightly to his violently heaving chest, as though something inside were trying to claw its way out.

Seeing his distress, the little monk patted his back while chanting Amitabha. “Benefactor, don’t panic, we have someone here who—”

“Mo Ya!” She cut the little monk off. “Haven’t eaten yet and you still have the energy to gossip?”

The little monk turned. “The benefactor is dying! You won’t save him but you have energy to talk?”

Before he’d finished, the grey-robed gentleman had already collapsed onto the table, unconscious.

The drunken merchants, seeing this, muttered about bad luck at running into a consumption case, and all four rose to head upstairs, grumbling. But before they’d even reached the stairs, all four men collapsed one after another, crumpling into four heaps of senseless flesh on the floor.

Seeing this, the little monk rushed over in a panic, grabbing one man’s arm and calling urgently, “Benefactor, what’s wrong with you? You—” Before he could finish, he yanked his hand back as though bitten by a snake—between his fingers and the merchant’s arm stretched a sticky thread. The four men on the ground were melting, little by little, like burning candles.

The little monk’s mouth fell open, and he scrambled back to her side. “What’s happening? Why are they like this?”

She shrugged. “Probably drank too much, ha ha.”

“You’re laughing?” The little monk looked at her, grief-stricken. “Save them!”

She looked up at the ceiling, helpless. “Have you only just met me today? You know I don’t save people.”

“You…”

Just as the little monk was stamping his foot in desperation, her expression suddenly turned unpleasant. She stood, frowned, and without a word toppled to the floor, unconscious—startling the little monk so badly he nearly cried out.

The little inn had descended into chaos: the grey-robed gentleman, barely breathing, slumped motionless at his table; the four men melting on the floor; and not far off, a red-clad girl lying senseless. The only one still conscious, the little monk stood among them helplessly, murmuring Amitabha over and over.

“Oh my, oh my, what’s happened here?” The innkeeper, finally pulled from his abacus, waddled his stout body over toward the little monk. Seeing her lying on the ground, he cautiously prodded her body with his toe, frowning. “Too firm. No good.” He walked toward the stairs and prodded each of the fallen men in the same way, then swallowed and called back inside, “These are ready!”

The waiter and the cook hurried out from the back room, faces lit with delight.

“What about this girl?” the waiter asked the innkeeper. “She’s really pretty.”

The cook grinned mischievously. “You call any girl pretty as long as she’s female. Once she’s softened up, she’s yours—me and big brother won’t fight you for her.”

“Thank you, second brother.” The waiter was deeply grateful.

The little monk stared at them, dumbstruck.

“There’s a little monk too!” The waiter pointed at him, then glanced the other way. “And a young gentleman!”

“There’s still half a pot of noodle broth in the kitchen—give the little monk a bowl of that later and be done with it. As for that gentleman, forget it—consumption cases don’t taste good, just drag him out and bury him.” The cook rubbed his hands together. “You watch those two, I’ll go over there first—too soft and it won’t taste right.”

Over there, the stout innkeeper was already licking his lips impatiently, saying to the cook, “The two fat ones are mine.”

Though reluctant, the cook nodded.

The two of them crouched down at once, looking at the four men before them, eyes gleaming with the hunger of the truly starved.

Long, thin, soft tubes extended from the open mouths of the innkeeper and cook, piercing into the bodies of two of the merchants. With a hard suck, the merchants were drained of flesh and blood entirely, leaving only two bare skeletons on the ground.

“Utterly delicious.” The innkeeper belched contentedly, exchanging a satisfied look with the cook.

The little monk’s mouth hung open; he couldn’t even manage an Amitabha.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt.” The waiter patted his shaved head, licking his lips as he watched the innkeeper and cook feast.

“How do you know it doesn’t hurt?” someone asked curiously from behind him. “It’s not you lying on the ground.”

The waiter spun around, and a handful of pale white dust suddenly rained down from above, blurring his eyes. Through the haze, a red figure giggled at him.

Ding-ling, ding-ling—the golden bell on her snow-white wrist, silent until now, rang out a string of crisp, clear notes with her movement.

At the sound of the bell, a single shrill scream cut off abruptly, and the waiter’s body began to twist grotesquely, shrinking smaller and smaller, until it curled up on the ground as a slug less than half a foot long.

She lifted her foot and stamped down on it without hesitation, and the slug burst apart, the splattered flesh and blood instantly turning to scattered black ash.

The little monk frowned, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut, chanting Amitabha over and over.

The innkeeper and cook hadn’t even had time to wipe the residue from their mouths, hadn’t even fully turned their heads, before they froze in place, the look they exchanged full of confusion and fear.

Ding-ling, ding-ling—she walked slowly to the table nearest the two of them, sat down, and picked up a chopstick to twirl in her hand.

The innkeeper finally worked up a breath and turned fully around, sizing up this yellow-haired girl, his lips stammering: “You… you are…”

The cook was already trembling all over with fear, cowering behind the innkeeper. “Big brother… is it her? How did she end up here?!”

The chopstick spun playfully in her hand as she smiled. “Did you two eat well?”

“You… you’re Tao Yao?” The innkeeper managed the last two words only with great effort.

She nodded. “That’s me.”

The innkeeper and cook felt as though a thunderclap had exploded overhead, their bodies numb with shock from head to toe.

But extreme fear can sometimes give rise to extreme fury. The innkeeper suddenly leapt up, pointing at her nose. “Why don’t you stay put in your own Peach Capital instead of coming here to meddle!”

“I never meddle in others’ affairs. I only came here, cold and hungry, for a bowl of noodles.” She kept twirling the chopstick. “We only wanted to eat noodles—you wanted to eat us. That won’t do.”

“Big brother… what do we do?” The cook’s face had gone pale green.

The innkeeper gritted his teeth. “Either way we die—let’s fight her!”

Before the words finished, both their bodies suddenly stretched and twisted upward, the two forms coiling together until they merged into one enormous two-headed slug, easily ten feet long, clinging to the ceiling and looking down at her. One of the heads snarled viciously, “My brother and I have cultivated with great difficulty. If you let this go today, we’ll withdraw to the wilds and never set foot in the human realm again. Otherwise, we’ll make sure you regret this!”

Hearing this, the little monk hurriedly looked up and said, “Demon slugs, whatever you have to say, come down and say it. Eating people is simply wrong—if you’re willing to repent…”

“Quiet.” She flicked her finger, and the chopstick landed neatly on the little monk’s shaved head.

“Tao Yao!” The little monk rubbed his head and ran to her side, pleading. “If they’re willing to leave, let it go. You’ve already killed one of them. Heaven values life, why not…”

“Sparing lives is Heaven’s business. I’m not Heaven.” She glared at him, then looked back up at the slug demon. “For all your years of cultivation, you haven’t even learned how to beg for mercy properly. So I’m displeased, and so I won’t let you go.”

The slug demon froze, then roared with fury. “Then let’s see who won’t let whom go!”

A gust of foul, fishy wind swept past as the slug demon writhed its sticky body and lunged down from the ceiling with ferocious speed, its enormous shadow engulfing her and the little monk.

A tiny pill was already twirling between her fingers, but before she could throw it, a blue-green shadow burst from the void and, faster than the eye could follow, wrapped the slug demon within itself. With a boom, the inn’s front doors burst open, and the blue-green shadow shot out through them, carrying its prey.

The inn fell suddenly silent, all the lamps snuffed out by the commotion—but outside, faint light rippled and cast an enormous shadow across the row of shuttered windows, dimly showing something with a wide-open mouth swallowing the still-struggling slug demon whole.

After that, the wind and snow continued as before, with nothing more amiss.

“Tao Yao, I’ve done you another favor. Remember it well.” Outside the window, a man’s voice drifted in idly, though no figure could be seen.

She took out a fire striker and relit the oil lamp on the table, saying to the empty air with displeasure, “Presumptuous. When did I ever need your help!”

“You two keep killing!” The little monk’s brow was practically knotted in a coil, furious but not daring to say more, only chanting scripture.

“Go on, go chant somewhere else.” She waved the little monk aside and walked, fire striker in hand, to the other table, smiling at the grey-robed gentleman who had already “woken” from his faint. “You sit very steadily, sir. Shall I light your lamp for you?”

“Thank you.” The gentleman spoke softly, then broke into another fit of coughing.

The lamp wick sparked to life; she blew out the fire striker and sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hand as she studied this rather handsome young man. “The fainting was fake. But the illness is real.”

“Yes. Without a good physician, I fear I won’t have much longer.” He raised his wine flask. “At least I’ve met you, miss. A toast to you—I entrust my illness to you.”

She laughed. “How can you be so sure I’m the one you’re looking for? What if the slug demons got the wrong person, mixed up the name?”

“The Ghost Doctor, Tao Yao—good and evil alike, unfathomable. Wherever the golden bell passes, nothing is left standing.” He pushed a cup of wine toward her, his gaze falling on the now-silent golden bell at her wrist. “I don’t think many demons wish to hear the sound of your bell. The only thing I couldn’t be certain of was whether you’d actually come to meet me as arranged. But you came. I’m fortunate.”

She shrugged. “Don’t celebrate too soon. I came to see you because I find your true form interesting. As for whether I’ll treat your illness…”

“I know. Whether you treat me depends on your mood.” He picked up the thread. “So how is your mood right now?”

“The noodles laced with that bone-softening drug happened to suit my taste. I’m not hungry right now, so my mood isn’t bad.” She smiled, studying him. “Stand up. Turn a few circles for me.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he couldn’t refuse, so he rose and walked beside the table, slowly turning two circles in place.

The little monk beside them let out an involuntary gasp—in the lamplight, the grey-robed gentleman’s shadow on the ground was not singular but a mass, as though countless shadows of people were layered and entangled together, countless arms reaching out, clawing.

“Tsk tsk, such heavy resentment.” She raised a finger to block her nose, looking disgusted. “What did you do to draw in so much of this stuff—I’d guess there’s the resentment of at least ten thousand souls packed in there.”

The gentleman sat back down. “I consumed them.”

She glanced at him. “That crippled body of yours can’t handle that many ‘people.'”

“I feel I’ve reached my limit… which is why I’m entrusting myself to you.” As he spoke, his expression suddenly changed, and he spat out another mouthful of black blood, his body tipping backward weightlessly. His human form vanished, and a fox tumbled off the stool onto the floor, passed out.

A fox of a rare coloring—divided lengthwise from the bridge of its nose down its spine, half black and half white.

“Amitabha, it’s a fox!” The little monk hurried to crouch down and gather the cold-bodied fox into his arms. “Oh, and it has no tail! Tao Yao, you should save it!”

The fox lay limp in the little monk’s arms, only the faintest breath left in it, everything around it dissolving into blurred streams of light; only one sentence remained clear in its ears—

You should save it!

“Then you should save it, ha ha ha!” Tie Tou glanced at him—this yellow-haired boy, only twelve years old, who couldn’t even lift an iron spear, who had never killed a single person, who had never even set foot on a real battlefield, yet who dared to play the little bodhisattva here, asking him to release this fox.

In this military tent, Tie Tou was the leader; the dozen or so young soldiers under him obeyed him without question, for one simple reason—Tie Tou was the oldest and the strongest, and those who disobeyed got beaten.

But this kid’s arrival had somewhat broken the established order. He was only twelve, the youngest soldier here, and he wasn’t very obedient. Tie Tou liked catching birds and beasts—he’d made himself a slingshot, and no bird he set his sights on ever escaped; he was also skilled at setting all kinds of traps, and never came back from the woods empty-handed. The birds and beasts that fell into his hands ended up roasted over the fire, and when he was in a good mood he’d share a few pieces with the soldiers drooling nearby—on the condition that they act out monkeys and whatever other animals he found amusing. If they pleased him, he’d reward them with meat. Lately, with the cold weather and food supplies running short, the army camped in a barren wasteland where you couldn’t buy food even with silver, so having meat to eat was enough that acting like monkeys seemed a small price to pay.

But the boy never played monkey. He’d soak a hard, stale flatbread in hot water and call that a meal.

This was one reason Tie Tou disliked him. The other reason was his background—unlike the other soldiers here, his father was a military commissioner somewhere, from a line of generals, and he’d been placed in the army at his young age supposedly by order of “those above.” But exactly why, someone of Tie Tou’s rank had no way of knowing—only that “those above” had ordered that this one need not charge into battle, and could stay in the rear doing odd jobs.

Tie Tou envied him. Aside from not having to fight on the battlefield, he had no other privileges, so Tie Tou didn’t hold back much in making his life difficult—when others fetched two buckets of water, he had to fetch four; a stable already scrubbed clean, Tie Tou would make him scrub again; his bedding in the tent was always the thinnest, and he’d wake cold in the night. They also had another duty: burying the bodies of soldiers brought back from the front. In the clash of two armies, blood soaked the battlefield, and many who marched out standing came back lying down, many not even whole. Tie Tou, taking advantage of his youth and inexperience, always assigned him the most mutilated corpses to handle, hoping to find amusement in his fear.

In matters of military orders, he never defied Tie Tou. Several times he alone pulled a handcart with mangled, foul-smelling corpses to the designated burial spot in the woods; every time, his hands trembled, but every time, he buried these former comrades properly and with care. At night, Tie Tou would deliberately tell frightening tales in the tent; he pretended not to hear, but didn’t dare go out to relieve himself in the dark, holding it until dawn.

After all, he was only twelve.

He never clashed openly with Tie Tou and the others—but this time was different, because of this fox.

It had been brought back from the woods by Tie Tou the day before, kept in a cage he’d made from iron bars, a hemp rope tied tightly around its neck. Everyone said they’d never seen a fox of this color before—white, red, black, they’d all seen, but never half black and half white, a clear dividing line running from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail. Its eyes were unusual too, grey, as if veiled in thick mist, with a faint glow.

Someone joked that this must be a fox that had leapt out of some lazy painter’s picture—the painter had meant to paint it black but gave up halfway through.

It curled up in the cramped iron cage, unresponsive to the teasing outside, only occasionally flicking its bushy tail.

This time, Tie Tou didn’t plan to roast and eat it. He said it wasn’t often you caught a fox—the color was strange, but the fur was smooth, and the tail especially beautiful, so why not present it to the Lady? He’d recently heard from the Lady’s maid that she’d long wanted a nice warm fox-tail stole.

The Lady was the third wife the prince had married, skilled in song and music; the prince doted on her, bringing her along even on military campaigns. Winning the Lady’s favor could only help one’s prospects for promotion.

The greedy ones among them said, since it was only the tail being presented, why not just kill it on the spot, roast the meat first, then present the tail to the Lady. Tie Tou refused, saying the best fur had to be taken before the fox died—he wanted to sever the tail in front of the Lady himself, to show how much thought he’d put into the gift.

They were quite happy discussing all this. The fox, its grey eyes open, watched from the gaps in the iron cage this group of people deciding its fate.

“Without a stole, the Lady won’t freeze to death.” In the corner, someone spoke up.

The discussion stopped abruptly. Tie Tou pushed through the crowd and looked at the boy sitting in the corner, quietly polishing his helmet. “Say that again?”

“Let it go. It’s pitiable.” He kept polishing.

A cup of cold water splashed onto his face. Tie Tou threw the cup down and glared at him viciously. “Say it again!”

The cup shattered; the fox flinched.

He wiped his face with his sleeve and said, “Let it go.”

Tie Tou’s massive fist clenched suddenly, and everyone thought the mouthy kid was in for it—but in the end, Tie Tou unclenched his fist, grinning maliciously instead. “Then you go ahead and save it, ha ha ha.”

Hearing this, he set down the helmet and rose, walking toward the cage.

A thick arm blocked his way. Tie Tou sneered. “You think you can just walk over and open the cage?”

He looked at Tie Tou. “Then what?”

Tie Tou choked for a moment, then said furiously, “Beat me, and the fox is yours!”

The others burst out laughing—there was no suspense to this contest at all; Tie Tou could turn this skinny kid into mincemeat with a single casual punch.

“Fine. I’ll fight.” He stood his ground, looking at Tie Tou. “But not here.”

There was a jutting point of land shaped like a beast’s fang, beneath which lay a bottomless ravine; when the cold wind blew through, it made a low howling sound.

He took a small stick and drew a long line on the ground less than three meters from the edge of the cliff, then tossed the stick aside and stood within the line, saying to Tie Tou, “We fight here. Whoever falls, or steps outside the line, loses.”

The crowd gathered around Tie Tou outside the line, exchanging glances—was this kid tired of living?

The iron cage with the fox was set as the prize on a nearby rock; the fox’s eyes were wide, fixed on the lone youth standing in the cold wind.

Tie Tou frowned, agreeing verbally, but his feet never moved.

They called this place Coffin Ravine, because the drop below was so deep that anyone who fell had no chance of survival.

“One more thing,” he said, pulling a strip of cloth from inside his robe and tying it over his eyes, “we fight blindfolded.”

Tie Tou blurted out in shock, “Are you out of your mind, you brat?”

“Are you fighting or not?” He stretched his limbs. “If not, that’s a concession.”

“Big brother, be careful—falling off isn’t a joke,” someone murmured beside Tie Tou.

“But big brother, if you don’t go, isn’t that admitting you lost to the kid? Word will get around and people will laugh,” someone else said.

Tie Tou stamped his foot. “Fine! I’ll fight you! There’s no way I, the great Tie Tou, will lose to some brat!”

“That’s the spirit, big brother!”

“Teach that little punk a good lesson!”

The crowd around them buzzed with excitement.

Tie Tou strode over to face him, and gritting his teeth, tied a cloth over his own eyes too.

One large, one small, two people vastly unmatched in build and strength began trading blows in that dangerous stretch of ground. Every one of Tie Tou’s strikes was wild and forceful—when he fought, he thought of nothing but winning. But today’s kid was different from usual: no matter how hard Tie Tou struck, he couldn’t land a hit; every time he lunged toward the sound, he found only empty air.

The onlookers realized only today just how nimble this usually silent kid’s movements were. He didn’t have Tie Tou’s strength, but he had an agility Tie Tou lacked, dodging left and right, striking back at just the right moments. Before long, Tie Tou had already taken several kicks.

Just as everyone was loudly cheering Tie Tou on, the boy suddenly leapt high and kicked Tie Tou square in the chest—not with tremendous force, but enough to send the big man staggering back several steps, his foot about to step into empty air, his body tilting backward uncontrollably.

“Big brother!” the crowd cried out in alarm.

A hand suddenly grabbed Tie Tou’s arm, yanking him hard in the opposite direction, steadying his balance.

Tie Tou tore off his blindfold and turned to look, breaking out in a cold sweat.

He held the position, saying to Tie Tou, “You lose.”

Tie Tou stumbled several steps inward, his legs going weak, nearly collapsing to his knees.

He caught his breath, pulled off his own blindfold, glanced back at the stunned crowd, and without a word walked toward the iron cage.

Several people ran over to steady Tie Tou. “Big brother, are you alright?”

Tie Tou came back to himself and snapped at them irritably, “What could be wrong with me! Get lost!”

“But that fox…” They looked toward the retreating figure of the boy.

Tie Tou gritted his teeth, saying bitterly, “Consider it a gift from me! Let’s go!”

The group left dejectedly, Tie Tou’s scolding voice trailing behind: “Nobody breathes a word about this today! Or I’ll wring your necks!”

He glanced back at their retreating figures, let out a breath, picked up the cage, and trudged laboriously into the depths of the woods.

The fox, in the swaying cage, lifted its head, studying carefully this sweat-covered boy.

The fox crept cautiously out of the opened cage, crouching a little dazedly not far from him, its grey eyes watching his face timidly. A dry leaf drifted down and landed neatly on its nose; curiously, it tried to look at the leaf, ending up cross-eyed.

He broke into a rare smile and said, “Go on, don’t come back here again. If you’re caught next time, I might not be able to save you.”

The fox tilted its head, used a paw to scratch the leaf off, turned and ran a few steps, then stopped and looked back at him.

He waved a hand. “Go on!”

The fox blinked, then darted off in a flash, disappearing into the depths of the forest.

He let out a breath, stretched, and turned back toward the camp.

He’d assumed that from this day on, he’d have no peace in the camp—not that he’d had much peace to begin with—but unexpectedly, Tie Tou did nothing to him. None of the harsher retaliation he’d imagined ever came; the man treated him the same as before, showing him no favor, still making him fetch water, chop wood, feed and wash the horses. That day’s events seemed never to have happened; Tie Tou himself never mentioned it, and forbade anyone else from bringing it up either.

Probably too humiliating. The great Tie Tou, unable to beat a scrawny kid, only saved from falling into the ravine by that very kid’s helping hand. And from that day on, everyone who’d witnessed the match seemed to give him less trouble; some, seeing he had no time to eat, would even save him half a flatbread.

Though they’d all seen enough death on the battlefield to be numb to it, most of them still held some measure of awe for someone who wasn’t afraid of death.

Not long after, Tie Tou was transferred to the vanguard. On the day he left, he was using his slingshot to hunt birds in the camp, but his luck was bad that day and he came up empty-handed. As the boy passed by carrying a bucket of water, Tie Tou called him to stop.

“Do you know why I’ve disliked you?” Tie Tou asked.

He stood facing Tie Tou, set down the bucket, and shook his head.

Tie Tou looked up at the sky. “Because our lives are like these birds and beasts. But you’re not.”

He suddenly smiled, the smile carrying a depth beyond his years. “We’re all fish on the chopping block—it’s just that our boards are different.”

Tie Tou, a rough sort, didn’t seem to understand what he meant. He walked up close, looking coldly down at the boy a head shorter than himself. “When I come back, we’ll fight again. You only won last time by playing tricks.”

He smiled and picked up the water bucket again. “Until we meet again.”

Until we meet again… on the battlefield, that phrase was the greatest luxury one could hope for.

Soon enough, he saw Tie Tou again—this man who had bullied him countless times now lay cold and stiff among more than a dozen corpses on a handcart. Tie Tou was better off than most, at least, with all his limbs intact, but his body was riddled with countless sword and arrow wounds, too many to count. Tie Tou must have fought desperately to the end—his right hand still held the grip of a blade even in death.

The new squad leader said to him lazily, “These are yours.”

“Alright,” he nodded.

He’d lost count of how many burial grounds he’d found by now, because every patch of open ground filled up too quickly.

This time they’d hauled five bodies together. The person who was supposed to help him had made an excuse about a stomachache and run off, leaving him alone in the sparse, falling snow—today was especially cold.

By the time he’d finished digging the pit, evening had come, the sky already dark. He tied a torch in a spot sheltered from the wind and, by its faint light, lowered the bodies into the pit one by one.

Bodies without life felt lighter somehow; he didn’t find it too difficult to carry them.

Tie Tou was the last to go in. He stood beside him, looking at Tie Tou’s blood-streaked face, and said, “When I was at home, my father used to have me spar blindfolded with the household guards. He said my build wasn’t enough to match others in raw strength, so agility was my only chance to win. So you were right—I beat you through cunning. If we fought again, I’d surely lose. Though we’ll never get that chance, I suppose you and I can call it even.”

With that, he covered Tie Tou’s face with a white cloth, climbed out of the pit, and picked up the shovel to slowly fill it with earth.

The soil made a soft scraping sound as it fell; the deeper the night, the clearer the sound.

Suddenly, something small leapt out of the bushes nearby, hopping onto a rock at the edge of the pit, crouching down and tilting its head to watch him work.

“You again?” He stopped shoveling, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked at the half black, half white fox. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from here?”

The fox, of course, didn’t answer. It curiously stretched its neck to peer into the pit.

He suddenly felt tired, planted the shovel in the dirt, and sat down, looking into the pit as well. “They’re all dead now. Not long ago they were all still alive and moving. From the moment they joined this war, it was just like you being locked in that cage—life and death no longer in their own hands.”

The fox blinked, glanced into the pit, then looked at him.

“Tie Tou never knew, even in death, the real reason I came here. No one knows.” He smiled at the fox. “My father kept over a hundred armed men at our estate, and the man who commands this army suspected my father of harboring disloyal intentions, so he summoned him. My father was anxious, afraid he wouldn’t return alive. I told my father, just send me to him—with me as hostage, he’ll feel secure. And indeed, this man took me into the army, brought me along on his campaigns south and north. But he’s never once let me onto the battlefield.”

The fox crouched there, its big tail swaying gently.

“Tie Tou said my life wasn’t like theirs.” He turned to look toward the camp. “He and I are just fish on different chopping boards.”

Then he suddenly laughed at himself, rose and picked up the shovel again, muttering, “I must be going mad, telling all this to a silly fox like you.”

The fox lifted a paw to scratch its ear.

He shook his head and bent back to filling the pit—only halfway done, and it would surely take until well past midnight to finish. He hadn’t eaten yet, though he didn’t feel hungry, just an aching emptiness in his stomach; the cold air with each breath made things feel worse.

Shovel after shovel, the soil fell steadily into the pit with his mechanical motions.

Scrape, scrape, scrape—amid the rhythmic sound, he suddenly heard an off-beat noise.

He stopped and turned to look—the fox had somehow made its way to the edge of the pit and was using its hind legs to kick dirt in.

He blinked, wondering if the fox really was as intelligent as people said. After a moment’s thought, he shook his head with a smile and said to the fox, “Alright, alright, your little short legs won’t finish this even by dawn. I’ll do it myself.”

The fox ignored him, continuing to grunt and kick dirt into the pit.

He finished the work a little earlier than expected, plopping down on the ground exhausted; the fox, too, was panting heavily.

“Thanks,” he said, looking at the fox.

The fox glanced at him, then turned and dashed into the woods.

He dragged the empty handcart along the rugged mountain path back toward camp, through the thickening wind and snow.

Because of a fox, tonight didn’t feel so terrible after all, he thought.

He didn’t know when they’d break camp, but he found himself inexplicably hoping to stay here a little longer.

The dead kept being sent back without end, and as the fighting intensified, he grew busier and busier.

The fox’s visits grew more frequent too, always appearing when he was alone.

One day, under orders to gather firewood, he’d just climbed a slope when an unidentified object came tumbling toward his feet from the bushes ahead—a boiled egg. Quite a treasure, that.

He picked up the egg and peered into the bushes; a half black, half white fox face poked out, blinking at him.

“You gave this to me?” he said, delighted.

The fox emerged from the bushes, licking its paw.

“You stole it, didn’t you?” he said, deliberately frowning. “Stealing isn’t allowed!”

The fox yawned.

“Don’t do it again!” He carefully tucked the egg away and continued on.

The fox followed him the whole way, darting into the bushes after mice one moment, leaping onto low branches to shake down snow the next, dumping it all over his head.

He didn’t mind at all.

Being with the fox was much more relaxing than being with the others in the camp.

That day he walked a long way, all the way to the edge of a small village.

Two ruffianly-looking men had blocked a young married woman, saying something crude to her; she clutched her bamboo basket, dodging in fear and embarrassment.

Since he’d seen it, the outcome was simple—with his skills, beating off two thugs was no trouble at all.

Watching them flee, the woman thanked him profusely, saying she’d been visiting her family home when she’d run into these two hoodlums. As she spoke, she pulled some flatbreads from her basket, insisting he take them as thanks, saying it was a crime that children his age had to go into battle in these chaotic times—she couldn’t help much, but at least he should eat a bit more so he wouldn’t go hungry.

He felt a little embarrassed but accepted her kindness anyway, thanking her.

As the woman left, she sighed heavily, and he caught, faintly, her saying something like how hard it was to survive these days.

The fox poked its head out from behind a tree; he pointed toward the village not far off. “I’m going to see if I can find more food, and some wine to keep warm.”

The fox followed along cheerfully.

The village was small, just a handful of households, a few thin fields laid out in a row, showing no sign of harvest.

He knocked on doors along the way, in the end gathering three sweet potatoes and a small piece of pork. He tried to pay them, but they refused—they were still a bit afraid of him, calling him “young officer” with every other word. Left with no choice, he slipped the coins through the door cracks.

Leaving the village, he turned back to find the fox with a small wineskin clamped in its mouth—the creature must have slipped off to steal from another house while he wasn’t looking.

He shook his head, took the wineskin down and shook it—there was still about half the wine left inside. He asked the fox, “Stole this too?”

The fox crouched before him, tilting its head to look at him.

He sighed. “Taking without asking is stealing. Ordinary people have it hard enough—don’t steal from them anymore.”

The fox wagged its tail.

He pulled up a wild grass stem, threaded a few copper coins onto it, tied it, and set it before the fox. “Go pay for the wine.”

The fox immediately snatched up the coins and dashed back toward the village.

This creature really does understand people, he thought, smiling.

He wasn’t in a hurry to get back to camp that day; he brought the fox to a quiet little hillside instead.

He built a fire and carefully skewered the small piece of pork on a branch, turning it slowly.

The fox lay beside him, hugging a sweet potato and munching away, glancing up at the meat every few bites, then munching again.

“There’s some for you too, no need to worry.” He couldn’t help laughing.

There wasn’t much meat, but it roasted up richly fragrant; he gave most of it to the fox, saying, “Eat up. Thanks for being so good to me.”

Having finished its sweet potato, the fox unceremoniously snatched the roasted meat, then scalded its tongue and had to run in circles in distress.

He laughed heartily.

He pulled the stopper from the wineskin, and the smell of strong liquor hit his nose at once.

He rarely drank—partly because he was still young, and partly because he couldn’t stand that burning, spicy sensation in his throat.

His father used to tease him, saying a man who couldn’t drink would never truly become a man.

Everyone in camp loved to drink; being able to drink freely from a large bowl was practically their dream, but with supplies so short, being able to have even a small bowl of poor-quality liquor now and then was already considered good fortune.

He also knew of a certain kind of person—those who liked to wander the martial world, sword in hand and wine at their side, never settling on a destination, going wherever the road led. They might lie drunk among the flowers one moment, or step in on the side of justice with drawn blade the next. To them, what mattered most wasn’t tomorrow, but living each carefree, exhilarating day to the fullest. Such people were called wandering swordsmen.

He raised the wineskin and took a sip—so spicy it brought tears to his eyes. But strangely, the sensation felt rather good. He took another sip—still spicy, but the burning warmth that spread from his mouth down into his chest felt wonderfully soothing.

Having finished its meat, the fox licked its chops, watching him.

“You want some wine?” he asked, half-tipsy already, smiling as he poured a little wine into his palm and held it out to the fox.

The fox lapped it up eagerly without hesitation, seeming to relish it, drinking several “cupfuls” this way before finally tumbling over drowsily beside him, letting out a little hiccup.

One person and one fox, and half a flask of strong liquor gone.

He lay back comfortably on the dried grass, gazing up at the rare sight of stars in the night sky, murmuring, “My father doesn’t know—I don’t want any glorious military achievements, don’t care for high office or riches. I just want to carry a sword and bring wine, go wherever I please. If I run into thugs, I’ll fight them off; if there’s meat, I’ll roast it and eat. I don’t want to worry about whether there’ll be a battle tomorrow, or fear that someone I meet today will be dead tomorrow.”

The fox curled up beside him, its grey eyes half-closed.

“If you were human, that’d be nice. We could be brothers, travel together to every interesting place, drink and eat meat together.” He kept gazing up at the sky.

The fox listened, slowly closed its eyes, and began to snore.

“Hey, hey, don’t fall asleep!” He sat up, poking at its furry body. “It’s so cold out—if you fall asleep like this you might never wake up!”

The fox ignored him, sleeping soundly on.

“Must be drunk,” he sighed, rising to stoke the dying fire back up, then gathered the fox into his arms. He waited until the fire had burned out before carrying it, the remaining firewood on his back, walking back under the thin moonlight.

Nearly back at camp, the fox woke, leapt out of his arms, and dashed into the depths of the forest.

He stretched, satisfied, and walked back into camp.

In the days that followed, the fox kept appearing whenever he was alone, just as before; they grew closer and closer, and it became bolder and more playful, often deliberately shaking snow all over him, sometimes even tucking a leaf into his hair like a flower.

Its quietest moment came once when he carried it up a very tall tree just before dawn; man and fox sat together on a branch, watching the sun slowly rise.

Below the sunlit distance, there was no war, no bodies—but that distant place felt too far away…

That morning, he said to the fox, “We’re leaving. Our army has finally defeated the enemy completely.”

The fox tilted its head to look at him, just as it always did.

He reached out and touched its head. “I’m going back to the bustling capital. Do you want to come with me?”

The fox licked his hand, then turned and ran off.

Until the day they broke camp and left, the fox never appeared again.

He felt a little lost, as though he’d lost a friend.

But perhaps it was for the best—the capital had no forests for it to hide in, and there might well be plenty of people there who wanted fox-tail stoles too. Better for it to stay here.

He let it go.

Before leaving, he hung the wineskin on a low tree outside the camp.

The next day, the wineskin was gone.

When the wineskin appeared again, it hung at the waist of a grey-robed gentleman, nearly forty years after it first appeared.

The wineskin was too old to hold wine any longer, but the gentleman still treasured it like a prized possession.

That day, he walked alone through the battered streets of a Shu that could no longer really be called Shu—the realm now belonged to the man surnamed Zhao, who had written a poem about the blazing sun rising, ten thousand mountains catching fire, one wheel climbing swiftly into the sky, chasing away the fading stars and moon.

The Meng family’s Shu kingdom was just such a fading star, not meant to remain.

He smelled again that scent from years ago—the smell of death rising from a muddy pit on a snowy night.

Many were weeping, many were afraid; no one paid attention to this unfamiliar outsider.

Becoming human wasn’t easy—he’d cultivated in the deep mountains for forty years.

He kept walking forward, feeling certain the person he sought was somewhere ahead.

When he saw, in that unfamiliar camp, the middle-aged man riding a warhorse, surrounded by attendants, he said nothing, remaining invisible, standing opposite the man.

The eyes hadn’t changed much, just gained some wrinkles and weathering, and frost at the temples; the eyes were still bright, but now carried something called “killing intent.”

He simply stood there, silently gazing at this friend from forty years ago.

In the end, he’d never become the wandering swordsman he’d once dreamed of. Now, he was the emperor’s most trusted general, commanding a million soldiers at his back, holding the power of life and death in a single thought.

He had conquered the Meng family’s realm, achieving total victory—and had personally ordered the execution of twenty thousand surrendered Shu soldiers.

It was only when he thought of this that the man before him seemed impossible to reconcile with the man from forty years ago.

The warhorse carried its glorious, storied rider past him, brushing shoulders; his hand, gripping the wineskin, stayed rigid the whole time.

Was forty years long? Long enough to change a young man, and his dream.

He’d never known that person’s name—but now he did. He wanted to call out that name, only to find that a name forty years overdue could no longer leave his lips.

Never mind. Let it be, he thought, smiling faintly.

But then things changed again.

The officials at court collectively petitioned the emperor, impeaching this man for “greedily slaughtering surrendered troops,” a crime that by law demanded execution.

Everyone assumed the man was doomed—the evidence was ironclad, undeniable, and even he himself confessed to all the charges.

But the final result was—clemency was granted in consideration of his past service; his command was stripped, but he would remain entrusted with a border post. The emperor bore him no ill will, only urged him toward self-reflection.

The emperor pardoned him, demoting his rank but sparing his life.

The court officials were utterly baffled, but since the emperor had spoken, however dissatisfied they were, none dared say more.

It was only later that a eunuch who served the emperor privately mentioned to someone that he’d personally heard the emperor say “no leniency, execute at once.” Yet the very next day the emperor’s attitude had completely changed, his anger gone, speaking of the man now with something like regret and reluctance—utterly puzzling.

Everyone was puzzled, because no one had seen him slip into the palace that night, and no one saw him drop a faint reddish glow into the lotus-seed soup the emperor ate as a late-night snack. As the emperor ate, he murmured something under his breath, and once the emperor finished, he slipped away without a trace.

From then on, he never went to see his old friend again. He only heard that the man lived well.

Twelve more years passed, and this year, shortly before the empire’s second emperor ascended the throne, that man passed away of illness, at the age of sixty-nine.

On the day of his burial, under a grey, rainy sky, his descendants wept loudly.

No one knew that the old man lying in the coffin had, beside him, a very old wineskin.

“Hey, hey! Why’d you fall asleep again mid-story?” In the inn room, the little monk poked at the tailless fox lying on the quilt, then turned anxiously to her. “So how is it? Can it be saved?”

She stroked the fox’s smooth fur, smiling with confidence.

The little monk brightened. “There’s hope!”

“It’s a goner.”

“Huh?” The little monk, having completely misread her confidence, plunged from cloud nine to rock bottom. “You can’t even save it?”

“Do you understand how important a tail is to a fox demon?” She glared at him. “It severed its own tail, and on top of that, had the audacity to swallow ten thousand wandering spirits—that’s essentially poisoning yourself and then stabbing yourself for good measure. I’m just a doctor. I can’t save a fool like this.” Then she added, “And what’s more, this is a rare ‘grey fox.’ For grey foxes, the tail is basically their lifeline.”

The little monk grew anxious, pacing before the bed, scratching his shaved head, muttering, “What do we do, what do we do?” Then he suddenly stopped and asked, “What’s a grey fox?”

“Among fox demons there’s a rare kind, tracing back to Dan Yuan, with eyes like grey mist—hence ‘grey fox.’ Born naturally in black and white, without gender distinction at birth; upon reaching maturity, they may choose, by their own will, to become male or female. A grey fox’s tail is especially precious—taken, it transforms into light, and feeding that light to someone, combined with an incantation using another person’s name and birth data, will make the one who consumes the light feel deep affection for that person, so strong that even a blood feud for a murdered father could be set aside.” She spoke this out word by word. “This fox’s tail would be worth a fortune. Throughout history, so many have wanted a tail like this to enchant others. It’s precisely because of this tail that their numbers have dwindled so much.”

“I see…” The little monk grew troubled.

The fox stirred slightly without opening its eyes and said, “So the young lady can’t save me either?”

“How would you like me to save you?” she countered.

The fox opened its eyes and looked back at its own bare rear. “Can a severed tail regrow?”

She shook her head. “Your body is beyond use. The resentment of those wandering spirits has corroded you too deeply. Even if I used medicine to regrow you a tail, it couldn’t take root in a body this decayed.”

“I see…” The fox sighed. “Then never mind.”

“You brought this on yourself. Don’t blame anyone else.” She pursed her lips, pulled out a needle thin as an ox hair from the top of the fox’s head, and flicked it away—the needle dissolved into water and vanished without a trace on the ground. “You’re lucky, too, to have swallowed that many wandering spirits and still made it this far.”

“You call those things wandering spirits?” the fox asked.

“Any living thing, upon death, tends to leave behind something ordinary people can’t see—and these things come in good and bad varieties.” She yawned. “Twenty thousand surrendered soldiers, wrongly killed—the wandering spirits left in Shu must carry deep resentment, wanting nothing less than to destroy heaven and earth. For that man to have lived safely to a natural end, you must have worked yourself half to death over it.”

The fox was silent a moment, then said, “It wasn’t entirely for his sake. Though Shu suffered the calamity of a fallen kingdom, I fell in love with the beautiful mountains and waters of this land, and meant to find a quiet place to cultivate. But I discovered, quite by chance, that near where the surrendered soldiers had been killed, innocent people were often being harmed by unknown forces. Though I’ve lost my tail and my demonic power has weakened, I’m still better than the third-rate Daoist priests they hired. Swallowing these wandering spirits, sealing them with my own body—it was the only method I could think of.”

“Saving people is one reason. Reason two is probably that you worried, if left unchecked, the wandering spirits would grow stronger and eventually come seeking revenge on that man, isn’t it?” She crouched by the bed, resting her chin on the edge to meet its eyes. “Grievances have their owners, debts have their debtors. Why should you clean up his mess for him?”

The fox let out a long breath and closed its eyes. “I owe him a tail.”

She rose, shrugging. “Suit yourself. But…” She suddenly seemed to think of something. “You arranged to meet me at the Wind and Snow Inn—wasn’t it partly so you could use my hands to get rid of those slug demons too?”

The fox said slowly, “The world having fewer wrongly-dead souls costs you nothing, miss. My body is weak; head-on, I might not have been a match for the slug demons. But those four merchants—that you watched them lose their lives without lifting a finger, that I hadn’t expected.”

“I only save demons, not people.” She smiled.

“Either way, to see Miss Tao Yao’s face before I die is enough—no regrets.” The fox buried its face deeper. “Sorry to have made you come all this way for nothing.”

The little monk tugged at her sleeve, eyes red, holding back tears as he looked at her.

“Save that expression for when you’re begging alms!” She shook off his hand.

Undeterred, the little monk tugged at her sleeve again, lips pursing even more, choking out, “I’ll… I’ll share more of what I beg with you from now on!”

“This old lady wants meat!”

“You’re not old… not old at all!”

Goosebumps rose all over her at once, and she quickly pushed the little monk away. “Get away from me! I’m telling you, I can’t save this fox—unless it’s wiped clean and started over.”

The little monk’s eyes lit up. “Wiped clean and started over?”

“That means, before it dies, breaking it all the way back down to its original form, back to the state it was in when it was first born. But this ‘wiping clean’ process is very painful—it could die from that too. And even if it survives, it’ll just be an ordinary little grey fox, demonic power at zero, memory at zero, everything at zero.” She glanced sideways at the little monk. “Ask it if it’s willing.”

Before the little monk could speak, the fox had already lifted its head. “I’m willing.”

“I thought you’d dozed off to sleep again,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you die partway through this, don’t blame me.”

“I won’t blame you.” The fox shook its head.

“Alright then.” She walked back to the bed and held her left palm out in front of the fox. “This counts as me treating you. So, by my rules, any demon I treat has to agree to become my medicine. Here, put your paw out and stamp it into my palm!”

“Medicine?” the fox asked, puzzled.

“I’m a doctor. The most important thing in life is medicine, obviously.” She grinned. “Once you agree to be my medicine, then someday, if I need any part of your body, you have to give it up unconditionally—if I want your ears, you cut them off; if I want your paws, you cut those off too. Understand?”

“Such sin, such sin…” the little monk muttered, clutching his prayer beads, then fell silent immediately under her fierce glare.

The fox thought it over, then extended a paw and pressed it into her palm. “Is that enough?”

“You’re quite the agreeable one.” She looked at her empty palm, where a faint glow flickered past, and rubbed her hands together, satisfied. “Alright, I’ll treat you.” With that, she untied the cloth pouch at her waist, rummaged through it for a while, and pulled out a thumb-sized gourd, muttering with annoyance, “What a hassle. First I need to draw the wandering spirits out of you.”

“I’ll chant sutras for you!” The little monk stood beside her solemnly.

“It’ll probably go more smoothly if you don’t!” She pushed him away. “Go watch the door, don’t let anyone else in!”

“Oh, then I’ll go chant at the door…”

When only she and the fox remained in the room, she took a black pill from the pouch. Before she could feed it to the fox, the fox suddenly stopped her.

She raised an eyebrow. “What is it? Having second thoughts?”

“I know what you’ve wanted to ask me all along is why I went to such lengths, risking everything, to save him.” The fox spoke slowly. “Once I take this pill, I won’t be able to answer you anymore, will I?”

She paused. “Go on, then.”

“It’s not him I saved.” The fox’s already long, narrow eyes curved like a crescent moon. “What I saved was a young man from a cold night many years ago, who wanted to walk the martial world with a sword in hand, warmed by campfire and strong wine.”

After a long moment, she gave a short exhale and said, “Open your mouth!”

At dawn, the county officers discovered three large wooden crates outside the government office. Opening them, they found six infants, one or two years old, all still alive, only deeply asleep.

A letter was tucked in plain view, containing only a few lines—chance encounter with four men at an inn; posing as merchants but truly trafficking children for profit; the wrongdoers have been eliminated; the children are unharmed, drugged into sleep, and will wake before long; please see to their proper care.

The officers exchanged glances for a moment, then hurried to carry the crates back to report.

Before entering Shu, she’d seen a few government notices with the faces of four men drawn on them—bandits, murderers, and occasional traffickers of people. She had no other particular talent, just good eyesight and a good memory—so you see, even being a villain takes luck. Too bad the four hadn’t left even a corpse behind, or she could have collected the reward from the authorities…

The morning streets were blanketed in dazzling white snow—not comparable to the north, perhaps, but enough to bring joy all the same.

Tao Yao blew on her hands and rubbed them together as she admired the scenery on either side.

Behind her, the little monk carried a furry little creature not much bigger than a rabbit, chanting over and over like a mantra, “Tao Yao! Keep it! Keep it!”

Tao Yao ignored him, reciting loudly instead: “A lone boat, an old man in bamboo cape and hat, fishing alone in the cold river snow.”

“Tao Yao, Tao Yao, Tao Yao! Keep it, keep it!” The little monk chased after her, still chanting.

“Dogs bark by the brushwood gate, a man returns home through wind and snow,” Tao Yao said, turning her face away.

“Tao Yao! It’s so small, how can it live on its own! How could you bear to have me abandon it by the roadside!” The little monk grew desperate, blurting out, “You have no humanity!”

Tao Yao suddenly stopped, and the little monk nearly ran into her.

“I have no humanity?” Tao Yao planted a hand on her hip, pointing at the little monk’s nose with the other. “Back then, if this humanity-less woman hadn’t dragged you out from that pile of dead monks, and painstakingly raised you through every diaper change, would you have survived to this day? I haven’t even scolded you for being useless, eating so much and staying so short, and now you dare turn around and scold me?”

The little monk’s face flushed red, and after struggling for a while, he mustered his courage. “So then—since you’ve already raised me, what’s one more?”

Tao Yao snorted through her nose. “Our household can only support one waste of space.”

The little monk stamped his foot in fury, clutching the little creature tighter. “Fine! If you won’t raise it, I will! I won’t eat a single grain of your rice, won’t spend a single copper of yours!”

“Then take it and get lost, both of you.” Tao Yao walked off without looking back.

The little monk stood there, wronged, on the verge of tears.

The little creature in his arms poked its head out—a half black, half white fox kit, rolling its grey eyes, carefully licking the little monk’s face, then wriggling forcefully out of his arms, landing on the ground. It shook itself off, curiously surveying this world. Everything about it was fine, except its tail looked strange—not like a fox’s, more like a rabbit’s, a round little tuft of fur.

Tao Yao said that once its little tail grew into a proper fox tail, it would truly become a fox demon, and only then would it qualify for real cultivation.

Having walked quite far off, Tao Yao secretly glanced back—the annoying little monk hadn’t followed!

She turned around; more than ten meters away, the little monk and the fox kit crouched side by side on the ground, staring at her pitifully like beggars, the little fox occasionally tilting its head this way and that.

A cold wind blew past; she stamped her foot and gritted her teeth. “What sins must I have committed in a past life!”

With that, she stormed back, pointing at the little monk. “Mo Ya, listen carefully. It’s yours to raise from now on—its food, its care, all your responsibility. And if it ever gets caught and eaten by someone, you go save it yourself. If you get caught too, you can both turn into soup together—don’t expect me to save either of you!”

Though he’d never liked the name Tao Yao had given him, today it sounded especially pleasant to his ears.

Mo Ya’s face lit up instantly through his tears. “You agreed?”

“I did not agree!” Tao Yao huffed and turned to walk away.

Mo Ya quickly scooped up the fox kit, saying excitedly, “Tao Yao’s agreed to let you stay! From now on you’ll be with us!”

The fox kit tilted its head at him, blinking.

The snow had cleared, the sky bright, and the street markets were growing busier. Tao Yao carried a hot flatbread, eating as she surveyed the men and women passing by. Mo Ya had fashioned a little basket, tucking the fox inside and carrying it on his back as he wove excitedly through the streets, chattering to it the whole way, telling it this was a house, that was a steamed bun, this was the sky, that was a cloud. Tao Yao thought the little monk looked utterly foolish.

The fox obediently stayed in the basket, occasionally poking its head out from under the lid to look around.

Tao Yao glanced at it.

The last thing it had said before swallowing the pill was—I still want to live. I still want to see this flourishing age.

Tao Yao stretched, and truthfully, she wanted to see it too.

Since Mo Ya insisted that wandering the world was necessary to become a good monk, she supposed she’d reluctantly go along for the journey too—compared to the Peach Capital, this vibrant human world was far more interesting.

Not far ahead, Mo Ya stood excitedly waving at her by a small stall. “Come look, come look, this dough figurine is so well made!”

She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Coming, coming! You’re always so fascinated by useless things!”

The sun climbed higher, its long-missed light falling over the growing crowds, and the lively sounds of the marketplace spread vividly into the day.