The morning mountain mist was like a pot of porridge with its lid still on, clinging to the waist of Qingyun Mountain. The stream wound around the stones, tinkling like someone was ringing a string of tiny bells.
Lin Heng squatted by the stream, pants rolled up, locked in a standoff with an overly lucky fat fish. In his left hand he held a dip net, in his right a bamboo basket, muttering under his breath, "Stop struggling, stop struggling… You came in, so don't even think about it. Today you're going to be braised with scallions."
The fish flicked its tail and splashed his face. Lin Heng froze for half a second, feeling that he had just been provoked by a fish. He wiped the water off with his sleeve, reflected solemnly for three seconds—then cheerfully tossed two wild garlic cloves into the basket. "Braised with scallions and garlic—let's go."
The grass by the bank rustled; a few frogs poked out their heads. But deeper in the undergrowth, there were eyes that did not belong to frogs.
"That's him?" a hoarse voice said, pitched low. "This brat stuck his nose in during the day, ruined Young Master Zhao's fun, and even cleared the way for that silver-horned spirit deer."
Another sharp voice sneered, "Looks like just a mortal, hands trembling. What's there to be afraid of? Tie him up, throw him in the back mountain, then go back and collect the reward."
The bearded leader's eyes turned cold. He made a gesture. Five dark figures slid out of the brush like snakes, silent, surrounding the streambank.
At that moment, Lin Heng pulled a dry bun from his jacket and started eating, mumbling to himself: "Da Huang gets meat this afternoon, Xiao Mo is not allowed to steal… Jiji, don't peck too many melon seeds, Lao Zhong, don't soak too long in the water…"
The five "snakes" in the bushes all stiffened at once:
—Da Huang gets meat today?
—Who's he talking to? Is that a threat?
The leader gritted his teeth: This guy is hinting that he has backup! Can't delay—quick fight, quick finish!
He flicked his wrist; a thin steel cable shot from his sleeve, flashing cold light, aimed straight at the back of Lin Heng's neck.
The instant before the cable touched skin—
Hum—
The air felt as if some invisible mechanism had been triggered. The surface of the stream dipped slightly; water ripples burst outward in all directions. Lin Heng felt a coolness at the tip of his nose, like wind passing by. He tilted his head instinctively—the cable hissed past his ear, hooked onto a rock on the opposite bank, and sparks flew.
"Huh? Almost got bit by a mosquito," Lin Heng grumbled, swatting at the air.
The five in the brush all sucked in a cold breath:
—What was that just now?
—He didn't move! He clearly didn't move!
Yet their hearts skipped a beat, as though some unseen beast had fixed its gaze on them.
The leader went in again, toes tapping the ground, body lunging; the other four brandished weapons and charged. Just as their shadows fell across the bank, a short, low bark exploded from the mist behind Lin Heng.
It wasn't loud, but it was like a nail driven straight into their eardrums. The surrounding mist flattened into a visible thin layer; the part closest to the water cracked with an audible snap.
The first black-clad man felt a sudden tightness in his chest; his footing vanished, as though an invisible hand pressed on his temples. Vision went black—he slammed headfirst into the rocks by the stream without even managing a scream.
The second drew a hidden weapon, but before he could throw, it crumbled to powder in mid-air. The bones in his arm snapped like rotted wood with a sharp crack, and he flew backwards three yards.
The third and fourth hadn't yet closed in when their knees buckled simultaneously; they fell to the ground, teeth chattering, hardly daring to breathe. It wasn't fear of another human—it was the primal submission of prey to the apex of the food chain.
The leader was the strongest; he managed to endure two breaths under that bark. His pupils shrank as he saw those eyes in the mist—gold and crimson, like two small suns rising over a pool of blood, staring coldly at him. He realized he'd kicked iron—no, something worse than iron, some kind of destiny carved with disaster deep in its bones.
"Retrea—" He'd barely spat out a syllable before smashing into the tree behind him. Half the trunk snapped from the force, and he tumbled into the brush, covered in dirt.
Thus—zero point two breaths, and the fight was over.
Only four sounds remained on the battlefield: the stream, the wind, teeth chattering, and the ting of dew drops falling from leaves.
And Lin Heng? He shoved the fat fish into the basket, patted his backside, and seriously eyed the broken tree—
"Ah, windy today."
He scratched the back of his neck and headed home, calling over his shoulder, "Da Huang, stop barking, you'll scare the sparrows."
From the mist, a dark shadow lazily retracted its aura. Da Huang padded out from behind the bamboo grove, tail swaying twice as if in praise. Passing a pebble cracked by the bark, he sniffed at it, then snorted dismissively: not worth hitting.
…
When they returned to the courtyard, the door creaked open. On the eaves, the black cat Xiao Mo was napping on the beam, one paw dangling, tail tip swaying like a black wind chime. Hearing footsteps, he tucked his paw away, opened his eyes slowly, and shot Da Huang a look of "You're late."
Da Huang ignored him, plopping down at the kitchen door, tongue lolling. Xiao Mo flicked his tail, the air giving a faint tsk, like a human's click of the tongue. At the other end of the beam, the colorful bird Jiji was cracking melon seeds, flicking the shells into the bamboo basket by the water jar—he'd been practicing his "throwing skills" lately and was quite pleased with himself.
By the water jar, Lao Zhong slowly lifted his head from the surface. The patterns on his shell gleamed like stars in the night, ripples spreading outward, pushing all the floating debris neatly to the edges—he had a cleanliness obsession.
"I'm back," Lin Heng said cheerfully, setting the fish on the counter with a smack. "Whoever behaves today gets extra meat tonight."
Da Huang barked once—not loud, but in cat ears it sounded like "claiming territory." Xiao Mo ignored him, lifting a paw to tap the air lightly; two leaves from the treetop outside whisked neatly into the bamboo basket—I can do that too.
Lin Heng didn't notice the undercurrent of rivalry, only thinking everyone was behaving. He went to boil water, slice ginger, and smash garlic, mumbling, "Jiji, don't peck too much—hey, don't drop the shells on the floor, in the basket—yes, right there. Lao Zhong, don't soak all day, come out and get some sun…"
Lao Zhong obediently hauled himself out, the shell along the waterline flashing briefly with golden light before fading. He turned toward the gate—the "ripples" of time there were still dissipating, like someone had passed over the surface of a pond without leaving footprints.
…
Meanwhile, the scattered bandits rolled farther and farther, scrambling over two small hills before crashing into the gates of Zhao Clan Village.
The guards stared. "What—did you fight a wild boar?"
The leader stumbled forward. "Sir! That mortal—he's not a mortal! His dog, the dog—it's not a dog!"
"Speak sense."
"It barked once, and my soul almost flew away! We couldn't even raise our weapons… I saw it—there was a shadow behind him, like a wolf walking in the sun—its eyes could kill a man just by staring!"
Another chimed in, "And the wind! There was wind blowing from behind him, splitting rocks! I swear I haven't been drinking!"
"I think he might be… a grandmaster," a third stammered. "A hidden grandmaster. We interrupted his lunch, so he… got annoyed."
"…Get out!" The guard kicked him over, but his face grew serious. Dropping his spear, he ran to the main hall.
Before long, the Zhao stronghold had a new rule: leave the man in the back mountain alone.
The news spread like the wind, slipping into taverns, winding through alleys, over kitchen stoves, into every house in town—
> "That Mr. Lin in the back mountain? Mortal? Ha! Go ahead and try provoking him."
"I hear he's got four ancient beasts at his side—a cat, a dog, a bird, and a turtle, each guarding in their own way!"
"Yesterday bandits went to cause trouble, today they've switched to farming."
…
By dusk, the sky was bright red as if someone had spilled rouge. In the yard, the pot was bubbling with fragrance. Lin Heng dished out two bowls of braised fish, one each for Da Huang and Xiao Mo, gave Jiji some shredded fish, and Lao Zhong a small piece, very proper.
Da Huang buried his head in the bowl, eating with gusto. Xiao Mo was refined, licking the broth first before taking the meat, occasionally glancing up to shoot Da Huang a "vulgar" look. Jiji shaped his fish bits into a small round mound, chirping in satisfaction—perfect presentation. Lao Zhong slowly chewed his piece, rhythm like speech: enough.
Lin Heng sat on the threshold, gnawing his bun and dipping it in soup, content with the steaming, lively home. He had no idea that by now, there were already three versions of his legend in town:
One said he waved his sleeve and sent ten men flying;
One said he reasoned so well that the Heavenly Hound was moved to tears and men's hearts turned good;
And one so absurd it claimed—"He just looked at them, and they knelt."
"Eh," he suddenly remembered something, turning to ask, "Who stood guard today?"
Da Huang wagged his tail.
"Good job, extra meat for you tomorrow."
Xiao Mo's ears twitched; he flicked a paw and sent chopped scallions flying into the pot, dotting the surface with green, the aroma richer instantly. Lin Heng blinked, then smiled, "Xiao Mo too—tonight you get a piece of pork crackling."
Jiji chirped in protest: two melon seeds for me.
Lao Zhong said nothing; his shell just glimmered once, like a nod.
The night wind passed; the wind chime under the eaves rang twice, clean and bright. The mountain forest returned to its "as if nothing happened" peace.
Only in some hidden corner of the mountain, a pair of eyes had been watching for a long time, before finally withdrawing. It was someone curious, come to investigate the rumors.
As he left, he murmured, "Interesting. A mortal? Or… a monster wearing mortal skin?"
By the next morning, that line had become a new version:
"Even a sect elder says—Senior Lin is unfathomable."
Meanwhile, Lin Heng rolled up his sleeves and took a bamboo basket to the vegetable patch, seriously pondering a century-old dilemma—
"Braised with scallions or steamed tonight?"
He had no idea that three li from his vegetable garden, the Zhao Clan had planted thirty neat, evenly spaced signs reading "No Entry Within Thirty Li of the Back Mountain," like border steles for some "untouchable senior."
…
Late at night, the four "pets" took their places: Xiao Mo on the windowsill licking his paw, Da Huang at the door on guard, Jiji tucked into his straw nest with head under wing, Lao Zhong in the moonlight like a silent rock.
Inside, breathing was slow and even.
The wind slipped through the bamboo, like a quiet laugh.
Peace for today—just like always—lively, and unknown to the world.