The familiar sounds of the forest died one by one.
First, the chatter of sparrows vanished. Then the drilling of woodpeckers fell silent. Finally, even the rustle of ground squirrels scampering through dry leaves stopped. Han Li stood in a pocket of unnatural quiet, the only sound the low sigh of wind combing through the highest branches of ancient oaks. The air grew cool, carrying the mineral scent of wet stone and deep earth.
He tightened his grip on the axe, his knuckles pale against the dark, worn wood.
A prickle crawled up his neck—the instinctive warning of watched prey.
Then the footsteps began. Not the light, rapid patter of deer, nor the clumsy crash of a boar. This was a deliberate, rhythmic compression of damp foliage. Step. Pause. Step. Keeping perfect pace with him from the deep thickets to his left.
He stopped breathing.
From behind a curtain of thorny blackberry vines, two eyes materialized in the gloom. Pale yellow, like sun-bleached bone. Unblinking.
A wolf stepped into a narrow shaft of fractured light.
Everything about it was wrong. Its fur was the absolute black of a starless midnight, swallowing the light around it. Shadows seemed to cling to its form, shifting like living smoke along powerful flanks corded with lean muscle. The air around it tasted different—thin, crisp, and cold, like the breath of a high mountain pass.
A spirit beast. A creature from Old Zhong's cautionary tales, made flesh.
It lowered its massive head, a movement slow and deliberate as a falling stone, and took one silent step forward.
Han Li ran.
He crashed through a bank of ferns, the fronds whipping against his legs. He ducked under a low, mossy branch, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The forest became a streaking blur of green and brown. Behind him, the rustle of pursuit was constant—a ghost at his heels, close enough to hear, yet never closing the final, fatal gap.
It's herding me.
The cold realization cut through his panic. He skidded to a halt behind the broad, sheltering trunk of a cedar, pressing his back to the rough bark. He peered around it.
The wolf stood calmly in the small clearing he'd just fled. It wasn't panting. Its sides moved with a slow, even rhythm. Its unsettling yellow eyes simply watched him, waiting.
"What do you want?" Han Li's voice was rough, scraped raw.
The wolf did not snarl. It took another deliberate step, then shook its massive head from side to side in a clear, unmistakable arc.
No.
The intelligence in the gesture was staggering. This was no mindless animal.
Before the shock could settle, the beast closed the distance. It stopped within arm's reach. The scent of wild musk and something sharper, like ozone after lightning, washed over him. It did not bare its teeth. Instead, it leaned forward and with unnerving precision, caught the frayed, loose edge of his patched sleeve in its mouth. It tugged once, softly. Released.
Then it took two steps back and sat on its haunches, watching.
Follow.
Every lesson from his village life screamed against it. This was how people disappeared. This was the stuff of nightmares. But beneath the fear, a spark ignited—the same stubborn pull that made him watch the clouds and whisper to an empty sky. He looked from the wolf's intelligent gaze back toward the vanished path to safety.
He gave a single, stiff nod.
The wolf stood instantly. Swallowing hard, Han Li moved forward. Climbing onto its back felt surreal, like mounting a living statue. The beast's muscles were coiled granite beneath the cool, strange fur.
Then it surged forward.
The world dissolved into a streaking tunnel of green. The wolf moved with liquid, impossible grace. It leapt a rain-swollen gully in a single bound, landing without a sound. It wove through a dense stand of bamboo as if the trunks were mere illusions. The air grew colder still, the light fading to the perpetual, green-tinged twilight of the deep woods, where the sun never truly touched the ground.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, beside a raw, dark scar in the forest floor—a sinkhole, cleverly hidden by a massive, rotting log. The wolf padded to the edge, peered over, and let out a soft whine. The sound was low, anxious, and vibrated through its chest into Han Li's own bones. It turned and nudged him firmly toward the precipice.
Han Li crept forward on hands and knees, the damp earth soaking through his trousers, and looked down.
In the muddy bottom, six feet below, a small, dark shape lay curled. A wolf pup. Its sides heaved; its ribs fluttered like a trapped bird's wing beneath damp fur. It looked up, and in the dim light, Han Li saw its eyes were a milky, exhausted blue.
Understanding was instant and absolute. He looked from the pit to the adult wolf. All primal menace had vanished from its eyes, replaced by raw, desperate concern.
"You need help getting it out."
The spirit wolf stared back, a universe of pleading in its amber gaze.
"I'll help." His voice firmed. This was a task. A problem of ropes and leverage. This, he understood.
He turned, his woodcutter's mind switching to practical focus. His eyes scanned, landing on a young Chinese parasol tree. He used his axe not to fell, but to skillfully score and peel long, fibrous strips of bark. His calloused hands worked with swift, efficient movements, twisting and braiding the strips into two robust ropes.
He secured one end of the first rope to a thick, low-hanging branch of a sturdy oak, testing the knot with two sharp tugs. He carried the coiled remainder to the wolf. "You must pull. Gently. Steady. Understand?" He placed the rope in its mouth, guiding its grip. The wolf's formidable jaws closed with careful, astonishing precision.
Han Li tied the second rope around his own waist and lowered himself into the pit. The walls were slick, vertical clay; the mud at the bottom sucked greedily at his boots. The pup shrank away, a tiny, pathetic growl rattling in its throat.
"Easy now," Han Li murmured, his voice dropping to the low, steady tone he used with skittish animals. Moving slowly, he fashioned a harness, looping the rope securely around the pup's middle behind its front legs. "Now!" he called up. "Pull steady!"
Above, the spirit wolf braced. The rope snapped taut. With immense, controlled strength, it lifted the pup smoothly up the mud wall and onto solid ground. Han Li hauled himself up after, hand over hand.
The scene above was one of silent intensity. The adult wolf was already nuzzling the pup, licking its mud-caked fur with frantic devotion, her whole body shuddering with palpable relief. The pup, wobbly-legged, pressed into her side.
Han Li stood back, coiling the muddy rope. He felt no surge of heroism—only the quiet, solid satisfaction of a necessary task completed.
After a long minute, the spirit wolf turned from her pup. Once more, she approached Han Li. Again, she caught his sleeve and gave a soft, insistent tug.
This journey was shorter. They moved to a small, hidden clearing where sunlight filtered down through a break in the canopy like scattered, dusty coins. The wolf padded to the northern edge and nudged aside a thick curtain of creeping vine with her nose.
Han Li stepped forward, and his breath caught.
Ginseng. Not a single, lucky find, but a small, perfect patch. Ten plants, their distinctive, pronged leaves forming a delicate green canopy. Some had three prongs, young and tender. Others boasted five or more, their "necks" thick with the concentric rings of decades. A treasure trove. Any one of the mature plants represented more coin than his uncle saw in a season of hard labor.
He turned to the wolf, who simply watched him. He bowed, not deeply, but with the respectful dip of the head one gives a skilled elder. "My thanks."
He worked with a forager's reverence. Using a sharpened stick, he carefully unearthed only the four oldest plants, leaving the younger ones to thrive. He brushed the dark soil from the gnarled, humanoid roots—their shapes strangely potent in his hands—and nestled them in his basket, cushioning them with soft moss.
When he straightened, basket now weighty and significant on his back, the clearing was empty. The wolves were gone, vanished without a sound.
The walk back toward the village felt different. The basket's weight was an anchor to an event that already seemed dreamlike. The ordinary path seemed less real. This was more than roots; it was a quiet revolution. A full pantry through winter. His aunt's hands, red and cracked from lye soap, could rest. The lingering debt to the butcher, cleared. A small, profound shift in the unyielding gravity of their lives.
He was nearly to the tree line, where the wild woods gave way to the harvested fields, when he saw it.
To the west, deep in the oldest, most untouched heart of the Greenwyld, a light pulsed between the distant, dark trunks.
Cool. Blue-white. Steady and rhythmic as a resting heartbeat.
It made no sound, threw no discernible shadows. Yet it pulled at the edge of his vision with a physical insistence—a silent, persistent summons.
Han Li stopped. The basket's strap dug into his shoulder.
Behind him lay the path home: safety, warmth, profound relief, the simple, mortal world of hard-won comforts.
Ahead, through miles of treacherous, pathless wilderness, lay the deep unknown and its silent, beckoning light. It promised nothing. Explained nothing. It simply was—an unanswered question written in cold fire against the gathering gloom.
The forest around him was utterly still, offering no counsel.
The wooden bead on his wrist felt neither warm nor cold. A patient mystery.
For a long, suspended moment, Han Li stood at the crossroads.
Then he took a step. Not toward home. Not toward the light.
He stepped off the worn path and sat on a large, moss-covered stone, setting the heavy basket down with a soft thud. He would wait. He would watch the light until the sun dipped and practicality forced his hand. He would let the weight of both choices press upon him until his decision came not from impulse, but from a deeper, quieter certainty.
The forest, ancient and knowing, held its breath with him.