Chapter 8: Chapter Eight: Entering the Mountain

Three days passed in a flash. Ning Ze looked at the fortune-telling old Daoist strangely; these past few days the old Daoist would appear at every mealtime, vanish after eating, and Ning Ze had no idea what he got up to — appearing and disappearing like a ghost. The village hadn't heard of anything being stolen, nor of any widow being harassed, so Ning Ze didn't meddle further. But today, bright and early, the fortune-telling old Daoist showed up in front of Ning Ze again, staring at him with a cheap, ingratiating grin.

Right, this guy showing up never means anything good; most likely he wants to go watch the excitement. Ning Ze didn't want to bother with the fortune-telling old Daoist — if he wants to tag along, let him; the legs are on his own body, his skin is thick, and he's shameless, so there's nothing Ning Ze can do about him. The old man still hasn't returned; it's been nine days already, and Ning Ze can't help worrying.

In the courtyard, Ning Ze was sharpening his blade. He still hadn't grasped the blade technique; there was the faintest hint of understanding, but he couldn't seize it. Now he's trying the stupid method — drilling the blade forms over and over, getting close to the weapon, seeing if comprehension of the First Blade will come naturally when conditions are ripe. With the old man gone, no one's guiding him, and Ning Ze grumbles that he really left at a bad time; he could at least have finished teaching everything — truly an unreliable old man.

Seeing Ning Ze ignore him, the fortune-telling old Daoist wasn't annoyed at all, just grinned: "Ning kid, aren't you having the hunting competition today? Aren't you going to prepare? Last time you got knocked and injured; if you lose this time, what'll you do?"

"Lose — doesn't exist. I still don't know what you're scheming? Stop joining in the fun here. By the way, when are you leaving? You've eaten nearly ten meals at my place, haven't you? Shouldn't you be on your way?"

The fortune-telling old Daoist picked his ear with his pinky, flicked the result onto the ground arrogantly, and said with utter disdain: "Ning kid, you owe me ten meals of roast meat. When did I eat your roast meat? Have I had any roast meat these past few days? No, right? Since I haven't eaten ten meals of roast meat, why should I leave? Young man, don't keep having opinions about us old folks."

Hearing such shameless words, Ning Ze laughed from sheer anger: "Fine, fine, fine. You wait — from now on don't come mooching meals at my house; every time you come I'll chase you off. Ten meals of roast meat I'll roast for you real good." He bit down especially hard on the word "roast."

The fortune-telling old Daoist heard the anger in Ning Ze's voice, froze a moment, then immediately realized he'd been too smug; people who get too smug invite bad luck. Right now Ning Ze is his meal ticket; offend him, and where will he find another sucker to mooch off?

The fortune-telling old Daoist had wandered the rivers and lakes for years; he knows when to yield and when to stand tall. Instantly his voice softened until he sounded like a wronged, henpecked wife: "Brother Ning, no — Young Master Ning, don't be like that. Let's talk nicely. This is just my mouth running off; be the bigger man and don't hold it against a small person. Besides, you did promise me ten meals of roast meat!" The last sentence was so quiet Ning Ze almost didn't catch it, and he even acted aggrieved.

Ning Ze also picked his ear, flicked his fingers, copying the fortune-telling old Daoist's exact expression from just now: "What? Say that again. Cut the crap — you laze around my place all day, what are you really after? Also, food, drink, shit, and piss don't cost money? You eat and drink for free at my house every day and you still think you're in the right? Tell one fortune and you want to stay forever? Fine, I'll specially make you ten meals of roast meat one of these days."

"Don't, Young Master Ning. Today I came to discuss a get-rich scheme with you, didn't I? See, I'm not just eating and drinking for nothing. Look, if I tell you the get-rich plan, won't you consider not chasing me off first?" The fortune-telling old Daoist wore a pitiful, fawning look that nearly made Ning Ze — wait, "Ning Zi" is a typo for Ning Ze — couldn't hold back from punching his old face.

"What get-rich scheme could you have? Cut the chatter, spit it out. If it really makes money, then I'll consider your situation." Ning Ze isn't falling for the old Daoist's blackmail.

The fortune-telling old Daoist whispered in Ning Ze's ear, looking a bit lecherous and more than a bit excited. Ning Ze's eyes lit up listening; he hadn't expected the old Daoist to dig up this piece of intel, and immediately signaled a nine-and-one split with his fingers. The old Daoist shook his head, clearly unwilling, and countered with a five-and-five gesture.

"Cut the crap. Nine-one split, take it or leave it. If I don't chase you off, you'll have to pay me room and board, won't you? Those are expenses. Another thing — do you even have the capital to make this fortune? If you did, would you be coming to me?" Finished speaking, Ning Ze grabbed his blade and bow and walked off without a backward glance.

"Wow, Ning kid, you're more ruthless than a flayer. It's just a few meals — is it necessary to extort an old man like me? This was my hard-thought idea, after all. How about sixty-forty? Don't go — fine, seventy-thirty? Ah, Young Master Ning, I'll call you Grandpa, okay? Final bottom line: twenty-eighty, twenty-eighty split…"

The fortune-telling old Daoist chased after him unwillingly, his wails audible all the way.

The village entrance mountain path was already packed with people. The village is only so big, and with Han Xian deliberately spreading the news, these are all just a crowd of onlookers. Wang Pangdun and Liu Lü'er had arrived long ago; actually, looking closely, basically everyone's here — only Ning Ze and Han Xian are missing. Wang Pangdun's weapon is a bit indescribable; calling it a shield doesn't quite fit, but calling it a wok fits perfectly. Liu Lü'er is much more normal — bow, arrows, and dagger; after all, being pretty is what matters.

"Pangdun, why are you carrying that thing? You look like a giant tortoise." Ning Ze already felt too embarrassed to look at Pangdun, hand on forehead as he asked. As luck would have it, Han Xian arrived just then.

"Hahaha, Wang Pangdun you're killing me. I saw you from miles away and thought some tortoise had become a spirit. Don't tell me you want to win without fighting by making me laugh until I have no strength left." Han Xian wore leather armor, carried a long spear and a great bow, laughing until tears came out.

At that moment the fortune-telling old Daoist also arrived — his voice came before he did: "Where's the tortoise spirit? Where? Quick, Ning kid, go slaughter it and eat it — great tonic…" He hadn't finished when he saw Wang Pangdun's getup and burst into unrestrained laughter. These two can form a pair — the Deserve-a-Beating Duo.

A slap landed on the back of Han Xian's head, finally shutting the two up. "Rabbit brats, what are you laughing at? You think entering the mountain to hunt is a game? Other people's life-saving weapons are for you to laugh at? Behave yourselves. Learn from Ning Ze — not steady at all. Scram over there."

Han Xian was dazed from the slap; he turned and saw it was his father, scared into silence instantly. As happy as he'd been laughing a moment ago, he ran off just as fast now. Middle-aged man, eyes emitting black luster, tall frame, body full of sinewy muscle — just looking at him gives two words: strong. Han Xian's father, the village hunting leader, often leads villagers into the mountain to hunt. The village can lack people like the old man, but absolutely cannot do without Han Xian's father. Live off the mountain, eat off the mountain — the leader is the soul that determines the village's survival.

"Exactly. My mom said, when hunting in the mountain, no matter what prey you catch, staying alive is most important. This thing can block harm, and when hungry you can still cook food in it — how useful." Wang Pangdun explained earnestly and honestly. The villagers all roared with laughter; the first part resonated with everyone, but hearing Wang Pangdun say "cook food" with a straight face was too much to bear.

Aunt Fatty had been listening nearby with tears in her eyes; now she didn't know whether to cry or laugh, the sad atmosphere diluted considerably. "Silly child, only knows how to eat." Everyone was laughing; only Wang Pangdun remained serious.

Han Xian's father walked over to Ning Ze with a light chuckle, slapping a hand on his shoulder: "How's it feeling? Injury healed?"

Ning Ze still respects this man greatly. He patted his own chest in reply: "Thanks for your concern, Uncle Han. The injury healed long ago. Look — plenty sturdy, right?"

Han Xian's father shook his head slightly, then slapped Ning Ze's shoulder even harder: "You brat, temperament still so unruly. This hunting competition isn't just between you and Han Xian. We're planning to use this chance to select the next village hunting leader. You were recuperating at home, so we didn't go notify and disturb you — everyone else knows. Don't mind it."

"It's fine. It was just me and Han Xian messing around, making a spectacle for everyone. Uncle Han, you're still so young — why is the village already picking the next hunting leader?"

"Uncle Han's old long ago. Hunting in the mountain means carrying your life in your hands — no telling which trip you won't come back from. Pick a successor now, be prepared against worry. Train them early, they become another pillar of the village sooner. Uncle Han'll tell you the truth: compared to that little rabbit brat Han Xian, I'm more optimistic about you. Han Xian's too impulsive; his ability's decent, but the leader's seat needs a calm person. You're clever enough and calm enough — if you become the next leader, I'll be at ease."

Ning Ze wanted to argue a few more sentences, but before he could open his mouth Han Xian's father cut him off with a wave. Ning Ze really wanted to tell him: You think too highly of me. I just don't want to bother arguing with a kid. The fortune-telling old Daoist judged the timing about right and started frantically making eye signals at Ning Ze from the sidelines, raising both hands high to draw his attention, then mouthing two words: "Get rich." Ning Ze was truly convinced by this guy — gave him a white-eye and a reassuring look.

"Uncle Han, wait. I still have some things I want to say. Such a lively event — I think everyone should get involved, that's the only way it's fun…" Ning Ze and Han Xian's father whispered and negotiated, and after a round of back-and-forth "interest" exchange, the two reached an agreement.

"Remember — half of what's earned gets handed over to the village. Hm, what was that called just now? Right — as public reserves." Han Xian's father was very satisfied. Still, this kid Ning Ze is sharp; he casually comes up with an idea and everyone obediently hands things over.

"Everyone come look, come see — want to support the future hunting leader in your heart? Prove it with real action. Come place your bets — bet more, win more; bet less, get nothing. Fair to young and old alike. Even you hunters entering the mountain can participate, but you can only bet on yourself. The winner gets one piece of prey from everyone else."

Ning Ze's words ignited the villagers' enthusiasm; they swarmed over. The fortune-telling old Daoist grinned wide, pulled out paper and brush, and hurried to record.

"I'm betting on my rabbit brat."

"Ning kid, I'm backing you."

"Hmph, my kid's not bad either. I support him."

"Han Xian, win some face for your uncle. I'm betting on you. If you make me lose, just wait when you get back."

Turned into a vegetable market. Looks like everyone generally favors Ning Ze and Han Xian. Wang Pangdun actually has quite a few backers too. The rest — only a scattered few bets. Ning Ze looked on, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. If he loses, he'll lose even his underwear.

"Let me say this first — you're all betting so much on me and Han Xian. When the time comes, each person's payout won't be that much."

Everyone said it's fine — mainly for the lively fun. This farce of a gambling game finally wrapped up. The fortune-telling old Daoist's smile never stopped; he was already imagining himself striking it rich, strutting around in high spirits.

"Fellow villagers, everyone knows by now, right? Today, following village custom, we're once again selecting the hunting leader. Brave hunters must enter the great mountain to prove themselves, but a leader must bring everyone back alive. Hope you all return alive. No more nonsense — worship the Mountain God!" Han Xian's father stepped out to preside over the mountain-entry ritual once the betting farce ended.

Twelve people total — two women, ten men. Each pricked a finger, let a drop of blood fall into a bowl, mixed with wine, and placed it on the altar. Four strong men jointly carried up a roast pig. Han Xian's father took out the mountain-clearing saber, divided the roast pork, and every villager ate a mouthful. The bulk was left on the altar.

"Pray the Mountain God grants us a bite to eat. Our village will repay the great mountain with more."

Afterward, Han Xian's father dipped his finger in the blood-wine and dotted the center of each of the twelve's brows. Finally, the blood-wine was sprinkled toward the great mountain.

"Pray the Mountain God remembers the warriors' breath, blesses the warriors entering the mountain to return safely."

"Set out — enter the mountain!"

Among the watching villagers, quite a few secretly wept, looking at these twelve entering the mountain, wondering how many would return. Generation after generation enters the great mountain to survive. The dead are gone; the living still grieve. Ning Ze understands how helpless it is — using this ethereal, illusory method of worshipping the Mountain God to pray for survival. His heart wildly questions: Where are the immortals and gods of this world? Why, with so many powerful forces, do mortals still have to struggle bitterly just to survive? Ning Ze doesn't understand why. He lowered his head, clenched his fists, thick unwillingness surging in his chest.

"What's wrong? Ning Ze, feeling unwell somewhere?"

Han Xian's father clearly noticed Ning Ze's state was off.

"Huh? Nothing."

Ning Ze's train of thought was broken. He wondered why Han Xian's father would ask that, blanked a moment, then raised his head to scan the surroundings. This hunt is led by Han Xian's father. The hunting leader serves as judge for the selection and also as protection for this hunting competition — to minimize loss of life during the contest. Besides him there are four others: three village hunters, and one is the fortune-telling old Daoist. After all, he's not a villager, but the old Daoist insisted on following into the mountain, and no one could say anything. It's not that they don't want to assign more hunters for protection — in the mountain forests, more people aren't necessarily useful; more targets means greater losses. A blood-and-tears lesson from generations of ancestors.

Turns out, besides Ning Ze, the other eleven — after the worship — had even higher spirits, the fear of the great mountain in their eyes dissipated considerably, as if a force had been injected into them. Wait — force? Something flashed through Ning Ze's mind, as if he were about to grasp something important. Han Xian's father slapped his shoulder, breaking Ning Ze's train of thought.

"You brat, your state's really off. You've been spacing out this whole time — is your injury not healed? Why don't you go back down the mountain? Sit this selection out."

Ning Ze shook his head, no longer obsessing. Sometimes the more deliberately you try to think, the more you drive yourself into a devilish obsession. Mindset adjusted, Ning Ze once again recovered that calm feeling.

"Suit yourself. Your own call. Pay more attention to safety in the mountain — spacing out can cost you your life." Seeing Ning Ze recover his spirit so quickly, Han Xian's father didn't nag further, just couldn't help one more reminder.

In the dense forest, two black cavalrymen exchanged the intelligence they'd scouted.

"My side's villages are all scouted. No target found, no suspicious traces. You?"

"I've finished scouting too. No remnants found, but this village has suspicious traces. You go back and report to the Lord. I'll stay here and keep watch." The position on the map pointed at Beicang Village. The black cavalryman mounted his flood-dragon horse and soon vanished into the dense forest.