Stripes by Candlelight

by flaminghomophone

Summary:

Death takes us all in the end.

You just never expected it to take you somewhere no man was ever supposed to go.

Chapter 1: From the Pleiades

Turns out dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Not that you were expecting a pair of pearly gates to roll out the red carpet for you; given some of your past decisions, it could’ve just as easily been a whole lot of fire and brimstone waiting on the other side. But then again, if you learned anything from Sunday school, it’s that they got just as much wrong as they did right.

The space you presently inhabit feels equal parts exposed yet claustrophobic. Darkness presses in on you, absolute and all-encompassing, as though your eyes were shut tight despite knowing for a fact they’re not. Anything that might constitute a ground or the sky is just plain gone—in its place, a featureless black void that makes no distinction between up or down, left or right. You should by rights be plummeting to your death, yet you stand on nothing, your body suspended by nothing, your feet dangling in nothing.

A desperate need to see something—anything—starts to well up in the back of your lizard brain. The longer it goes unacknowledged, the stronger it grows. What started as a murmur builds to a roar, the sinking dread of a man underwater burdened with the realization that every molecule of oxygen circulating through his lungs is being met only with more and more carbon dioxide.

You bring a hand up to your face. The motion is there—the tightening of a bicep, a rotator cuff engaged as though preparing to place a hand over the heart, the flexing of individual digits before your eyes—but no accompanying visual materializes. Only black nothingness stares back.

That’s when you see it. There, in the negative space between your index and middle fingers, a tiny pinprick of light, describable as such only in the most charitable of circumstances. It twinkles ever so slightly as if on the constant verge of being snuffed out. But it doesn’t, like a burned afterimage that refuses to die. The ghost of a distant star. A small comfort, but enough.

The lone light swiftly finds itself joined by another. Two more appear, then ten, then hundreds, millions, until an entire cosmos wraps around you, a tender embrace from the universe itself. It’s anyone’s guess where they all came from. Maybe they were already there to begin with and it simply took until now to notice.

Still, no pearly gates, no fire, and no brimstone. Hell, you’d settle for a tunnel with some light at the end. Instead, it’s just this . You’re not even exactly sure what this is. It’s not quite pure nothingness; you’re conscious enough to gripe after all. As far as afterlives go, this feels like coming home on your birthday only to find out nobody bothered to put together a party. Fuck, here’s hoping this isn’t all there is. Nice as the view is, odds are it’s gonna get stale after a few millennia, never mind the rest of eternity. That one Metallica song comes to mind.

Then, as if on cue, you spot a distant light—at first glance indistinguishable from its thousand or so brethren—gradually become exceedingly distinguishable. Its shine grows and grows until everything around it is overtaken, a lone lantern in a sky dense with fireflies.

You’re not given much in the way of time to appreciate this change in scenery however. Any charm it might’ve had gradually drains away as the light shows no signs of ceasing its expansion.

Then it dawns on you: the light isn’t growing in size—it’s closing the distance. Piece of shit fireball has an entire universe to roam and naturally it’s on a collision course with your sorry ass. Guess some things never change.

Steadfast in its destination, the fireball approaches at meteoric pace. You flail your arms and kick your legs in a vain attempt to dodge what you already know damned well isn’t going to be dodged. Try as you might, your body refuses to budge. You might as well be suspended in jello.

Despite the absence of air, a thunderous howl fills your ears and the whole of your body shakes violently. Wave after wave of dull warmth rolls across your skin, each hotter than the last. Every aspect of the fireball’s arrival—from the sound that heralds it to the heat it brings—crescendos as impact becomes imminent.

A ball of white light the size of a washing machine impacts your torso deadcenter. In a surprising turn of events, you're not reduced to a cloud of pink mist. Instead, you’re launched backwards into a series of increasingly disorientating backflips. The ball remains latched onto your chest as you tumble head over heels, a miniature sun mere inches from your face.

The ball proceeds to clamber over your shoulder and position itself squarely on your back, before kicking away with all the force of a nuke going off. Any remaining backflips are immediately canceled out by a sudden and immense endowment of forward velocity.

Your tongue pins itself to the back of your throat, your stomach falls down a shaft a mile deep, and your balls burrow so far up into your abdomen that they’re able to take shelter behind your liver. The speed is absolutely incomparable to anything terrestrial; it’s enough to stretch and elongate the images of distant stars, transforming them into thin, wispy lines as they streak past the edges of your vision.

With no air resistance to speak of, you stay in motion for what feels like forever and then some. Time loses all meaning as the internal clock in your head ticks past what might be an hour or what could just as well be a year. Against all odds, your body actually acclimates to the situation and you find yourself settling into a vague state of comfort.

You suppose you ought to be thankful; if that fireball hadn’t come along, you’d still be floating god-knows-where. Minuscule as the odds might be, at least now there’s a chance you’ll make like a meteor and land on some alien planet. Or, in all likelihood, spaghettification by black hole if those videos with the cartoon birds are anything to go by.

Speaking of light disappearing, a disquieting detail slowly makes itself apparent. It starts off innocuous enough, so innocuous in fact that your mind is able to erect a thin layer of disbelief to shield itself from the dreadful truth. But denial is a drug that can only last for so long, and when the crash comes, it comes crashing hard. The lights, your sole comfort in this infinite void, are fading.

One by one, every streak of light gradually disappears from view. Each dies a slow death, leaving behind afterglow like dimming neon. Even that is soon gone, every last faint trace of light all but extinguished, until only a tableau blacker than the one you awoke to remains. Where the darkness was merely claustrophobic before, it now feels utterly suffocating.

Even black seems too toothless a descriptor for whatever the hell this is. Pure absence of color would be more fitting, its absoluteness such that it defies comprehension. It might be that what you’re perceiving is simply the nearest thing a human mind can equate to the breaking down of color as a concept.

Your eyes having been rendered useless, you find yourself adopting a heightened sense of self, like being locked inside the mother-of-all deprivation chambers. The complete lack of any outside stimuli forces every shred of attention inwards, leaving you hyper aware of your body’s most minute processi. The shedding of an eyelash conjures forth images of ice calving into the sea; wind howls through your lungs; hot blood pulses in the capillaries beneath your skin with all the vivacity of a bustling metropolis.

That last sensation in particular seems intent on overpowering all others. Your heart pounds on the inside of your chest like a captive desperate for its release, each ba-dump threatening to crack a rib or two.

Lost amongst all this sensory overload is your quickening pulse and the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, thus taking you that much longer to notice the arrival of something truly dreadful.

Directly in front of you, where there were none before, a pair of blood red orbs now lie. They sit level with and at a fixed distance from one another, both front-facing at a slight offset to indicate overlapping fields-of-vision and the subsequent depth perception necessary to track fast moving objects regardless of distance or speed. The telltale eyes of a predator.

They don’t waver. They don’t squint. They don’t even so much as blink. They simply are—two perfect circles of pure crimson, infinitely small in the darkness that surrounds them yet punctuating it like tail lights sticking out of a river in the dead of night.

You haven’t a clue where they came from; they didn’t fade into view as the lights did prior. Somehow you get a sense they were always there, a constant if unseen presence. And now, they’ve seen you.

Ice instantly floods your veins. Nonexistent breath hitches in your throat. Whatever passes for time here slows. The eyes finally blink, and you feel yourself being whisked away.

Chapter 2: Or High Water

Your recollection of events following the appearance of the red eyes can be summed up as a series of apparent and irreconcilable contradictions. Despite staring at the eyes dead-on, they’ve disappeared without a trace. Despite being in one place and then another, you can’t recall any of the intervening steps. Despite never losing consciousness, you awake as though from a trance all the same.

Might as well add your current locale to the ever growing pile of mysteries. You stand in a corridor of interminable length and questionable air quality. Without exception, the walls, ceiling, and floor are carved from rough-hewn rock, every crack and crevice moist to the touch in the way only deep underground spaces can be. What little light that’s present trickles down from the far end of the corridor, casting a sickly yellowish-hue on the white robes and cloth slippers that now inexplicably adorn your body.

Now that you’ve gotten a chance to take stock of your surroundings, ‘corridor’ might be too generous a word for the space you presently find yourself in. It feels more like an upright coffin of implausible depth, as if intended to be occupied by a body with an infinitely long harpoon through the gut. You couldn’t extend your arms outward even if you tried, your shoulders practically scraping against the walls on either side as it is.

Like any sane man, any mention of the words Nutty and Putty in the same sentence is a surefire way to spike your blood pressure. You’d probably be freaking your shit out if not for the fact that you’re apparently not alone in your predicament.

In front of you stands—or floats rather—a half-transparent, shapeless apparition. It lacks any discernible features, or anything that might constitute a face. It possesses neither arms nor legs, giving off the appearance of a shadow suspended in the air.

You look through the apparition and spy a long procession of similar such shades stretching all the way down the length of the corridor. Some are tall, some short, some thin, some stout, so on and so forth, but all are alike in that each is entirely mist. Judging from the occasional exhale of cold air hitting the back of your neck, a similar arrangement exists behind you.

Yes, absurd as it might sound, you’re standing in a line. Not that you’re complaining to be honest—this line is the first thing to make sense in a long time and you’ll take any shred of normalcy you can get. The sheer absurdity of it all is probably greatly contributing to the ‘ keeping your shit together’ -fund.

Of course, the existence of any line begs the question: what are you in line for? You can hazard a guess or two, but it couldn’t hurt to know in advance. Only one way to find out.

You raise a knuckle to tap on the apparition in front of you. You make an effort not to extend too far forward, lest you shove an entire arm into a stranger up to the elbow. Wouldn’t want to send mixed signals. The apparition responds with a motion that might be construed as looking over its shoulder.

“Hey pal, here’s hoping you know where we are because I sure as hell don’t. Must’ve missed the seminar on the way in. Mind doing me a solid and filling me in on what this place is? What we’re in line for?”

The apparition cocks what might be a head to the side, before turning away to resume staring forward. You have half a mind to grab them by the nonexistent shoulder, spin them around and lay into them for being an unhelpful prick, but you’re robbed of the opportunity by the line suddenly shifting forward.

The line moves at a brisk clip and you have to break into a power walk to keep up. You go along with the flow, happy to stretch your legs if nothing else.

You walk for what feels like ages. Nothing remotely resembling a split in the path or side passage appears. The corridor remains stubbornly ramrod straight, refusing to curve so much as a single inch. If there’s any change in grade, it’s far too subtle to notice or pointless to matter.

Stretch after stretch of samey, grayish-brown corridor comes and goes without so much as a sign to tell you where you’re ultimately headed. Your only indication that things aren’t stuck in a endless loop like it’s fucking Groundhog Day is the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s getting brighter.

Another few miles or so of continuous walking are enough to confirm that it’s not your imagination. With every grueling step, the light becomes slightly, ever so slightly, brighter. What was previously a pallid shade of yellow is slowly but surely transforming into luminescent gold. Given your recent experience with lights in the far distance however, you’re rather wary to say the least.

Regardless of how you feel, the line stays in motion and you can’t help but be carried along with it. Looks like you’ll be getting your tunnel with a light at the end afterall.

It arrives sooner than you expected. One minute, you’re looking at a dazzling if faraway glow, like a flashlight being shined through a pinhole. The very next minute, you’re standing before a wall of halcyon light that impedes any further progress. The specters in front of you have all disappeared, presumably gone beyond the threshold; such is the wall’s luminosity that you hadn’t noticed them fading from view.

You chance a glance behind you. The apparitions have all stopped in their proverbial tracks. They hover in place, apparently content to let you hold up the line. Pretty considerate all things considered.

In front of you, the wall’s surface roils and shimmers like water reflecting the setting sun. Your hand reaches out as though possessing a mind of its own. Outstretched fingers stop just short of making contact, one final strand of hesitation holding them back. Against your better judgment, you let them fall forward.

The effect is immediate; a ripple is born at the point of contact, an ever-expanding circle slowly undulating its way outwards. Instead of adding to the chaotic swirls on the wall’s surface, the wave clears them away. By the time the ripple breaks against the edges, you’re left with a preternaturally uniform, golden mirror.

The visage of a young man dressed in robes stares back at you. He is of average size and unremarkable height with a lean build that carries in it a sort of reedy strength. A subtle tension is visible in the way he stands and carries himself, his physique akin to a sapling bent under constant pressure. He sports a five o’ clock shadow that’s well on its way to becoming stubble. Frown lines crease the ridge of his brow. A good night’s sleep would do him a world of good. 

His only other features of note are currently regarding you with a curious mixture of self-doubt and self-awareness. The man’s eyes—dulled as they are from staring into the what was and what could’ve been—still possess an unmistakable glimmer of determination.

He takes a deep breath and steps into the light.

Chapter 3: Day in Court

As soon as you’re through, the wall of golden light disappears behind you. Only jagged stone remains in its place, as clear an indication as any that turning back is no longer an option, if ever it was one to begin with.

Standing candelabras flank you on either side, individual candles bearing greenish-blue flames that cumulatively cast the room in scintillating turquoise patterns reminiscent of light in shallow water. The room itself is carved from the same rough-hewn rock as the tunnel you were in previously. It is neither large enough to be spacious nor small enough to be cozy. The smell of mothballs and old parchment hangs in the air.

The space is sparsely-decorated but obviously lived-in. A random assortment of bookshelves and pigeonholes had been painstakingly chiseled into the walls with no real rhyme or reason to their actual arrangement. It seems as though when the latest shelf reached capacity, another would soon be carved out to continue receiving the occupant’s never-ending collection of…

…scrolls. What you thought was a decorative pattern on closer inspection turns out to be the ends of rolled-up scrolls. There must be thousands of the things, all tightly bound and packed together like honeycomb.

In the center of the room is an ornate wooden desk, upon which sits various writing implements, pots of ink for said implements, paperwork awaiting said ink from said implements, and a bonsai tree.

On the other side of that desk sits a lone figure clad in black and white finery. That color scheme extends to his face, wherein one half has been painted white with swirling black patterns and intricate linework—his other half the exact monochromatic inverse. He wears a cloth hat of a design you’ve never seen before, resembling a bowler hat sans rim with what appears to be paddles or flippers sticking out horizontally behind the ears.

The figure is obviously ambidextrous; with one hand he scrawls on a scroll, with the other he delicately tends to the bonsai tree. Neither activity appears in any way hampered.

Sensing your gaze, the figure looks up from his preoccupations. The slow tilt of his chin is followed a palpable moment later by eyes looking not so much at you as through you—it’s a deliberate move that’s all too familiar. Your mind trawls past memories; crazily enough, you’ve seen that exact same move every time you went up to a counter at the DMV.

The figure spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. Excess sleeve hangs from his wrists like gossamer.

“Nai lo. Hualo ni bu shenkan. Woku hai shiyan jiao Nutoumain. Wu shi Heibai Wuchang, dan dan ni keyo jiao Heibai.”

Fuck.

In the span of a millisecond, numerous thoughts battle it out to be at the forefront of your mind. Possible explanations and potential complications intermingle with suitable solutions and temporary circumventions. Beneath it all is the growing sense that you’re fucked in ways you can’t even begin to comprehend. All the while, the figure eyes you impassively, no doubt expecting a response.

You fumble for what to say, “Uh, there’s been some kind of mixup. You probably get this all the time, but I don't think I’m supposed to be here. If you could just point me towards an afterlife where I can actually speak the language, that’d be great,”

“Do qigai yuya. Wokai shen shidai wei tingluo, zheshi gedan hua.”

You’ve ordered enough General Tso's to know Chinese when you hear it. At least you think you do anyway. Still, things are going nowhere fast. Need to get around this pesky language barrier.

“I get the feeling you don’t but I’ll ask anyway—you speak English by any chance? Or maybe there’s some kind of interpreter we can bring in? How do these things usually go? Like, I know there’s a fuckton more Chinese people than pretty much anyone else but that doesn’t mean only Chinese people die. There’s no way I’m the first non-Chinese person to wind up here.”

“Bu maofan, dain ni shuoyin zhonwen? Rugua hui, shiqin lunli hendu,” the figure says, yet his mouth remains ever the same painted smile. He momentarily dips his head whilst gesticulating and his porcelain cheek catches the candlelight. You see his face for what it’s really been all this time: an opera mask.

“Buya danxin, buya danxin. Ba wei ni shi sheme bingdu liao,” the figure produces a strip of parchment and on it he draws a vertical arrangement of Chinese characters. With his free hand, he uses his fingertips to draw a figure-eight in the air. After a moment’s delay, the paper rises on its own accord and follows his movements, flourishes and all, tethered by some unseen leash.

The figure’s hand continues carving through the air in front of him. He shows no signs of slowing, the parchment reduced to a blur as it’s forced to keep up with an increasingly complex series of straights, swerves, arcs and plunges.

“Chenxing yu wo judao. Chengheng yu wo jiduo. Chuchu zuo hao ren. Zhex wo zhimeng, neng shi she? Shang ming…”

The hand is drawn back as though winding up for a pitch, before stabbing forward in your direction. The parchment strip slams into your forehead with enough force to snap your neck back a bit. It stays where it struck you, draping over your nose and occluding the center of your vision. You feel your own hot breath reflected back on your lips.

“...I thus change thee.”

“THE FUCK DID YOU STICK TO MY FACE YOU PICASSO-LOOKING SON OF A… Wait a sec, did I just hear you right? You do speak English! Fucking hell, could’ve saved us both the trouble and just said so from the beginning. So what, just jerking me around this entire time?”

“I know nothing of those guttural sounds you were squawking earlier. What you hear and speak now is a function of the talisman I just bestowed upon you. Take care not to lose it.”

“Oh. Umm, thanks then. Coulda just, y’know, handed it to me but whatever,” you peel the parchment from your forehead and slip it underneath the front of your robe. It just so happens to go over your heart. As good a place as any, and certainly a fair share better than your face. “So I can speak Chinese now. Interesting.” You glance down at some script on the desk; the characters remain incomprehensible. It seems your grasp of Chinese extends only to the spoken word.

“Savor it while you can. Now that we understand one another, allow me to pick up where I left off. I am Heibai Wuchang, Chief Magistrate. Do you know why you are here, broadly speaking?”

Your gaze becomes downcast, former bravado draining away. A sigh escapes your lips, “Yea, I figure it has something to do with the fact that I’m dead.” Denial was never an oar in your wheelhouse, but to hear yourself say it outloud sweeps away any and all remaining traces of doubt. Finality settles heavy on your chest.

“Good,” Heibai says with a nod of his head, “Not all are so accepting. Most are, but not all. Those who have yet to come to terms with their fate can be arduous to deal with. This will make the remainder of your journey that much easier.”

“Look Heibai, biting the dust I can accept. Not the time or place I would’ve picked, but them's the cards I was dealt and fat chance I’m getting dealt a fresh hand. I get all that, really I do. But all this—I don’t know if it’s what Chinese people believe in or Buddhists or whatever—but none of it’s part of my belief system. I’m not even sure I had one to begin with. How the hell did I end up here of all places?”

“Such concerns are sensible but unfounded. All creatures are subject to Samsara , the eternal cycle of death and rebirth. Any faith you may or may not have subscribed to is but one of many possible paths to a single destination. Were circumstances slightly different, perhaps I’d have wings and a halo. But before you can cross the Bridge of Beginning and re-enter the cycle, there exists a discrepancy in your file that requires addressing—namely you having no file to speak of. As one might imagine..,” Heibai motions towards the many, many scrolls embedded into the walls, “...such a thing is not acceptable. You needn’t worry, all that is required of you is the answering of a few questions. Then and only then can you be on your way.”

“That’s one hell of a discrepancy. Kinda lends credence to my theory that I don’t belong here if you think about it.”

“Such mistakes are rare but not unheard of. A rather shrewd phoenix once tied up the Pale Court for an entire millenia. She even managed to exploit a loophole—now closed thankfully—to the boon of her and all her kin. Believe me, you are not the first to ask these questions.”

Heibai retrieves a fresh scroll from a drawer and unfurls it on the desk in front of him. The brush in his hand is refreshed with new ink, before zigzagging entire columns worth of characters faster than you can blink, “First question—what was your chief occupation?”

“Shit, want my social security while I’m at it? Last thing I needed to file a W-2 for was this temp job at an office. Can’t even remember what we did, I think we sold raw rubber to factories.”

“I’m putting you down as ‘bookkeeper’. Next question—interests? Passing or otherwise.”

“As in hobbies? Most of my paycheck just went to my apartment above that sketch-ass dry cleaner that I’m pretty sure was a front for something . Wasn’t exactly swimming in cash when I was alive, not that I had the time or space in the first place. I guess I watched a lot of Youtube if that counts for anything.”

“It does not. Note that your extra prattling is neither appreciated nor necessary. Only one question remains—do you have any unfinished business you’d like to take care of?”

The question feels innocuous enough at first, giving it ample opportunity to slip in from behind and gut you between the ribs. “Nah, nothing really comes to mind. Aside from, y’know, the fact that I failed every goal I ever made for myself. I loved repeatedly getting passed over for people half as competent, doing half the work I did. Slaving away at shit jobs just to get chewed up and spat out to chase the next shit job. And what do I have to show for it all? A dingy-ass apartment not even Section 8 would touch, and debt. Lots and lots of debt.”

You feel a tide rising within you. You were never one to wear your heart on your sleeve, but that was more so a consequence of those willing to listen being few and far between rather than any predilection towards introversion on your part. Once the dam breaks however, nothing can be done to hold the waters back. You’re not sure when, but at some point you started pacing the room.

“Oh, and any money my family’s gonna get from selling my stuff? Won’t even be enough to cover the cost of firing up the oven that’s gonna barbecue my sorry ass. Fucking hell, don’t even get me started on my love life. One heartbreak after a-fucking-nother. Neverending cockup carousel was what it was I tell you. Fuck, I could use a drink.”

Heibai has long since stopped writing. His brush is set aside, hands steepled underneath his chin. He asks, “Is that all?”

You breathe out once more, a little more heavily, a little more easily, “Ugh, there’s some people I would’ve liked to have said goodbye to. Would’ve been—I don’t know—considerate I guess is the word.” Whatever the weight on your chest was, it’s not pressing down quite so hard anymore.

“Mayhaps you will. Not in this life of course. But perhaps the next.”

“That’s something to look forward to I suppose. So, how’s my personality test looking? I take it I’ll reincarnate as something decently high up on the totem pole if I’ve been a good little boy?”

“Oh no no no, this was merely a pro-forma meeting. Records for the sake of posterity. Your judgment was handed down by the honorable Yanluo the moment you set foot in this realm. On that note, the discrepancy has been resolved to my satisfaction and our business here is concluded.”

Heibai claps his hands together and the rocks behind him start to crumble away, revealing a dizzyingly vast subterranean cavern beyond. Rays of viridian light pour through the opening, outlining his silhouette in shades of blue and green.

He continues, a hint of mockery in his voice, “It’s against policy to provide those yet to reincarnate any specificities regarding their next life, but I will say that we recently received a request for a prodigious number of locusts,” he snaps his fingers, “Ox-Head. Horse-Face. This one is ready to see Mother Meng.”

Rough hands clamp down on your shoulders. The hands’ owners leer down at you from above and behind, one a monstrous man with the head of an ox and another with the face of a horse, the aforementioned Ox-Head and Horse-Face presumably.

“Wait a second! Don’t I get a say–”

You look back at Heibai. He’s gone.

Chapter 4: Monkey Wrenches

You briefly consider asking for the bathroom, but think better of it. An attempt at a joke would almost certainly fall flat because it’d be obvious for what it really is: a transparent gambit to buy just a little more time. Nothing Ox-Head and Horse-Face haven’t heard a million times before in all likelihood.

The two animal-headed men continue staring straight ahead, their expressions stoney and unreadable. Sausage-like fingers maintain a solid grip on both your shoulders while hands the size of baseball gloves wield wicked-looking polearms. Despite restraining you, they don’t seem in a rush to take you anywhere. Or speak for that matter.

You test the waters a little, leaning this way and that. Your efforts are met with unyielding resistance in all directions save one: forward. An exploratory step towards the hole in the wall is matched by the pair correspondingly moving up alongside you.

They themselves are like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Your head swivels from one to the other, drinking in the utterly bizarre sight of men that so clearly aren’t, their bestial features on full display.

Though cast in the crude shape of men, each retains the bulk of a fully-grown ox and horse respectively. They tower over you; the ox, a mountain of tawny fur and muscle—the horse, sheer and imposing like a basaltic cliff-face. Ornate metal armor ensconces their already formidable forms, intricate constructions of cloth, rivets, and steel plates laced together in horizontal rows.

And Jesus, their faces—there’s zero uncanniness to them. Everything that should be there is: small hairs, pores, musculature, so on and so forth. It’s not at all like Doctor Moreau played mix-n-match with bodybuilders and farm animals; completely absent is the glassy-eyed obliviousness of the latter. You’ve seen your fair share of anthropomorphized animals in one form or another, but to equate them to the odd mascot costume or theme park animatronic would be like calling your last prostate exam a whirlwind romance. There is simply no comparison. These are living, breathing, grunting things and they have the presence as such.

“Erm, you fellas wanna tell your boss to get back here? I wasn’t finished with him. Dick move I-M-O, disappearing mid-conversation. Don’t get me wrong, I hate having to pull the whole asking for the manager routine so the sooner he gets back the better.”

Their utter lack of reaction is starting to make you wonder if they can even understand what you’re saying. You touch your chest, subconsciously feeling for the paper talisman that allows you to speak and understand Chinese. Still there, the flat of your thumb traces its raised border through the fabric of your robe.

“No way I’m becoming a goddamned grasshopper if I have anything to say about it. Heibai mentioned a ‘Hanluo’, didn’t he? I’m guessing he’s the real head honcho around these parts. He and I should have a little chat I think. So if you fellas could just point me in his direction, I’ll find my own way…“

You find your stream of consciousness interrupted by the sensation of softballs thudding against your pect. Looking down, it turns out to be the methodical tapping of Horse-Face’s enormous pinky finger. Mercifully, it doesn't hurt. Not yet at least.

“…or I could go find out what’s on the other side of that wall.”

With the message clear and no other options available, you walk over to the hole in the wall. The tapping ceases as soon as you do, Ox-Head and Horse-Face following in lockstep. You step over the remains of the wall and onto a ledge overlooking empty space. The sight nearly takes your breath away.

Greeting you is a gargantuan cavern stretching far beyond your capacity to see. Its dimensions are that of an oval, the walls on either side gently sloping as though twin valleys sat mirrored and inverted. The cavern floor far below isn’t even visible, obscured as it is by a dense layer of mist. Jutting out of the mist like the spine of a biblical sea serpent is a single raised ridgeline that curves and meanders but otherwise adheres to the cavern’s contours all the way down its interminable length.

The sheer scale is something else altogether. An aircraft carrier could easily sail down the length of the cavern and—seeing as how there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight—keep sailing for a very, very long time potentially. So high is the ceiling that a canopy of water vapor clings to it, silver clouds swirling and eddying between hanging stalactites.

You approach the lip of the ledge. In lieu of a steep dropoff, there’s a moderate decline that acts as a transition between the ledge and the cavern floor. Moderate is a relative term of course; the gradient is nothing to sneeze at, not to mention the many rocky outcroppings clawing their way out of the ground seem apt to break your neck just from looking at them.

Thankfully, someone had the wherewithal to carve a staircase into the slope, turning what would’ve been a treacherous, all-day endeavor into a straight-forward enough descent. Horse-Face softly chuffs behind you, a reminder of his and Ox-Head’s presence. Faced with a lengthy set of stairs, the hands on your shoulders don’t feel entirely unwelcome.

Opportunities for escape are looking few and far between. With any luck, you’ll chance across some sort of distraction, hopefully sooner rather than later. Until then, no sense stopping now. You start descending the staircase. Ox-Head and Horse-Face march wordlessly alongside you, every plodding footfall accompanied by the clinking of metal on metal.

The going is slow and it never gets better. Every next step is identical to the last, every last step identical to the next. Bit by bit, the change in elevation becomes evident from a growing dampness in the air. The faint but unmistakable sound of running water rises up from below. Halfway down, the steps grow slick with condensation. At one point you lose your footing and slip, an act that very nearly sends you careening into the void.

Before you can actually tip forward however, Ox-Head lets go of his polearm and palms your chest with his newly-freed hand. This, combined with your escorts’ rock-solid grips, prevents what would've been an otherwise nasty fall. The three of you watch as Ox-Head’s relinquished weapon seesaws its way down the stairs in your place. It continues making a tremendous racket long after it’s out of sight, going silent briefly before landing somewhere with one last, resounding crash.

Ox-Head presses against your chest, setting you back on your feet. “Take your time,” he says. His booming voice travels down his arm and into your torso. The whole of your body reverberates with heavy bass. 

“T-thanks. So, you two can talk.”

Horse-Face snorts, “When the need arises.”

The remaining leg of your descent passes without incident. At long last, the last step has come and gone, the stairs terminating at the edge of a tiled dais the size and shape of a dual-laned roundabout. Smackdab in the center is a freestanding arch like ones you’ve seen at the entrance to Chinatowns. Inky water surrounds the dias in lieu of a cavern floor.

Walking on a level plane again is a much-appreciated breath of fresh air. A short distance away is Ox-Head’s discarded polearm. It stands completely vertical, blade embedded in the ground. Ox-Head releases his grip on your shoulder and walks over to it. He yanks it free, before returning to your side. He and Horse-Face exchange a brief look. Clearly, some kind of understanding is reached because Horse-Face lets go of you as well. “Let us continue,” he says, cocking his head towards the archway up ahead.

Up close, the arch is a much simpler affair than it seemed at first glance. The structure stands two stories tall, wooden posts done up in red lacquer holding aloft a multitiered roof of black tiles. Severe as it is, it has a certain charm.

Noting your interest, Ox-Head edifies, “The Hell Gate. It marks the beginning of a soul’s transition from one life to the next. There can be no turning back once crossed for all earthly burdens and desires will have been cast away, never to be shouldered again. May we all find the peace beneath its eaves.”

Heavy. After a moment’s hesitation, you enter the gate, crossing the threshold in a single step. You emerge on the other side feeling unchanged.

“Of course, the Gate itself is purely symbolic,” Horse-Face adds as he and his compatriot walk around the gate to rejoin you, “But it does indeed represent the first step of the last journey most will ever take.”

“Most? Not all?”

Horse-Face’s jaw clenches slightly, the first real display of emotion you’ve seen from either of the two. It’s obvious you caught onto something he would have rathered you didn’t.

“There are those who have not only postponed their judgment, but escaped the cycle entirely. On this I will say nothing more. It would only serve to distract you from the path ahead. Come, we have a walk ahead of us.”

On the opposite end of the dais is access to a pathway that straddles the ridgeline you saw from high up on the ledge earlier. Ox-Head and Horse-Face usher you over to it and before long your unlikely trio are back on the move again.

The path itself feels wild, unpredictable. No two sections are alike in the slightest. It climbs and falls, undulates this way then that. Rocky in some places, smooth in others. Some parts are wide enough for the three of you to walk abreast with room to spare, whilst others are so narrow you can see water lapping on both sides below. 

You come up on what might’ve been a natural bridge in eons past, now collapsed. The resulting gap is small, requiring no more than a hop across to continue. Still, it affords you an opportunity to gaze down at the waters below. You fail to see any semblance of yourself staring back, as though even your reflection couldn’t help but sink beneath the surface.

Fuck, how long have you been standing here? Best get a move on before Ox-Head and Horse-Face think you’re getting any funny ideas. You jump the gap and continue on your way.

Along the distant outer banks of the river, you start to spot clusters of people. It’s not clear what they are or what purpose they serve at first, but the sounds that emanate from them clue you in soon enough. Drifting through the mist is a cacophony of wails and moans, interspersed with the occasional scream. Upon traveling far enough up the path to pair the sounds with their accompanying visuals, you see at last what has been curiously absent up until now.

Fire and brimstone.

Scattered along the banks where sand-covered crags sit barely above the river’s swell are throngs of things—twisted, formless shapes more akin to parody than anything remotely resembling a human—all in varying states of agony. On one beach, a chthonic goatman ambles from lidded cauldron to lidded cauldron, fanning flames until steel glows red and the screaming within reaches a fever pitch. Further along is a large inlet, inexplicably frozen, upon which crawl creatures with hands and feet worn down to bloodless stubs. Next up is a tower of knives reaching all the way to the ceiling, where it stops just short of meeting a damp-looking stalactite. Embedded throughout the tower are desiccated husks with papery skin and wiry hair. On closer inspection, they appear to be slowly climbing their way upwards.

“Jesus. What are those things? What the hell did they do?”

“Like you, mortals bound for the Bridge of Beginning,” Ox-Head answers. “The difference being they have some stops to make along the way. As for what they did—suffice it to say that we try to make the punishment fit the crime. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You’ve always had a strong stomach. Unsupervised internet access as a kid tends to do that to a person. Like so many boys around that age, you touted an inability to be fazed as if it was something to be proud of. Wore it like a badge of honor. If only your younger self had any inkling that skin is just callus once it becomes thick enough.

And so it is by no small feat that the scenes seen shan’t be soon forgotten. You walk on, eager to put them behind you yet morbidly curious as to what fresh hell will manifest next.

Over the course of what feels like an eternity, the horrors grow further and further apart, until the veritable ghost train finally ends with one last sight to see you off. At the water’s edge, a promethean figure lies prone on their chest, lower body half-submerged in the river. Whether they are alive or dead, crawling out of the river or succumbing to it, you can’t be sure. Sadak in search of oblivion presumably.

It doesn’t take much further to reach what seems to be the end of the line. The ridge you’ve been traversing upon starts to slip beneath the waves, but the path itself continues on in the form of a wooden bridge. The bridge runs straight down the cavern for about a mile, until it—as well as the entirety of the cavern from top to bottom—is walled off by a curtain of otherworldly fog.

An ancient woman stands perpendicular to the bridge’s entrance, her form easily mistaken for the gnarled stump of a dead tree at first glance. Time weighs heavily on her; she’s stooped so far forwards that her shoulders are almost behind her ears. She wears a wide-brimmed hat, all around the edges of which hangs a black veil that hides her face.

Next to the woman is an unlidded cauldron that looks like it was plucked straight out of a Roald Dahl book. Steady streams of white vapor boil up from within and ooze over the lip. Your escorts bow their heads upon approach.

“Thou hast come such a long, long way,” a voice murmurs from behind the veil, tone and cadence that of deathbed musings. “Fret not, for the end of thy suffering is almost nigh.” A bowl manifests in the woman’s hands. She slips it into the cauldron and it comes back out filled with what might as well be dry ice for all the fog it's producing. “Drink. One sip of Mother Meng’s five flavored soup and thou shalt suffer not a moment longer.” She offers the bowl to you, expecting you to take it.

“Look lady, I’m not sure how things work down here but where I’m from, the only people insane enough to drink soup from a literal witch's cauldron are methed-out crackheads and cracked-out methheads, and that’s only because they probably think it’s some new form of liquid crackmeth.”

“Thou would refuseth the soup?”

You’re suddenly and acutely aware of the two beastmen in your periphery. You can practically hear Horse-Face’s nostrils flare in agitation.

“Let’s just say I have trust issues when it comes to strangers handing me suspicious liquids. I don’t even know who you are or what you put in that cauldron. Could be asbestos or cilantro in there for all I know. Only fair you tell me what it is exactly you want me to drink.”

The veiled woman silently contemplates your words. Apparently finding sense in them, she says, “There once lived a girl whose first breath was accompanied by her mother’s last. More than anything else, the girl yearned to see her mother’s face again, untarnished by time. So she brewed a tea that conferred upon her perfect memory. And for a time, ‘twas wonderful. But to never forget is to always remember. Countless lifetimes she lived, every heartache and tragedy forever etched into a mind that came to be a prison. Not even death could ease her pain. Finally, she could bear it no longer. She stopped where she stood, and she has remained here ever since.”

She displays the bowl at an angle to give you a better view of its contents. Fog dissipates in the center to allow you a glimpse within. What you see is a faint golden broth, and on its surface—if your imagination isn’t playing tricks on you—a patchwork quilt of your most significant life events.

“‘Tis the Five Flavored Soup of Oblivion. All who pass must partake. To do so is to never know the girl’s anguish, for thy memories shall become naught but blossom petals in the Easterly winds.”

“And the five flavors? Guessing lemon-lime isn’t one of them.”

Mother Meng cracks a crooked smile and says, “The sweetness of young love newly discovered, the spice of late night passions inflamed, the bitterness of long-hidden truths revealed, the sourness of words yearning to be saith yet left unspoken, and the saltiness of lovers’ tears shed apart. But enough forestalling. Time for thou to forget.”

Ox-Head and Horse-Face grab hold of your shoulders. Try as you might to resist, you’re powerless to prevent being forced down on your knees. Panic takes hold as the realization hits that an opportunity to slip away never materialized and in all likelihood never will.

“H-hold on a minute! Let’s stop and talk about this!”

Mother Meng approaches with arms extended, the bowl in her hands infinitely more threatening than any blade. “The time for talk hath passed. New life dawns. Best not keep it waiting.”

“But I'm not even supposed to be here! I don’t belong here! I'M NOT EVEN FUCKING CHINESE!”

Your words fall on deaf ears. Horse-Face tugs your head back while Ox-Head squeezes your cheeks, forcing your jaw open. Mother Meng presses the rim of the bowl against your lips. She slowly tilts the bowl forward, the golden broth edging closer and closer.

You shut your eyes tight and try desperately to concentrate on the few memories worth remembering. If nothing else, you’re not going to let them be taken away without a fight.

Just as the first drop is about to fall onto your tongue, the ground begins to rumble. A few seconds pass and the shaking has yet to abate, if anything growing exponentially in ferocity. Mother Meng takes several steps back in an effort to steady herself. Your escorts swing their gazes around, eyes narrowed and on full alert.

The shaking further intensifies, subjecting the entire cavern to jerky, spastic motion unlike any earthquake you’ve ever been in. Pebbles dance across the ground in excitement. Water sloshes high against the sides of the cavern. The air is filled with the sound of rock cracking apart, soon followed by falling slabs of stone and stalactites. They splash into the river all around you, some close enough to splatter fat dollops of moisture across your body.

Overhead, you watch as a large boulder detaches itself from the ceiling and starts its meteoric descent, its destination: Mother Meng’s veiled cranium. It plummets fast, as if possessing a grudge to settle.

Before it can crush her however, Ox-Head surges forward. He intercepts the boulder mid-fall with a bifurcating uppercut from his halberd that sends the resulting halves flying apart in an explosion of dust and debris. He lands behind Mother Meng and envelops her in a protective crouch, shielding her tiny form with his own immense bulk.

The small hairs on the back of your neck and arms tingle ever so slightly, a reaction to the air molecules in your immediate vicinity being pushed down and flattened by the rapid approach of something exceedingly large. Looking up, you see a house-sized stalactite come loose and come fast, its size such that being struck by a chunk even one-tenth the size would prove invariably fatal.

A strange calm comes over you as your brain stem performs split-second calculus, instantly determining that fight is impossible, flight improbable. As the stalactite’s point practically kisses your forehead, you can only wonder where a second death might take you, and whether it will be impalement or crushing that conveys you there.

Suddenly, whiplash. Friction burns on your stomach and knees. You find yourself a good distance away from the shattered remains of the stalactite, shoulder still throbbing from Horse-Face’s life-saving shove. He himself is on the other side of the rubble, having used the act of pushing you to catapult himself in the other direction. Newton’s Third in action.

Body bruised, thoughts scattered, you rise on unsteady feet to see Horse-Face already up and running at you. He’s shouting desperately, pleading even. Though he mouths words you can’t quite hear, his outstretched hand says it all.

Get away .

Get away from the cliff’s edge lying precariously behind you. Whether in spite of his appeals or because of them, you opt to back up. A few steps back and you’re looking over your shoulder at the angry waters below, its surface churned white with froth and agitation.

You look back at Horse-Face. A rock falls in front of him briefly only to be backhanded into powder. He’s a blur of muscle and steel, arms pumping hard, his eyes as white as the waters below. It’s astounding how much ground he’s able to cover in such a short amount of time. In a moment or two he’ll be on you, no doubt safe in his arms.

Which is exactly where you don’t want to be.

This is gonna suck. Big time.

You take a deep breath that might just be your last. The thought hits your head like an actual blow. Fear shoots through you, riding veins to the farthest reaches of your body like heroin. It’s paralyzing.

Then a strange calm descends upon you. If you’re going to check out, it’ll be on your terms. You step back. No ground comes up to meet your heel. Gravity takes its hold. Your heart gets caught in your throat. A barely-audible ‘ No!’ cries out. Down, down you tumble, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Splash.

Chapter 5: Straight Up

The river does not take kindly to your intrusion. Your time in it amounts to a blur: long stretches of blackness interspersed by frantic activity as consciousness came and went like sunlight on an overcast day. Given what little you can remember—your body slamming against river rocks, lungs half-filled with liquid, the constant, desperate struggle to keep your head above the surface—perhaps it’s better that you don’t. How your body was able to cope with nobody in the driver’s seat for so long is a mystery.

But cope it did. Whatever passes for living here, you are and god almighty do you feel it. You awaken already writhing with a full-body tenderness that gestates in the pit of your stomach and radiates outwards. One by one, pain methodically creeps its way into the different parts of your anatomy as if going down a checklist. Your battered back arches off the ground in protest while your fingers clutch at handfuls of sand and gravel. Burning lungs hack up watery phlegm. Everything hurts, which at least tells you everything is there.

Amid the pain, you hear something. Not far off, an indistinct conversation unfolds between two exceedingly distinct-sounding individuals. Where they are, what they’re talking about, whether or not they can see you—all good questions you haven't the faintest answers to.

But you’re keen to find out. Gently, oh so gently, you try to sit up. A groan threatens to escape through gritted teeth. You flex and stretch your limbs in an effort to wrangle them back under control. It’s slow going, but your body gets the message and the individual parts of it eventually fall into line. As soon as you can, you check on Heibai’s talisman. By some miracle, it remains fastened to your chest, the vellum intact if soggy.

Looking around, it seems you’ve washed up on a small gravel beach. Before you is the river, behind the tiled dais you had traversed not too long ago. The stairs leading up to the room where you spoke with Heibai looms overhead. Closer still is the Hell Gate, its maroon roof immediately visible in the gloom, its base the apparent origin of the ongoing conversation. Thankfully, the dais’s edge rises just high enough to keep you out of view.

Wincing, you get on your feet, making sure to keep to a low crouch as you do so. With carefully-placed steps, you approach the edge of the dais and peer over.

Beneath the Hell Gate, a pair of figures are in the middle of a heated exchange. The one facing you is Heibai, his black-and-white finery easily discernible from afar. He’s a great deal more animated now than when you last saw him prior; he waves his arms and gesticulates at the pathway behind him in agitation.

“...must not be allowed to wreak any more havoc than they already have,” Heibai implores the cloaked figure, their back turned to you. “Every moment we waste on pointless talk is time not spent expelling their intrusion. One can only imagine what they’re trying to get their foul mitts on this time.” The ground shudders briefly as if to emphasize his point.

The cloaked figure replies, “You have your duties, Impermanence , I have mine.” The figure’s speech is scratchy and baritone, all fricative sounds as though he spoke exclusively by forcing air past curled lips. Every word drifts across the dais like secondhand smoke, and they feel just as acrid in your system. “Last I checked, they didn’t include playing guard dog for you.”

“Like it or not, we are both beholden to the same natural order, both servants to powers greater than ourselves. Our duties are one and the same, ergo my duties are yours.”

“There you go using that word again. We this, we that. I’m almost beginning to think you consider us equals. Wouldn’t that be funny?” The figure chuckles softly.

“Insolent cur! I’ve had tongues cut out for less!” Heibai straightens himself before he can get too bent out of shape. He strokes his chin in mock extrospection, “Or is that fear I sense beneath that imperious facade? Yes! I should have suspected as much! Copies they may be, each is still no less capable than the original. Small wonder then, your hesitation to face even a facsimile of him.”

A terse silence passes. Then the cloaked figure throws his head back to laugh a droll laugh. His hood falls slack upon his shoulders. A narrow canid snout stabs into the air, white dagger-point teeth bared: the unmistakable features of a wolf.

“Oh, that is rich. What’s next? An oblique jab at the size of my member? Inadequate, no doubt. Those little powwows you have with mortals—seems to me you’ve indulged in one too many. You’re starting to think like one of them.”

“The impudence…” Heibai raises an arm and into the dangling sleeve he plunges the other. The arm pulls back, his hand now gripping the hilt of a sword. He stops just short of pulling the weapon completely free, its blade still hidden in hammerspace. “One can’t help but wonder—who is it that comes to collect your soul? Shall we find out?”

“Careful what you wish for. You might just get it.”

Digitigrade legs shifting slightly, the wolf’s cloak billows to reveal a powerful frame sleeved in white fur. His hands make their debut; they come up from the depths of his cloak alongside a matched pair of crescent sickles. The two stare each other down, neither willing to make the first move. The sound of rushing water drones in the background.

With a sneer, Heibai finally stabs his blade back into his sleeve. “Bah, my time is wasted on such tripe. Good-for-nothing hellhound. If nothing else, watch the path. Too many souls have escaped as it is.”

“Forty-four by my count,” the wolf dryly specifies. In a flash, the sickles are gone from his hands like a magician’s trick. He slips his hood back on. “Honestly, Heibai, what is the point of me bringing souls down here if you’re just going to let them back out? But don’t worry. I’ll see that the dead find their way back here—one way or another.”

Slowly, deliberately, the wolf turns to regard the stairs behind him. In doing so, he casts his gaze in your direction. Every instinct screams at you to get down as fast as you can. You throw yourself to the ground, present bruises be damned. You hope to god he didn’t see you, because you certainly saw him. For a fleeting, horrifying instant, you saw eyes like orbs of pure crimson.

“Yes, yes,” Heibai’s voice drifts down from above, “No soul escapes you, or so I’m told. But so long as the Echoes continue ransacking this realm, I trust you'll maintain a vigil here. It’d be a shame to see your workload increase for no good reason.” No further words are exchanged, Heibai having presumably walked away if the faint clicking of heels on stone are anything to go by.

You stay on the ground for longer than you care to keep track of, unsure of where the wolf is looking or if he is even still present. Eventually you muster up enough courage to chance a glance.

The wolf stands with his back once again turned to you. He leans against one of the Hell Gate’s posts, arms crossed, alone and unmoving. You watch him for a good long while, ready to duck your head at the first sign of movement. Minutes pass and he remains stubbornly statue-esque. There’s no telling how long he’s going to stay that way however and you know you’re not gonna get a better chance to make a break for it. Now or never.

You carefully hoist yourself onto the dais. With a steady, measured gait, you head for the stairs, each step led by the heel, the remaining footfall slow and feather soft. Not once do you take your eyes off him. Not even for a moment.

At last, you reach the stairs. Reluctantly, you tear your gaze from him, wasting no time padding your way up. As soon as you feel safe to do so, you pick up the pace, taking steps two or three at a time where stamina permits. That’s when you hear it.

Whistling.

Nipping at your heels is the wolf’s whistle, clear but faint, unmistakably him and every bit as foreboding as a distant howl. You don’t stop. More than anything else, you don’t dare look back. It’s hard to describe how afraid you are of what you might see.

Despite having long since run out of breath, you practically sprint up the last stretch of stairs, arriving at the top in half the time it took to descend. And yet the whistling persists as if carried by some nonexistent wind.

The opening in the wall lies directly ahead. Beyond that is the tunnel, now completely empty. You fly down its length like a literal bat out of hell—arms pumping, chest burning—summoning up reserves of energy you didn’t know you had and using them up just as quickly.

You run faster and further than you’d ever run before, but you never outrun the whistle. At times it hounds you from behind; at others it rushes forward only to head you off again. But it’s always there, echoing endlessly off the walls.

On and on you run until, at last, you see light at the end of the tunnel. You make a final  mad dash for it, willing a body already on fumes to hold out just a little while longer. All you need is a few more yards, a couple more feet, just one more inch…

You don’t know how or when, but you’re suddenly underwater. Brackish water stings your eyes, floods your nose and mouth. The taste of grass and silt is overwhelming. But the light remains up ahead, or rather, above. It takes forever and then some to reorient yourself, by which time oxygen is in alarmingly short supply. Darkness begins to creep in at the edges of your vision. You reach for the light with desperate strokes, at times grasping whole handfuls of mud and pushing them down just to make it possible to kick your way upwards.

At last, you break the surface. You throw your head back, drinking in an enormous breath of fresh air, the first of many. Warm sunlight caresses your face. You hear the churr of cicadas in the nearby treetops and nothing else.

Chapter 6: Welcome to the Ricefields

You find yourself treading water in a pond of some kind—a rice paddy by the looks of things. Shoots of young rice jut out of the water at regular intervals, the ones closest swinging and swaying in conjunction with your wild movements.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you're in any immediate danger. It’s a refreshing feeling, veins not spiked with adrenaline for once. The comedown is almost euphoric.

Not that you’re in any position to savor it. Fatigue proceeds to settle on you like a heavy blanket. Words can’t describe how unrelentingly tired you feel all of a sudden. You’d be content to just float in this rice paddy for a while, if not for your clothes and their apparent desire to drag you back down to the murky depths.

You need to get out. It’s a struggle to even raise an arm however, a tangible delay existing between command sent and act performed.

At some point in the midst of all your struggling, you realize you can simply stand up. You stop splashing around, your feet finding soft but sure ground beneath the surface, and rise up out of the water. Mud engulfs your shoes, entire ecosystems sloshing off your ruined clothes. The water doesn’t even come up to your knees. You cautiously prod at the bottom of the rice paddy with the tip of your toe, expecting to find some sudden dropoff, but nothing of the sort is down there. Seems getting out of hell was a one-way trip—not that you’re in any hurry to return.

Having stood up, you’re afforded a view of the surrounding landscape, previously obstructed by the shallow embankments all around the rice paddy. Wherever you are, it sure as hell ain’t Kansas. The area, largely flat and clearly rural, is plastered in every possible shade of green, whether it be in the long, chartreuse grass or the lush, broad-leafed trees. It really is striking how untamed nature is here despite clear attempts to corral it in the form of paddy fields and irrigation channels. It all speaks to the kind of locale where rainy days are a constant companion more so than the occasional visitor.

That rain must also have the effect of making it humid as all fuck. There’s moisture everywhere—in the air, on your skin, between your damn ears. No way your robes will dry out on their own at this rate. Probably doesn’t help that you’re standing shin-deep in pond scum either.

You trudge out of the rice paddy, reaching the bank and turning about-face so you can collapse back on it. The tall grass cushions your fall, makes the ground almost halfway comfy. Beats the hell out of any five-star bed right about now. You can’t help but close your eyes for a moment. A moment quickly becomes more than a moment, and before you know it you’re fast asleep.

***

The sound of footsteps on the causeway above causes you to stir. Groggily, you force yourself into a sitting position. You turn around and upon clambering up to the road, you see a short, pear-shaped woman and a child walking away, having apparently walked past the man lying upon the embankment none-the-wiser. Both wear conical hats and loose, breezy clothing the color of granite. The woman clutches the child’s hand and the child in turn drags a small stuffed animal on the ground behind her.

Thank fucking Christ. With any luck, the lady’ll let you use her phone, or at least let you know where you can find one. Hopefully it’s someplace you can get a shower and a cheeseburger. You get on your feet and onto the road after them.

Once you’re about two-dozen feet away, you shout, “Hey! ‘Scuse me, can I talk to you for a second? I’d really appreciate if you’d give me a little help. You would not believe the shit I’ve been through.”

The woman halts mid-step. “Oh yes, of course. Whatever is the matter..?” she answers before turning around to face you. With you being a good head and shoulders taller than her, she’s forced to glance upward, in doing so angling the brim of her hat up just enough to reveal her decidedly nonhuman, pig-like face.

At that exact same moment, her eyes fall upon you. She gasps, blood instantly draining from her face and turning her color from a rosy flush to pink-tinged white. Pulling the kid close and backing up probably aren’t even conscious acts on her part, just pure maternal instinct kicking in automatically like a reflex. The kid, every bit as porcine as her mother, stares at you with eyes wide and mouth agape.

Before you can even think about how to react, the woman screams, “ Yuojing !” Kid still in tow, she spins on her heel and takes off running in the other direction at a speed you weren’t at all expecting from her portly build. The kid’s feet are practically off the ground she runs so fast. Soon, all that remains of the pair’s presence are the dust clouds kicked up in the pig-woman’s wake. That and the child’s stuffed animal.

The entire interaction occurred over the span of no more than a few seconds and yet it leaves you with the all-too-familiar sense of being completely, utterly fucked. Not only do you not know where you are in a local sense, you’re not even entirely sure what plane of existence you’re on. Considering the only anthropomorphic pigs back home are in picture books and weird porn, odds are this Earth you’re on isn’t the same Earth you know.

No. Familiar as this place is, this is someplace different.

Someplace strange.

Someplace utterly unknown.

Profound, existential terror threatens to seize you by the waist and squeeze. It starts to gnaw at your very core, knowing full well you’re somewhere you don’t belong combined with the very idea of being so far mindbendingly far from home feels as caustic as an acid needle to the prefrontal cortex. Simply knowing is painful—forbidden information of the Lovecraftian bent. An interloper’s anxiety.

You look down. There’s something in your hand. The stuffed animal. Looks like you picked it up at some point. Up close, you can finally tell what it is: a little sock monkey. All on its own. Lost, but not abandoned.

You brush off some caked-on dirt and tuck it into your robe, right on top of the paper talisman. Anyone looking at you would see a tiny head poking out from between your robe’s lapels. Two button eyes stare directly ahead, already on the lookout for little pig hands.

With a weary sigh, you start down the road.

Chapter 7: Not in Kansas Anymore

It took longer than you expected. A few hours here, the better part of a day in hell, god-knows-how-long floating in the cold expanse of space—why it didn't happen somewhere in the middle of all that, you have no idea. Maybe you simply never got a chance to get around to it between all the wheeling and dealing you’ve had to do just to stay alive. Not thinking about it probably helped some, but it was never a question of if but when.

You manage to put four or five miles of empty countryside behind you before the initial hunger pangs strike. The first one brought with it an almost palpable sense of relief; it occurred to you that being amongst the living doesn’t automatically qualify you as such. The growls from your stomach are enough to quell that notion however. Ghosts don’t get hungry.

But you do, and it’s rapidly on its way to becoming a problem. The sensation of hunger tends to start small and ramp up from there, like how a car goes from zero to sixty and not zero-sixty. If there was a ramp up this time, it was hardly noticeable. Less Sienna minivan, more twin-turbo’d Mustang supercharger.

All that to say you’re not just hungry; you’re starving. Too often is that particular word the victim of hyperbole. Not in this case. You gotta find something to eat, and soon. Pickings are slim however, save for handfuls of acorns and the occasional death cap on the side of the road. The things you’d do for a 20-inch pie with the works right about now. No sense dwelling on the issue when there’s nothing you can do about it you suppose. Something will come along.

Oh please let something come along.

In the meantime, might as well try and take stock of your situation. To recap, it wasn’t too long ago that you shuffled off this mortal coil. Instead of going wherever folk are supposed to go however, you somehow ended up in a bizarro version of hell which then proceeded to spit you out onto a bizarro version of Earth where walking, talking pig-people are a thing. Based on the reactions of two such pig-people, humans aren’t all too common a sight around these parts. Hell, you might be the only one as far as you know. Hopefully that isn’t actually the case, what with things being inconvenient enough as it is.

As for where these parts actually are—on the micro-level, you’re on a raised dirt road currently winding its way across a semi-flat, semi-mountainous landscape carpeted in knee-high grass. The air here feels thick, almost soupy with condensation. Dull heat beats down on the back of your neck as a consequence of the sun hanging high in the bright blue sky, not yet at its apex but on imminent approach. Where the road is going, where you’re ultimately headed, you haven't the faintest idea.

Similarly impossible to determine is where you are on the macro-level. Certainly nowhere temperate, nor anywhere super tropical. That just leaves the subtropics then, with one locale in particular being a particularly strong contender (assuming it’s called the same thing in this world). Anything beyond that, probably best to hedge your bets for the time being.

You slot it into the ever-growing list of things you‘d like to find out sooner rather than later. First things first, returning this sockmonkey tucked under your shirt to its rightful owner. From there, someone oughta be able to tell you where you are, what this place’s deal is, and what you can do to get back home.

If you can get back home, and that’s looking like a bigger and bigger if by the second. Even as the thought crosses your mind, you can’t help but wonder if there’s anything home worth going back to…

You find your train of thought interrupted by your treasonous legs buckling out from underneath you. You’re sent sprawling to the ground in a heap of limbs, resulting in torn sleeves and road rash. Fists ball up on their own, then proceed to pound the dirt in muted frustration. You’d scream if you had the strength for it.

There’s no one around to help, yet you glance around anyway. You expect none and you receive none. But you do see something that you wouldn’t have otherwise. In a small copse of trees off the side of the road, you spot some stonework peeking out from beneath the layers upon layers of overgrowth. With effort, you get back on your feet and descend down into the thicket, whereupon you’re met with a small stone structure resembling a standalone fireplace sans chimney. Engraved on either side of the opening where kindling would go but at present contains naught but ash are vertical columns of eastern script.

A shrine—in significant disrepair, but not entirely neglected. Someone had been here some time ago and left a few sticks of incense jutting out of the ash, long since burned out, alongside a wooden plate.

With a single white bun on it.

The first piece of food you’ve seen in what very well may have been a literal eternity and the mere sight of it is enough to make your mouth water. The thing looks almost otherworldly, a morsel of white in an otherwise green world. Your hand reaches out. It stops short, hesitation curling each finger back. Whoever left it here certainly didn’t leave it for your sorry ass. This’ll be your first deliberate act of trespass. Odds are it won’t be the last. Not by a long shot.

You pick up the bun. It feels like nothing in your palm. Less than nothing. You quickly mutter something inbetween an apology and a prayer before digging in.

It’s as cold as it is hard, which is to say very cold and very hard. Something slimy had left its mark on it by taking out a decent-sized chunk. However amazing the bun might’ve been fresh, it’s a far cry from that state now. Despite all that, you can’t remember the last time anything tasted so good.

***

Vegetation begins to thin until what was lush and verdant becomes brown and withered. What the surrounding landscape loses in greenery it gains in ruggedness however as the topography around you becomes increasingly furrowed. You can practically see invisible contour lines edge closer to one another with every passing hill and knoll. The dirt road slowly transitions from being on the ground to weaving through it like a river finding its path of least resistance.

You crest a gradual slope and, at long last, a town comes into view. Or at least something approximating a town, if hovels nestled into a narrow canyon can qualify as such. Each building is a sad, gray little affair—some bigger, some smaller, all tamped mud and dusty brick, topped with the gently-sloping roof tiles endemic of eastern architecture. The road continues ahead as it hugs the canyon floor, running straight through the town and acting as a sort of main thoroughfare. It’s easy to imagine stands set up on the side of the road to hawk wares at passing travelers.

Except there are no stands or wares or travelers. On approach, the town appears entirely deserted. Without exception, every door is closed, every window shuttered. Not a soul wanders the streets. There’s something in the air as well as—or rather, the curious lack of something: noise. It’s far too quiet, the atmosphere akin to a forest hushed by some unseen predator.

Uncertain of what you’re walking into, you stop just short of entering the town’s limits. “Hello? Anyone out there?” Wind chimes clink against one another in response.

You walk up to the nearest building for a closer inspection. Predictably, a knock on the door yields nothing in the way of a response. The door itself proves equally obstinate, having been barred solidly from the other side. You try a few other buildings with similar results. Just as you are about to walk away from one, an idea occurs to you.

“Fuck’s sake, of course this house is locked too. Where the hell is everybody? Ain’t nobody hear of no hospitality? I swear if the next door I walk up to doesn’t open so help me I'm gonna huff and I’m gonna puff and blow the whole place down…” You let your voice trail off while making a show of stomping in place. To someone out of sight, it might’ve sounded as though you had walked away. Gingerly, you creep up to the door again and put your ear up against the sunbaked wood.

“…it’s gone now I think. Did you hear what it said? It’s going to blow down the Lue’s home! With its breath! What terrible power! We have to do something! Warn them somehow!”

“Are you crazy? How are we supposed to do that with the yuojing between them and us? No, there is wisdom in restraint. We stay put and wait for help to arrive. It’s all we can do.”

“Who knows how long that will take?!”

“Not long. The monk sent a flyer to the Jade Palace as soon as Mrs. Chen came back with word of the demon’s arrival. Heavens be willing, a master will arrive before nightfall. The neighbors will just have to fend for themselves until then.” A brief pause, “What’s the matter? Why’ve you gone pale?”

Another pause, slightly longer, “Dear. Look. The bottom of the door.”

No further voices are audible. You step back. On the door’s surface, the edges of your shadow go fuzzy and indistinct. Something tells you this well has run dry. Nice while it lasted though. You jot down a quick mental note of things mentioned before moving on.

Venturing further into the village simultaneously brings you deeper into the canyon. Inch by inch, the walls on either side creep up until the sun and a better part of the sky are blocked from view. As space on the canyon floor shrinks, so does the distance between individual buildings. The increasingly cramped spacing isn’t doing your paranoia any favors. More than once you’d swear something darts out of sight.

With the streets just about devoid of activity, you’re able to pick up on sounds you otherwise wouldn’t. What you thought was silence is actually the minute soundscape of a whole town holding its breath. Most are innocuous: the squeal of an unoiled hinge, the groan of damp woodwork, the pit-pat of water droplets splashing down on stone. One in particular catches your attention however. You strain to hear what sounds like someone enthusiastically rummaging through a wooden cupboard.

You find yourself drawn to the noise, turning blind corner after blind corner until you happen upon a small, hidden-away patch of land enclosed by four unclimbable walls, rendering the narrow alley you walked in from the sole point of entry or egress. On that land is a meagre garden that‘s in the process of being harvested, the fruits of which are being stored in a barrel in the very center.

The barrel’s lid is off to the side, its top exposed like an open jar. Every so often, a carrot arcs out before landing perfectly in an adjacent basket. Upon sidling up to the barrel to take a peek inside, you’re greeted by the top of an itty-bitty white head. Slender brown ears drape behind the head like pigtails. The head’s owner continues glancing down as eyes you can’t yet see inspect a tiny carrot clasped between even tinier white paws. The carrot is tossed aside in favor of a slightly fuller one. Apparently satisfied with its selection, the creature casually tosses the carrot over its shoulder. Instead of sailing out the barrel and into the awaiting basket however, it smacks into your palm with a resounding thwack.

An immediate crap sounds out (inaudible were it not amplified by the barrel’s confines). Fight and flight having been rendered non-options, the creature seizes the only remaining choice and freezes in place. It instantly tenses up, entire body taut as a drawn bow string. A few seconds elapse wherein time might as well be frozen. Eventually, it can’t help but look up. Amber eyes regard you with unabashed shock. A cute button nose twitches nervously. The being is a rabbit, and a young one at that.

Carrot still pinched between thumb and forefinger, you give the rabbit a small wave, “Hi there. Mind if we talked for a bit? I’m not exactly from around here. Really, really hoping you could fill me in on a few things. Help me find my bearings more or less. Ah hell, who am I kidding? My whole world got flipped turned upside down and I need all the help I can get. Err, you wanna join me out here so that I don’t have to talk into a barrel? I feel like I’m talking to a Greek philosopher up here.”

 After a moment’s hesitation and some not-so-momentary confusion, the rabbit nods. You step back to give her some space. Nothing happens initially. Then two ears peek over the barrel’s rim like twin periscopes, followed by the top of a fuzzy head, until at last a big ol’ pair of hazel eyes make their appearance. They swivel about—searching, analyzing, wary.

Whatever she’s looking for, it’s evidently not present. She vaults out of the barrel and lands beside it with practiced ease, taking care not to put herself between you and it. Good chance that’s the only reason she hasn’t already hightailed it yet.

She dusts herself off and you’re able to get a proper look at her for the first time. Barely reaching up to your knees in front of you is a bipedal rabbit-child dressed in little more than rags. She’s a tiny little thing, more skin and bones than anything, scrawny in all the places a kid shouldn’t be. Her fur is dappled brown and white like rocky road ice cream, heavy on the chocolate chip. Every part of her is tense; ears are flat against the back of her head as she bounces back and forth on her lagomorph-equivalent of tippy-toes, all in service of helping her bolt at the drop of a hat if need be.

“Hey, I know this isn’t easy—you sticking around to talk to me that is. Folks aren’t exactly lining up to do that. So I just wanna say thanks. Feels nice to not have someone screaming and running away at the sight of me for a change.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the rabbit says, her voice squeaky but hard-scrabble, “Still might depending on how this talk goes. So you’re the big bad yuojing that’s got everyone too scared to come out of their hidey-holes. What do you want from me?”

“I want to know what the hell’s going on. One minute I’m in space, then I’m underground getting sassed by a guy with two-faces. Now I’m trying to convince a talking rabbit to give me the time of day. Jesus, I must sound like a crazy person right about now. Let’s just say I’ve been through some shit and I need catching up like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t emphasize how off in over my head I am over here.”

“Hold it right there,” she interjects. She rubs her chin, the barest flash of a twinkle in her eye, “So, information’s what you’re after? Sure, I can do that.” Just as you’re about to open your mouth to thank her, she holds up a finger, “But not for nothing. Tell you what though, help me out with my rounds and you can ask me all the questions you want.”

“Oh come the fuck on, seriously? You really gonna make me jump through some hoops just to get some damn answers? Give me a break already!”

The rabbit-child spreads her arms wide, gesturing at the empty village all around, “Feel free to ask anyone else then. Oh wait, there isn’t anyone else. So stop your belly-aching and pick up my basket.”

Crassness aside, the little bugger’s got a point. Odds are you’re not gonna get a better deal than this. Whether it’s human beings or anthropomorphic rabbits, something for nothing was bound to be a longshot. In a certain way, that’s kind of comforting. Some things never change. Still, you pantomime a display of frustration. Wouldn’t want to give her the impression you gave in that easily.

After an appreciable amount of time passes, you walk over to the basket full of carrots and heft it off the ground. Loops attached to the sides make that easy enough, clearly present to make the basket able to be worn like a backpack. Of course a backpack to a rabbit might as well be a tote bag to you. Loaded to the brim as it is at present with carrots, it’s easy to see why she’d want your help lugging it around.

The rabbit steps to the side and motions for you to take the lead, “You go first. Two paces ahead, one left. I’ll tell you when to stop or make a turn.”

“Not exactly the trusting type, are we?”

“Don’t take it personally. I'd've said the same to anyone, yuojing or not.” With the rabbit and basket in tow, you begin making your way into the village proper. The two of you certainly make for an odd pair as you amble through the deserted streets—you ahead, her behind. You make an effort to go slow. Easier for your much shorter companion to keep up that way, which has the unintended but not altogether unwelcome effect of making the walk feel almost leisurely.

“Take the next left,” the rabbit-child directs, “Good. Keep going ‘til we hit the teahouse. So, you gonna ask me stuff or what? ‘Cause now’s as good a time as any.”

“Oh man, where do I even start? I should probably start by asking ‘what the hell is this place’, but seeing as how you’ve got me running errands and playing pack mule for you, figure I’d start with your name first. So, what do I call you?”

“Just call me girl.”

“Girl? You seriously want me to call you girl ?”

 “Why not? That’s what the villagers call me. They’ll say things like watch your step, girl or it’s that girl again or stop playing with that girl . As for what this place is—welcome to Shepherd's Gorge, ass-end of Luyun province. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

“I-I don’t even know what to say... but you do have a name, right? A real one I mean.”

“Sure, but what’s the point if the people that are supposed to use it are gone? Or don’t know any better? Seriously, just call me girl. It’ll be easier for the both of us.

“Right. Err, about this place, I was hoping for something more… big picture?”

“Big picture? I guess the town is part of the Western Kingdom, but it’s close enough to Pactlands territory that we get plenty of dog-folk passing through to do trade in the Valley of Peace. That big enough for ya’?”

“Bigger. I‘m assuming we’re on Earth, yeah? Take that as the upper limit of what I know and go down from there.”

“...China. We’re in China. You’re speaking Chinese right now. Jeeze, you weren’t kidding about being clueless. Next you’ll be asking me when we are.”

“I mean, wouldn’t hurt to tell me that either. Actually, no—a date wouldn’t do me much good. Talk to me about the current state of technology. Where’s the world at in terms of things like cars, electricity? Oh god please tell me indoor plumbing has been invented.”

“Electri- what now? What do I look like to you, an alchemist? Never heard of any of those things before. I’ve also never left Shepherd’s Gorge before so I might not be the best person to ask.”

“Hmm. Okay, okay, what do farmers around here use to plow their fields?”

“I’m as much a farmer as I am an alchemist but if I had to guess, bulls mostly. Maybe the odd horse if they can’t find any other work. Why? What kind of animals plow the fields in your homeland?”

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuuuuuuuck. Hold on, I need a sec to breathe—FUCK. Okay, I should be good now. For my sanity’s sake, let’s circle back around to this topic later. Just thinking about it is just about breaking my brain.”

“If you say so. Gotta say, this has been kind of a letdown so far. Aside from the way you talk, you’re not all that weird for a yuojing . Still weird, don’t get me wrong, but not like three-headed or face on your stomach -weird… you don’t have a face on your stomach, do you?”

“No, I don’t. And there’s that word again. What is it—the fifth time today I’ve been called that? I can understand Chinese but I still can’t make heads or tails of that word. What’s a yuojing ? Why the hell does everyone think I am one?”

“Guess there isn’t a word for it wherever you’re from. Everything I know about this kind of stuff I only half-remember from what I was told as a kid, but a yuojing is supposed to be like a demon basically, a spirit from the netherworld here to prey on the living. Not always evil, but rarely good. And no wonder people are spooked by you. I mean—just look at you. The way you look, the way you’re dressed; like some kind of hairless demon monkey with one foot still in the grave.”

“I’d be insulted if that wasn’t so close to the truth. Except for the fact that I’m not a demon. Or a monkey. Still, I guess I can see where folk are coming from when you lay it out like that. Judging from this reception, my kind aren’t exactly well-known around these parts. Fuck me, I might be the only one. Been meaning to ask by the way, why didn’t you run away earlier? What do you think I am?”

“Not sure what you are. Not yet anyway. Guess we’ll see. But you’re clearly not what the villagers say you are. For one thing, you could’ve tore me apart when you had me dead to rights in that barrel, but you didn’t. Secondly, you got Ainu’s sockmonkey. Knowing Ainu, no way she parted with it willingly. Seeing as how she and her mom came back alive, I’m guessing you didn’t take it from her.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. Thanks for the benefit of the doubt. That the teahouse coming up? Place looks as closed as everything else.”

“Good thing we’re not dropping in for a pot. Place blows anyway. Scumbag owner ran me out with a broom once. Service is alright though. See the window next to the door? Put a few carrots on the window sill. Make sure they won’t fall off if someone opens the window from the inside.“

You do as she says, taking carrots out of the basket and placing them on the window sill. While you do so, the Girl takes the opportunity to slip in front of you. With a jerk of her head, she motions for you to follow. You do so for a short distance. Then, on a whim, you glance back. The carrots are already gone.

“Speaking of carrots, you gonna clue me in on what we’re doing? I take it that garden of yours back there wasn’t, well, yours.”

“I was just making sure my crop of none-of-your-damn-business was coming in nicely. We had a deal, remember? You help out me with a few things and in return you ask me all the dumb questions you can think of. Never said I had to answer them all.”

“Alright, alright, sheesh. Forget I asked.”

“Like I said, don’t take it personally. And trust me, this place might look empty but the walls will jump down your throat if you give them the chance. Hang a left here. Okay, see all the spouts where rainwater is supposed to come out? I point one out and you jam a few carrots inside. That one for instance.”

You dutifully insert carrots into the specified spout that, outwardly at least, looks no different from the others. “Like this?”

“You’re a natural. Those two over there now. Hey, let me ask you something for a change. Not that I care or anything, but what is it you’re actually looking to do? After you’ve finished helping me that is, which you’re doing a banger of job at by the way.”

“Long term? Getting back where I came from I suppose. I don’t belong here, I know that much. I’m a long ways from home though. Maybe the longest anyone’s ever been from anywhere.”

“The spout under that noodle shop flier. Wouldn’t wanna be you right now, and that’s the town tramp talking. Sounds like you’re screwed five ways to New Year’s day.”

“In ways I can’t even begin to comprehend in all likelihood. I think I know what to do though.”

“That leaky spout right there. You got a plan then?”

“I wouldn’t call it a plan per se. More a direction to head towards I guess. There’s this movi- erm, story I heard about a similarish-enough situation. Normal guy gets sent back in time and one of the first things to happen to him was being thrown into a pit to die. He doesn’t though. He even manages to kill a demon which earns the trust of the locals. I don’t think I can swing that, so I’ll skip ahead to what he did next and that’s talking to someone who might know how to send me home. A wizard or something.”

“What happened to the demon-slayer in your story?” she asks, interest genuinely piqued. “Did he get to go back to his own time?”

“He does in one version of the story. In the original… he ends up back where he started, except way, way in the future. Hopefully things go better for me. Wouldn’t say no to an Oldsmobile full of chemistry books though.”

The Girl falls silent. Her brow furrows beneath the weight of serious contemplation. For some time, all she does is occasionally point at a spout in need of a carrot dropoff. At last she says, “I don’t know any wizards, but there’s this monk that’s in charge of the whole village. Might be someone worth talking to if you can somehow convince him you’re not a yuojing . I can take you to him once we’re finished up here.”

“Hey, that’s not a half-bad idea! Think I heard some folk earlier mention something about a monk too. At the very least he could help set the record straight about how not a demon I am. Certainly be nice if people were willing to look me in the eye again. Thanks, I really appreciate it!”

“Don’t mention it. Just promise you’ll tell me that demon-slayer story someday. Anyways, basket should be just about empty now, right? Then we're done. Oh, and one more thing before I forget. That house over there with the chalk drawings all over the front? That’s where Ainu and her mom live. I’m gonna go check out the crossroads up ahead. Catch up with me when you’re ready to head out.”

With that, the Girl gives you an off-the-cuff, two-fingered salute before heading further up the road. She steps into the shadow of the eaves, becoming one with them and practically disappearing right in front of you. If she wanted to lose you, she very well could and without much difficulty.

You turn your attention to the house with the chalk on it. As described, the building’s front facade has been converted into a canvas for a budding young artist, as evidenced by the carefree doodles of daily life before the advent of anything more advanced than an abacus.

Atypical however is the tableau in the prestigious center of it all. Rendered exclusively in the medium of white chalk is the moment just prior to battle as five back-to-back warriors are surrounded by an amorphous horde of swords, spears, axes and halberds, with the odd knife or two chucked in for good measure. It’s clear that time, attention, and painstaking effort went into it, resulting in a picture that reads more like a love letter.

The artist’s hand, while inexperienced, shows early onset talent. There is a healthy appreciation for line thickness and even an earnest attempt at shading. The resulting effect is a striking group portrait of the five warriors: a mantis in prayer, a snake poised to strike, a monkey mid-laugh, a tiger’s smoldering glare, and a crane with wings gloriously outstretched.

While the monkey clearly claimed the lion’s share of the artist’s passion, it’s the tiger that seizes your attention and proceeds to hold it captive. Readily apparent even from this rudimentary caricature is a feral edge not present in the others, as if control wasn’t so much a given as it is a suggestion. Your gooseflesh prickles beneath the tiger’s gaze, warning of danger a hundred times more dire than mere teeth or claws.

With some reluctance—the origins of which proves elusive—you tear your eyes away. The sockmonkey, silent witness to all that has occurred thus far, is fished out from its place atop your chest. As you’re about to place it neatly on the doorstep, an idea occurs to you.

You lean down and sit the sockmonkey at the foot of the drawing squarely beneath the five warriors. It slumps forward despite its back lying flat against the wall, like a content passenger on the last leg of their return journey home. You pick up a sliver of leftover chalk and, on some empty wall space, draw a stick figure beside it. You briefly consider giving the figure a smiling expression but ultimately decide against it, opting instead to extend the arm a bit, lending it and the sockmonkey the impression of them holding hands.

Satisfied, you take a moment to step back and admire your handiwork, before continuing down the road to meet back up with the Girl.

Chapter 8: Breaking, Entering

Upon entering the ostensibly empty crossroads, the Girl's voice rings loud and clear despite being nowhere in sight, "Sure took your sweet time, didn't you?"

"Miss me already?” you say out loud to seemingly no one in particular, “Could've stuck around if you wanted to. Wasn’t as if I was doing anything I didn't want you to see."

"Like I said, I wanted to check out the intersection. 'Sides, I needed a break from the center of the road. You walk pretty slow for a thing with legs as spindly as those. You part bird? Got thin bones so you can fly easier?"

"Just giving you time to keep up, pipsqueak. Can't be too careful either, wouldn't want to step on you with these big ol' feet. You'd get stuck under them and I'd never find you again."

"You couldn't find me period unless I wanted you to."

"That why I caught you in that barrel earlier?"

"Not gonna happen again. So, we heading out or what? Daylight's burning in case you haven’t noticed."

"Don't think I don't see you trying to change the subject. But sure, let's go see that monk." You start down the main road again and, after a few moments, your footsteps are augmented by the addition of your featherweight companion. One second, you're alone; the next, she's right there beside you, walking nonchalantly at your side as though she had never left. You heft the now empty basket up and ask, "What do you want me to do with this?"

"Give it here." She raises her arms straight up into the air and, with your aid, shimmies the backstraps on until the basket is seated comfortably on her back. “Gotta admit, things worked out real swell today. I got a bigger haul than usual and now I’m friends with a Yuojing .”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“The way I see it, there’s gonna be three kinds of people you’ll meet today: folk that are gonna run away from you to hide, folk that are gonna run away from you to find something to stab you with, and folk that just don’t know whether or not they should run away yet, which makes them the closest thing you’ll have to a friend. Guess what I am.”

“Wow. I haven’t felt love like this since I accidentally full-body tackled a girl in gym class. But point taken. About this monk—assuming I even get an audience with him—anything I oughta know beforehand?”

“Hrmm,” the girl murmurs. She takes an ear in hand and rubs it against her cheek, “His name is Jheur. He can be… a lot for people that haven't met him before.”

“I know the type. Let me guess, stubborn? Full of himself?”

“That’s all one way to put it. Still, the villagers listen to him so he’s your best shot at getting the kind of help you’re looking for. C’mon. It’s not far now.”

The canyon, and by extension the village within it, turns out far larger and deeper then it appeared initially on the approach coming in. Only now do you near what seems to be the town’s center, as signified by the presence of a space comparable to a public square. Three of the square's sides are similar enough; random mishmashes of buildings and roadways all fighting to claim a coveted spot at the edge. The remaining side however is reserved solely for an unbroken length of white wall about twice your height, complete with overhang to ward off any intrepid interlopers. An ornate gate divides the wall into two equal halves and serves as the sole point-of-entry. After a quick jaunt across the deserted square, you and your companion stand before the gate. An exploratory push proves unsuccessful.

“Figures. Now what? I could shout ‘let us in!’ but there’s not much I can say that won’t sound like a demon trying to pretend it’s not a demon from the other side of a locked gate. Don’t suppose you got any pull here?”

“Oh I’ll pull something alright.” The Girl proceeds to scramble up the sheer side of the wall, digging digits into holds you can’t even see much less grab onto in all likelihood. She’s up and over in a flash, landing silently and unseen on tiny padded feet. One unlocked gate later and you’re right there with her on the other side.

“Nice. Must be alotta carrots on top of walls around here.”

“Can be if you know where to look. Is that a note of disapproval I hear? Don’t tell me you picked now of all times to act the part of a law-abiding citizen.”

“Don’t get it twisted. Needs must as far as I’m concerned. Just hope nobody takes this the wrong way is all. Trespassing doesn’t usually make for a good first impression.” You start walking. It takes a few steps to realize your companion is opting not to follow. “Not coming?”

“Probably best that I don’t. You said it yourself, it’s all about that first impression. Me and the monk, we don’t exactly see eye to eye. Trust me, you’ve got a better chance of getting through to him if I wasn’t with you. I’ll wait here and head off anyone that might want to go in after you.”

“You sure? Maybe I can help settle whatever bad blood you two have. ‘You scratch my back, I scratch your back’ kind of deal. Two voices are louder than one after all.”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, if that’s what you really want. Hey, thanks again for being such a big help. I’d be buzzard feed on the side of the road if you hadn’t taken a chance on me. I owe you big time. For what it’s worth, I’ll try to put in a good word for you.”

You reach out a hand to offer a conciliatory pat on the head. The Girl flinches away at your encroaching touch. She takes a step back to keep herself out of arm’s reach.

“What are you doing?”

“Err, something I’ve seen people do here and there. Just felt like it was… forget about it. That was dumb of me. I’ll go ahead and see that monk now.” In lieu of suspicion, the Girl looks more confused than anything else. She shrugs her shoulders and exits via the front gate.

Glad to put that bit of awkwardness behind, you turn to face the inner courtyard. The grounds are spacious, especially compared to the cramped streets and alleyways you’ve been subjected to up until now. Ahead, three buildings form a rough cul-de-sac around a central ginkgo tree. The middle building is by far the largest and most prominent, an austere but stately affair of paper-screened windows and black wood. Even from a distance you can spy golden statues atop equally-resplendent altars through the open doorways. As obvious a place of worship as any.

Its twin flanks sit staring at each other, identical in appearance at first glance though a closer look reveals one to be in noticeably better condition than the other. The building on the right isn’t dilapidated but it’s certainly getting there, manifesting as unpatched windows, cobwebs, and other assorted surfaces in growing need of some elbow grease. In contrast, the opposite building is shiny and clean in all the ways the first isn’t. Fit for an open house if need be.

With no one to ask for directions, you’re faced with a burning question: which building would a monk in charge of a whole village live in? The large-and-in-charge center? The rundown right? Or the well-to-do left?

You once heard that games of three-card monte are nowhere near as random as they appear. Were they truly, each card would have an equal chance of being picked; that is an even 33.3% per card, whereas in practice people tend to think the center is too obvious and the right too right , which leaves the underdog left to win out a decent percentage of the time. Nothing outrageous of course, but a meaningful uptick over the others. A quirk of human perception, reliable and understated, like people’s propensity to choosing rock in rock, paper, scissors simply because it feels so natural to ball up a hand into a fist.

No choice at all really. A quick jaunt and you’re standing before the well-maintained building. An oversized wooden door serves to bar your ingress, which a quick perimeter check confirms is your only real option for getting inside. The door looks every bit as stout as a medieval gatehouse, thick slabs of timber banded in wrought iron. Everything about it screams ‘impregnable’ barring anything short of head-on collision from a fully-loaded semi.

Unfortunately for you, you’re a bit short on semi-trucks at the moment, not to mention wall-climbing bunnies. Wouldn’t even be any place for her to slip inside to begin with; absent are the bevy of screened windows and open doorways perforating the other buildings. While windows are present, every single one is barred from top to bottom, each crosspiece as thick as your wrist, the space between them such that a rat’s ass would have a hard time squeezing past.

One such window is set into the wall adjoining the door, perhaps intended to facilitate airflow or to serve the function of a peephole. A peephole you just might be able to stick a hand through.

You look at the door, then at your arm. It can’t be that easy, can it?

Some quick visual calculus gives you a rough estimate of the distance between the window and where you presume the door’s locking mechanism is. It isn’t, in fact, that easy.

But it might just be possible, given every conceivable factor works out in your favor, which is all the encouragement you need. Couldn’t hurt to try at least. First things first: getting past those bars.

You flex your fingers in anticipation of what you’re about to put them through. Sufficiently limbered up, you press your body against the wall and start to thread your hand into the gap nearest the door. First your fingers slip in, followed easily enough by your palm and wrist. It’s slow going from then on as your forearm thickens closer to the elbow, each successive inch up against stiffer and stiffer resistance.

Your arm twists this way, rotates that way—soft, yielding flesh being squeezed on one side by wood, the other by bone. Every time you think you can go no further, you surprise yourself by pushing a bit more arm past the threshold. You grasp blindly for a knob or latch all the while, fingers curling and uncurling, each digit hoping to hit paydirt.

Pain isn’t a factor yet; you’re concentrating far too much for it to be at all noticeable in the now. Despite that, you grit teeth at the imminent approach of your elbow. You’d curse the muscles that comprise the forearm if you knew their names. It bulges obscenely against the opening, far too big and irregular a peg for this particular hole.

There’s no going further. Your arm refuses to budge, now every bit as unyielding as the wood and metal that surrounds it. Your elbow cap rubs uncomfortably against the bare wood, separated by no more than a millimeter of fragile skin, so tantalizingly close to slipping past and yet utterly unable to do so.

And still your fingers find nothing.

An idea occurs to you. Not one of your more hygienic ones, but so few are. You puff up your cheeks and picture a burger just out of reach in an effort to work your saliva glands into overdrive. Once you’ve got a big enough loogie going, you open your mouth and hawk it at your forearm where it meets the bar. Over and over again you repeat this process, until your elbow is sufficiently covered in spit.

You move your arm in any direction it can still go but back, trying your damnedest to work the spit in between the bar and your flesh. Properly lubricated, you try pushing in further, this time grasping at another bar with your free arm for leverage whilst simultaneously pressing forward.

For a disquietingly long time, progress remains nonexistent. Suddenly, you can almost hear an audible pop as your elbow clears the bar, arm now free to bend on the other side of the window. Any sense of satisfaction is swiftly squelched by the realization that getting out might be trickier than getting in. Something about this situation conjures forth images of children stuck in playground equipment. Hilarious in the moment to be sure, but not a fate you’d wish on anyone. Firefighters with the jaws-of-life probably won’t be around until another couple centuries at least.

Best not to think about it. There’s still your original problem to contend with: this stubborn door. You bend your elbow ninety-degrees, allowing your hand to finally rest flat against the inside of the wall it had been forced through. Your fingers range in search of something that might perhaps unlock the door.

Against all odds, they find that something: a series of protrusions that extend past the lip of the door. Its surfaces are smooth and complex, all signs pointing to a weighty thing no doubt built to withstand an ungodly amount of force. Even if you can’t see it, it’s easy to tell that it’s a simple but exceedingly heavy-duty latch. Part of it jiggles ever so slightly from your ministrations, informing you that this is the moving part—the bolt—responsible for fastening the door closed. The thing feels like a bonafide tree branch; small wonder that the door refuses to budge.

Try as you might, the bolt is just too unwieldy and out-of-reach to get anything resembling a proper grip on. The best you can do is press against it with the flats of your fingertips. With a deep breath, you slowly begin to nudge the bolt bit by bit to its unlocked position.

A careful dance proceeds to take place, rhythmic pressure aided by careful application of friction, at times pushing, others times pulling. It’s slow going, every inch scraped clear of the door hard fought and only on every other occasion hard won.

Progress steadily improves as you get a feel for how to manipulate the latch. Better still, the closer you bring the bolt towards you, the better your purchase as more and more surface area becomes available to work with. For a time, nothing much at all is happening as you put blind faith in the notion that you’re doing something productive when you’re given no indication that’s the case.

Then something changes. A barely perceptible difference in air pressure as the latch’s arm is retracted free of the door and it swings back slightly. With a tentative push from your free hand, it continues its arc inwards, noiselessly moving on well-oiled hinges. You stare into the doorway, half-expecting the door to swing shut and latch itself closed purely out of spite.

When you’re satisfied that it won’t, you plant a foot on a bit of wall below the bars and pull. Any pain is momentarily put on hold in favor of freeing your arm. Thankfully, getting out turns out faster than getting in. With one final, herculean tug, your arm pops free from the bars. You stumble back a few steps, nearly falling on your ass for your trouble.

The glow of satisfaction at a challenge overcome fills your belly. For a moment, you forget how empty it is. Hopefully, this monk that may or may not even be here is the charitable sort. Enough to look past a little breaking and entering at least.

Chapter 9: The Monk

You push the door open just wide enough to slip your head into the resulting crack, “Hello? Anyone home? Just a heads up, I’m coming in the front door! Feel free to give me a shout if this isn’t okay!” No response, not that you were really expecting one.

You step through the doorway and into a small foyer. For kicks, you turn around to regard the latch that was giving you so much trouble. It more or less lines up with the image you had in your head which was of an absolute unit of a locking mechanism. Looking at the whole assemblage from this angle, it’s incredible you managed to get it open. Any animal small enough to fit through the bars probably wouldn’t have had the necessary strength to move the bolt; any animal strong enough to manipulate the bolt probably wouldn’t have been able to squeeze a limb past the bars.

You face forward. The building, silent as the grave, houses a stillness bordering on the unnatural. All the signs of typical domestic habitation are nil.

All except one. Even here, having barely stepped through the door and with the fresh air from outside at your back, an intensely earthy odor is readily apparent, reminiscent of stale sweat. Whole waves waft down from the hallway in front of you. Incense burns somewhere in a token attempt to cover it up.

“Monk Jheur? Anyone? I just wanna talk.”

Again, silence. Following your nose wouldn’t be a bad call here. With that in mind, you start making your way inside.

The entrance hallway looks to extend down the entire length of the building. Walls on either side are occasionally interrupted by wide-open archways to various living spaces and ancillary corridors. This place is definitely someone’s home. You pass by parlor rooms and drawing rooms, storage closets and reception halls (all of which are devoid of activity). They’re posh as well, fantastically so—common sights are artisanally-carved furniture and porcelain vases that wouldn’t be out of place as museum pieces.

One archway connects to a well-equipped kitchen on standby replete with vegetables already prepped and ready to go in the wok at a moment’s notice. Charcoal still aglow from an earlier round of cooking illuminates the interior of a cob oven. You’re tempted to grab something to munch on, but the smell is proving strong enough at this point to affect your appetite. Least you know you’re getting warmer.

Further down the hall and through an open doorway, you encounter your first real instance of religious iconography. A room—dimly lit by a small, barred window high up on the wall—has been set aside as a place for prayer. There’s a kneeling rest and a low table upon which sits the lit incense that you’ve been smelling but not seeing up until now. Dominating the room like a mountain château overlooking the French countryside is a tall, cabinet altar constructed from reddish wood so dark it’s almost black. While the altar has a good deal more shelf space than the table, all of it is reserved solely for a small statuette of a long-bodied dragon. It’s a magnificent thing of single-piece jade, individual scales rendered in exquisite detail and with black gems like pieces of the night sky for eyes. Clutched in one of its gleaming claws is easily the most perfect pearl you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You could cut the gravitas in this room with a knife, but it’s not what you’re here for. Only one door left: the one at the very end of the hallway. Incidentally, it also seems to be where the smell is strongest once you’re standing before it. Where it was bearable before, now the smell should by rights count as a choking hazard. You cover your nose, shove the door open and soldier into the room.

You’re greeted by what must be the master bedroom. The decor is as opulent as ever, all fine linens and lacquered wood. It’s hard to focus on any details however, because very conspicuously sticking out from beneath a bed is the bottom-half of a rather heavyset individual. The individual’s clothing has been hiked past his abdomen, forcing rolls of fat covered in bristly brown hair to bunch up where his belly meets the floor.

“Hello?”

A thunk followed by a pained yelp as the individual jumps. Despite that, he makes no effort to vacate himself from underneath the bed, his top half preferring to stay right where it is presently as though you’d go away if he simply ignored you for long enough. Whoever’s under there is gonna need a little prodding.

“I heard you. And see you. Monk Jheur? I promise I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just a lost traveler looking for a little help is all. Apparently, you’re the one to talk to about that kind of thing.”

A muffled voice responds, “...and how do I know I can trust what you say, yuojing ?”

“Don’t you think if I was here to eat you I would’ve already? Why would I waste time talking when I could be tearing you apart or whatever?”

A brief silence as the individual contemplates on what you just said.

“There is sense in your words,” he finally acquiesces. Gingerly, the individual starts crawling back on his hands and knees until his porcine head pops free from the bed’s confines. He sits there for a moment, dazed, eyes still adjusting to the outside world.

On the ground in front of you is a massive boar wearing the sepia robes of an eastern holy man. Hanging from his neck is a string of prayer beads, a few of which he presently fiddles between his sizable fingers. In lieu of bare skin, what few areas not clothed are instead thick with coarse, wooly hair the color and texture of a forest floor. Twin tusks curve out of the corners of his mouth, each immaculate and nearly as white as the whites of his eyes, both of which are presently regarding you with a pungent mixture of apprehension and sheer terror. He looks like he’s regretting his decision to leave (in his mind) the safety of the bed.

You show him your palms in an attempt to look as non-threatening as possible, “Easy, easy. Like I said, not here to hurt you.”

From the look on his face, you’re less than convincing. He’s regressed if anything, his eyes wild with fear. He falls to his knees and clasps his hands together in supplication.

“Oh merciful heavens! Why has such peril come to menace me in my own home? I beseech thee, those that watch over this pitiable old hog, lend me strength so that I might live to serve thou another day!”

Something the monk said irks you to no end. You lean forward and grab ahold of his hands. They’re trembling.

“Listen to me. I’m not a ghost, I’m not a demon, and I’m no yuojing . What I am is very lost and more than a little confused. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is stick around. So if there’s some way I can prove to you I’m not what you think I am, I’m all ears.”

Your speech gives the monk pause. He shrugs your grasp away before taking the loop of prayer beads from his shoulders and holding them out to you.

“My mala beads. Only the pure of heart may touch them without ill effect.” The monk widens the distance between his hands and the necklace sags down the center correspondingly. He wants you to put it on.

It takes effort not to roll your eyes. Then again, you’ve certainly seen stranger things thus far. Whatever it takes to establish a little initial trust you suppose. Begrudgingly, you bow your head and he slips the necklace onto your shoulders. A Hawaiian lei it certainly isn’t; damn thing’s like a string of oversized marbles around your neck and they feel about as heavy. They settle on the back of your neck, somewhat warm against your bare skin.

Monk Jheur resumes praying, this time closing his eyes and mouthing words you can’t quite hear. Once it’s apparent whatever he thinks is about to happen doesn’t, he looks up at you warily and extends a hand. You grab onto it and make ready to haul him off the ground. The dude weighs a ton but he eventually rises to his feet.

As he smooths over his wrinkled robes, he says offhandedly, “It seems I misjudged you. Were you a demon, my mala would have compelled you to renounce your wicked nature when I started reciting the mantra of penance.”

“Sorry that didn’t happen. Clearly, we—as in me and the town as a whole—got off on the wrong foot. Given the limited information you guys were working off of, can’t say I blame anyone to be totes’ fair. Can we just start over without all this ‘me being a yuojing’ business?”

After mulling over your proposal, the monk finally says, “Yes, I think I’d like that very much. I am Monk Jheur as you already know. Allow me to welcome you to Shepherd's Gorge. What brings you to my humble village?”

“That’s the thing—I don’t have a clue why I’m here, or how,” you answer matter-of-factly, opting to omit some of your more colorful history as of late for obvious reasons, “I’m part of a race of people that, as far as I can tell, doesn’t have any presence in this world whatsoever.”

“Interesting. You are the only one of your kind then.”

“Things are looking that way. Obviously I don't belong here. All I want is to get back where I came from, and I was told you might be able to help with that.”

“I certainly know a few people in the bigger cities that might be able to assist in your plight—Chendao, Kaifan, Gongmen. You’ve heard of the Imperial Treasure Fleets, yes? They sail all across the world in search of foreign riches. If anyone has seen or heard of your people, it’s a sailor on one of those ships. But we can leave such things for the morrow. Correspondences must be sent, roads traveled. You are no doubt tired. Come, I’ll have the innkeeper prepare a room for you,” Monk Jheur says as he brushes past and enters the hallway without so much as a second glance.

You hustle after him just to keep the conversation going, “That’s real nice of you, but I don’t have any way to pay for it. I’m not exactly very liquid at the moment.”

“The innkeeper and I are quite familiar. Consider it taken care of,” he assures, traversing the hallway with one enormous stride after another, “You may stay as long as you wish, long enough to get your bearings at the very least. I insist on it.”

“Well thanks! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. It feels like I’ve been on a streak of bad luck a mile long today. And I haven’t even introduced myself yet. Not sure if I told you earlier but in case I didn’t, the name’s…”

Monk Jheur enters the foyer about a dozen steps ahead of you. He puts a hand on the edge of the door.

Presses it shut.

And rams the bolt home.

He turns to face you, eyes now narrowed to angular slits barely visible beneath a singular sagging brow. He takes a step forward, before clutching his belly with a pained expression and doubling over. A low groan escapes his lips. More than anything else, it looks like he’s feigning a stomach ache. Badly. This can’t be good.

“Jheur, you alright there? Maybe you should sit down.”

The monk suddenly stops. He recomposes himself, standing taller than before, shoulders squared and back rigid. No longer are you regarding a pile of quivering jelly; a brick wall stands in its stead.

“Monk Jheur is gone. You are in the presence of the virtuous Marshal Tianpeng, Bane of Heaven’s foes. I have once again come to Monk Jheur in his time of need, lent him my spirit and strength so that together we might vanquish those who threaten the denizens of this fair village.”

“Jheur, Tenpen, whoever’s in there—let’s just take things slow, yeah? Whatever’s the matter, I’m sure we can discuss it like civili-”

He jabs an accusing finger at you, his voice filled with newly-found righteous indignation, “So you are the one infecting the townsfolk with fear and paranoia. No more I say! Your reign of terror has gone on for long enough! It ends by my hand!”

“It hasn’t even been half a day!”

With that Jheur lunges for you, barreling down the corridor like a goddamned wrecking ball full of piss and vinegar. Each encroaching step shakes the walls and sends spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. His eyes have turned white again, this time not from fear but rage.

If there was any opportunity to de-escalate, it flew past about seven exits ago. You do the only thing you can do: turn around and run. Getting up to speed feels like trying to get a running start in molasses; you gain just enough to narrowly avoid a swipe aimed squarely for the side of your skull. Jheur’s fist scythes through the space where your head was a millisecond prior and splinters a hole into the wall behind it, alongside any notion that Jheur is acting as far as his intentions are concerned.

A repeat of your earlier trek down the hallway takes place, albeit at a much faster pace. Every room and side passage brings with it a split-second decision: enter, or hope for something better to come along. The vast majority offer nothing that’d be remotely useful when it comes to a rampaging boar. All the furniture looks equal parts beautiful and fragile, and anything that could make for an improvised weapon looks apt to disintegrate just from the sheer gall of being looked at.

Jheur is already back up and after you full tilt. A squeal of excitement echoes through the house. It almost sounds like laughter. You’re running out of hallway fast. Finally, something promising: the kitchen.

You brake hard, practically diving into the kitchen to evade another harrowingly-close call. Jheur remains hot on your heels, entering almost immediately behind you, though not immediately enough to follow you around the large central prep table that dominates the room. The two of you stay opposite of each other; whichever direction you start to bank towards, the monk mirrors in lockstep.

Jheur grins. He reverts back to his earlier demeanor as though he hadn’t made attempts to murder you in as many minutes, “It seems we are at an impasse.”

“Looks that way,” you reply, trying your damnedest not to sound out of breath, “I don’t know what your problem is, Jheur, but neither of us has done anything we can’t be take back yet. You want me out of your town? Just let me pass and you’ll never see me again. Scout’s honor.”

“I don’t want you gone,” he says icily. Calm as a cucumber, Jheur places a hand on the table and picks up a rectangular cleaver, “What I want is to see the villagers’ faces when I lay your broken body at their collective feet.”

“Fuck, I was afraid of that. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The ultimatum elicits a laugh from the sneering boar. He laughs harder still when your hand dips below the table and comes back up wielding a broom. He stops laughing when you thrust said broom into the oven behind you, its bristles scouring the oven’s interior and unearthing not-quite dead embers. Cinders dance in the hot air that wafts out.

“No!” Jheur cries but it’s too late—your arms are already in motion, the broom arcing through the air along with a cloud of hot ash. They scatter across the kitchen in an antipattern, most already dead before landing. A few aren’t however, and those are the ones Jheur is understandably concerned about. You can practically see his head spin from all the specks of red he’s trying to keep track of. He’s already scrambling to put them out, stomping those on the ground and patting out the ones on the tables.

“Water! I need water!”

You’re not sticking around to see if he gets any. With Jheur preoccupied, you’re free to round the other side of the table and exit the kitchen unmolested. No telling how long this distraction’s gonna last and you’ve been struck with a sudden, burning desire to be as far away from here as possible.

You start sprinting towards the front door when a rush of deja vu stops you in your tracks. Somewhere in the house behind you, distinct from the din Jheur is creating, muffled thuds are audible. As though someone is rummaging through a wooden cupboard. Just as you’re about to chalk it up to hunger-induced hallucinations, you hear a bang , and then a crash .

Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to keep running. Any possible gains, if any, are so far outweighed by what you stand to lose that it’s not even funny. On one side of the scale: the unknown sounds, a psychotic boar, a fiery death—all weighed against the front door and the outside world beyond it.

And the absence of closure.

Against your better judgment, you turn around and rush back down the hallway, towards the sounds and what might as well be certain death, the rational parts of your brain utterly flabbergasted into silence.

You tear down the hallway, footsteps pounding. The kitchen flies past and you catch a glimpse of Jheur still working to douse the embers. At some point between all your hemming and hawing, he’s found a bucket. Window just got a fuck-of-a-lot shorter. You’re already hauling ass; with any luck you can squeeze in an extra cheek or two.

The thudding sounds continue, one after another, not quite a sequence nor totally random. Their general volume is increasing though, as good a sign as any that this potentially lethal game of Marco Polo is coming to a head. At last you're standing before the source of the noises: the room with the altar. The door was open when you passed it earlier.

More deja vu. The bad feeling’s back and, oh boy, it’s back with a vengeance. Seems like you’ve been getting that a lot lately. For some reason or another, you really, really don’t want to see what’s on the other side of this door. It’s almost enough to turn your ass around and stomp back up the corridor.

And it nearly does, at least until Jheur’s roar reverberates up and down the house. You look back and see the monk’s fist white-knuckling the edge of the kitchen doorway. His head emerges, so close you can see the creases of neck fat beneath his coarse fur. Irate eyes travel up the hall towards the front door. Seeing it still bolted shut, he glances your direction, his gaze falling squarely on you.

You practically tear the door off its hinges in an effort to get it open, slamming it behind you hard enough to rattle the censers sitting atop the low table. Latch, latch, where’s the fucking latch?!

Shit, there isn’t one. Time to improvise. You rush over to the table and sweep your arms across its surface. Plates of food, tiny red cups of clear liquid, censers and the incense within them, it all comes clattering to the floor. Table cleared, you hoist it up, bring it back to the entrance, and wedge it firmly against the door.

Not a moment too soon either; you hear a thump and a grunt of surprise as Jheur pushes against a door that had never not yielded to him before. He quickly switches tack, first trying to push through, then trying to break through. The door is holding, but for how long you can’t say.

Another thump sounds off behind you. You turn to see the dragon statuette, its claw grasping naught but empty air, lying on the ground. Above it, hanging just below the room’s now open window is the Girl.

“Huh,” she says, visibly panting, “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me. I should’ve known things were too good to be true. Someone helping me out of the kindness of their heart—the fuck was I thinking? This all part of your plan then? Me coming in here and distracting the monk just so you can—what? Steal this?!” For emphasis, you give the statuette a kick. Small wonder the Girl can’t haul it up the wall; the thing barely budges. ”How much does a jewel-encrusted dragon go for these days? It’ll be nice knowing how much my life is worth when Jheur caves my fucking face in!”

“You weren’t supposed to be here!” she repeats, “Why are you still here?! Why aren’t you outside? Or at least not trapped in a room with the monk between you and the only way out?!”

“I didn’t exactly have an exit strategy planned out when I stepped in here on the off chance the lunatic you sent me after turned out to be off his fucking rocker!”

As if to punctuate your point, said lunatic at last manages to force the door open. The low table remains braced, the bottom scraping across the floor until it's caught in a particularly deep seam where two floorboards meet. Jheur thrusts his snout into the resulting crack and bellows, “Who is that?! Who’s with you?! When I’m finished, you will rue the day you met Marshal Tianpeng!”

“Alright, you got me in this mess, you’re getting me out of it. How the hell do we calm Mr. Big Bad Boar over here? Hey. Hey!”

You look back at the Girl to see her climbing the rest of the way to the window. She stops short of defenestrating herself completely, one foot outside, the other remaining on the window sill.

Ears flat against the back of her head, she turns slightly to speak to you in profile, “I’m sorry, but fun’s over. I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way. If it’s any comfort, you won’t have died for nothing.” She pats her pocket, and just like that she’s gone. The bars go back up and it’s as if she was never here.

“Hey! Are you being for real right now?! Don’t you fucking leave me here! Shit, shit!”

The low table can hold out no longer and finally buckles under Jheur’s repeated assaults. In an instant it’s reduced to a cloud of dust and splinters, allowing the door to swing all the way back on its hinges. Jheur himself stalks into the room a moment later. His attention is immediately drawn to the dragon statuette on the ground, the absent pearl just as eye-catching as when it was present.

One word is all the monk bothers to muster forth, “Thief.” He spits it out as though the word itself felt sour on his tongue. His chest trembles with a full-body rage that travels down his arms and shakes his fists. He simply stands there stewing in it, visibly seething, a bomb nearing the end of its fuse.

Deadly intent wreaths his entire form; you see it in the breaths he exhales, in the snot he snorts, in the sweat he perspires. Some way some how, you get a sense he’s been almost playful up until now, as though his heart was never fully in it. Playtime’s over though. Whatever his next move is, he’ll sure as shit make it with the aim of putting you six feet under.

“Stay away from me, I’m warning you! Know what happens when an animal gets backed into a corner? It becomes unpredictable. Dangerous even. You want a demon? ‘Cause this is how you get a demon!”

“Save your breath. Empty threats are all I hear. You’ve no brooms or ovens to save you anymore. Best to die with some dignity.”

He can restrain himself back no longer. Jheur launches himself at you, his outstretched hands grasping for your neck and completely unwavering.

Christ, this could actually be it. Here you are, barely one foot out of the grave and about to be punted right back into it by Kirk fucking Lazarus over here. And all because you made the mistake of putting your faith in someone. The utter unfairness of it is almost enough to make you retch.

In that moment, a veil is suddenly lifted. You’re angry. You’ve been angry. It’s a specific type of anger, slow-burning and fueled by pettiness.

Spite. It’s spite that has you in its grip. If this world so desperately wants you dead, then you’re going to do everything in your power to spite it. That’s a fucking promise.

A promise you’re gonna have to work hard to keep in the next few seconds. Jheur’s still bearing down on you with grubby mitts extended far in front of him. The mad gleam in his eye is all that’s needed to know that those hands will without a doubt be lethal should they reach their mark.

Your own hands go to your neck reflexively. There they find the necklace of prayer beads Jheur had given to you earlier and never bothered to ask for back. He probably figured he was going to get them off your corpse before long.

You’ll make sure he regrets it. You grip the beads hanging lowest on the chain and push away with all the strength you can muster. The cord stringing them together instantly goes taut. It strains from the tension but stubbornly holds together. The golf ball-sized beads dig painfully into the back of your neck.

The monk is nearly upon you, so close you can see the individual gaps of his toothy grin. It’s now or never. One last gargantuan tug and your elbow locks, arm suddenly and explosively ramrod straight. The string finally snaps, frayed, newborn ends cracking across your skin like whips and scattering beads like hail. Most of them fly towards the ground immediately in front of you.

Which so happens to be right where the oncoming boar is about to take his next step. Jheur’s eyes widen at what you’ve done, but it’s too late for him to do anything about it. A few beads skim the ground, placing themselves directly in the path of his descending foot. Bullseye, like sinking an eight-ball. Jheur’s charge is instantly converted into a textbook baseball slide that would make Charlie Hustle proud. His arms fly out in a desperate and futile attempt to regain balance.

It takes all your remaining concentration to dive out of the way, and even then you can’t quite manage it without getting clipped by Jheur’s flailing hand. You slam into the wall hard enough to see stars briefly. Still, you’re at least upright.

The same can’t be said for Jheur. His uncontrolled slide took him straight into the base of the altar cabinet, which now exists as a heap of wooden scrap around his dazed form.

You’re not keen on sticking around to see his reaction. You push away from the wall and sprint back up the hallway. A scream follows behind you, louder than any you thought possible from a living being. All the more reason to reach the front door as fast as you can. You practically fly into the foyer and undo the latch, throwing the door open hard enough to mar the wall. A quiet world bathed in twilight greets you.

Chapter 10: The Folly of Men

You step outside half-expecting a mob to have formed from all the commotion. The grounds are deserted as it turns out, but judging from Jheur’s hollering, that won’t remain the case for long. You don't need to turn around to know he’s already up and after you. He isn’t keeping his position a secret. Far from it in fact. His proximity is evident in the heavy, ponderous footsteps presently making pebbles skip across the cobblestones in excitement. He’s not far behind. Not far at all.

No point shutting the door—you've had your fill of squandering headstarts for the day. A sprint across the courtyard, past the ginkgo tree, and you’re back at the gated entrance. Without so much as a glance behind, you recross the threshold and find yourself back in the town square.

A quick tally of avenues for escape isn’t looking too promising. Main thoroughfare’s no good; the village being as empty as it is, there’s zilch in terms of obstructions to cover your retreat. Not to mentions the approaches are far enough away that Jheur will almost assuredly see you before you can get out of sight. Same goes for the alleyways; they’re a warren that your pursuer is no doubt infinitely more familiar with. The choice between being a sitting duck or rat in a maze basically.

You need to be gone. Now. Not soon. Not later. Not even five seconds from now. Right fucking now. Think, think, think.

Bingo.

When you can’t run from a problem, hide from it. You make for a small recess off to the side that’s being used as a storage space for wooden barrels and dive behind a small pyramid of them. Not a moment too soon either. You spy from your makeshift peephole as Jheur explodes out the gate screaming bloody murder.

“Yuojing ! You will pay for what you’ve done! Show yourself!” When you inevitably fail to appear, the monk visibly changes tact. He recomposes himself and shouts in a more measured tone, “Villagers of Shepherd’s Gorge, to me! I, Marshal Tianpeng, command it! By Heaven’s mandate, evil dies at my hand. I need only your aid in guiding it!”

Slowly, the town rises from its daze. All around the edges of the square, doors and windows tentatively open, barely at first, then enough to allow fuzzy heads to poke out. Upon recognizing the figure calling out, people start to emerge from their homes. Most are pigs with the odd canine or goose family to break up the pink monotony. The trickle grows to a flood as a rabble of frightened villagers encircles the monk, each voicing the same question phrased a million different ways:

“Marshal Tianpeng! You answered our prayers!”

“We knew you’d come save us!”

“The demon!? You did battle with the demon!?”

“Is it still here? Are we in danger?”

“Nonsense! We’re safe now that the forces of Heaven are here to protect us!”

Jheur silences all the disparate voices with but a slight raise of his palm. He proclaims, “My flock, you have many questions! Answers will come in due course but for now, time is of the essence! Even as I speak, the yuojing licks its wounds nearby! My powers may be vast but I am but one. Help me so that together we might vanquish this evil! Remember, it is of grave importance that none of you confront the demon head on. It is a capricious creature that speaks only in lies and deals only deceit. For your sake, only I and I alone can meet this threat.”

Agreement ripples through the crowd, but that’s all it is. Agreement. There’s no bloodlust to it, just tacit understanding that there is a problem and it needs to be dealt with before life as they knew it can continue. Just so happens that the problem turns out to be you unfortunately. The villagers self-organize into loose but unvaryingly large groups. Makeshift weapons are distributed. Fear and reticence grips them almost as tightly as they grip the implements in their hands.

Your breath hitches in your throat as two pigmen march over to your position. You duck down, willing yourself smaller as they retrieve the top barrel of the pyramid you have been hiding behind. They bring it to the center of the mob whereupon it is cracked upon and wooden branches dipped into it. One such branch takes a quick sojourn inside a home and comes back out transformed into a lit torch. The fire is shared with another; one light becomes two, two to four, four and then eight, so on and so forth until the entire square is ablaze with light.

Jheur himself heads the largest throng on a warpath out of the square. The rest take it upon themselves to venture down one of the many side streets until the square is mostly empty aside from a few stragglers, those too scared or too infirm to keep up with the others. Before long even they have gone back inside their homes, leaving the area once again bathed in darkness.

Only after a full ten minutes of dead silence do you feel safe enough to emerge. Even then you make an effort to hug a wall all the way to one of the larger out roads. A quick peak confirms it’s the main avenue you came in on. A second peak confirms it’s also the direction Jheur chose to lead the majority of the villagers down. Even from a distance, the boarman’s towering form is eminently discernible. He hollers like a man (supposedly) possessed, commanding villagers to kick down doors and flush out potential hiding spots.

Probably best to take the road not yet traveled. After glancing around to make sure no one is in sight, you sprint across the square to the opposite side where the main road continues its bisecting course. While unfamiliar, it’s markedly less occupied than the alternative.

It’s slow going from then on out. Much as you want to get the fuck away, the primal drive to remain out of sight wins out and you find yourself cautiously sticking to the shadows like a Soviet defector trying to enter West Berlin. Every so often you’re forced into some nearby alcove or alleyway by the sound of encroaching footsteps.

Thankfully, night is on the cusp of completely falling by the time you’re around halfway out of the village and the torches carried by those on the lookout for you make it that much easier to evade them. That boon doesn’t mean much when an unpassable line of pig-people are standing shoulder to shoulder however. One such line is up ahead, the torches they grip casting grim shadows on their faces.

A roadblock.

You’ll have to get around them somehow. For what feels like the upteenth time today, you find yourself heading down some ancillary alleyway. Things are looking optimistic at first: you quickly stumble across an adjoining street that, by your reckoning, is entirely deserted and runs parallel with the main road. The further down the street you travel however, the less that latter notion seems to hold true as the street begins to curve further and further away from the canyon’s exit. Worse yet, side paths that might possibly loop back to the main road are becoming fewer and farther between. You’ll need to backtrack before long if this keeps up.

To your relief, a new path interrupts the up-to-now continuous wall of buildings and you’re once again making headway towards the main road. Confidence begins ebbing again as splits in the pathway appear one after another. Trying to keep track of every twist and turn swiftly turns into an exercise in futility. You plant a hand on one wall, lest you get lost in the growing darkness.

Worse yet, the walls on either side are closing in, as clear a sign as any of a transition from the relatively-open streets to cramped slums. And if the occasional patter of footsteps at your back is any indication, these alleysways aren’t nearly as desolate as they seem. The only saving grace is the fact that you ought to be well past the roadblock by now. With any luck, one of these damn alleys will spit you back out somewhere recognizable. 

Spoke too soon. A dead end springs in front of you like a giant, fuckoff middle-finger. Seems you’ll have to backtrack after all. You turn around, only to be greeted by a gaggle of small, staring faces.

Blocking the way back is a trio of animal-children. A moon-faced piglet and a frazzled duckling bring up the rear while a short-haired dog stands in front. They’re obviously terrified, most of all the dog who grips in his paws the only visible weapon among them: a wooden pitchfork, already lowered. Its twin prongs waver wildly, pointing at the empty space on either side of you. Sometimes at your gut. Occasionally at your heart.

“Go on, Khi,” the duck whispers quietly, though not quietly enough to avoid reverberating off the walls, “He’s right there. Get him!”

“Yea, then everyone will see! We’ll all be heroes!” the pig adds whilst nudging his canine companion forward. He and the duckling make no effort to move further themselves.

The pitchfork-wielding pup cries out, “I-I don’t know about this anymore, guys. I r-really don’t know about this!” Nonstop trembling travels up his pitchfork’s shaft and causes its head to shake like a leaf in a gale. Their fearless leader he definitely isn’t. Not that he’s any less dangerous because of it of course. Arguably no place more dangerous for a weapon than in the hands of someone unfit to wield it.

Time’s running out. Almost completely dark at this point and you’re not exactly enamored with the idea of spending the night in a town full of hostile animal people. You need to get past them and return to the main road, preferably without getting skewered.

“Easy there, kiddos. Look,” Slowly, like molasses in wintertime, you upend your palms at the trio, “What do you see? That’s right. Nothing.” You take a nearly imperceptible step forward. The pig and duck take a corresponding step back. The pup doesn’t budge. “Couldn’t hurt you even if I wanted to, and believe me I don’t.” Another step forward. Another pair of steps back. “So what do you say we just let me past and we pretend none of this ever happened? Let bygones be bygones?”

“Don’t listen to it,” the pig cautions, “It’s a trick. Just trying to get close enough to do something we’re not gonna like. And it’s not harmless. The moment he gets close it’ll sprout claws that can cut a rhino in half. My momma says so.”

The duckling says, “My auntie said demons can breathe lightning, and swallow bones like noodles! They’ll do anything to eat the flesh of heavenly creatures and little boys that don’t listen to their oma’s.”

You can’t help but let out an exasperated sigh, “Okay. Let’s say for a moment even a quarter of that stuff is true. Let’s say I’m every bit the monster you all seem to think I am. If that’s truly the case…” With one final step forward, you reach out and grasp the pitchfork by the shaft, “...you really think this’d be enough to stop me?”

The pup lets out a surprised yelp. He clearly wasn't expecting you to be so close, an unforeseen circumstance of the alley's shadowy nature. “G-guys! What do I do?!"

“Err, might wanna check behind you.”

Tentatively, the pup glances around to find his two companions no longer with him, both having edged away far enough to disappear around the corner when he wasn’t looking.

“Tough breaks, kid. Sucks when people don’t have your back. Want my advice? Get used to disappointment. Now if you don’t mind, just let me scooch on b-”

All of a sudden, pain.

Searing, thought-silencing pain. It steals the air in your lungs, arrests the words still in your throat. In an instant, it becomes your whole world.

You look down to see the pitchfork’s tines embedded in your stomach. Warm, wet crimson blooms all around the connection, staining your robes black in the setting light. With strangled breath, you mutter, “You stabbed me. You fucking stabbed me.”

“I didn’t mean to! I-I…” The kid immediately lets go of the pitchfork. His end clatters to the ground, the business end still held aloft in your abdomen.

Your other hand reflexively latches onto the shaft. Together with the first, you slowly, excruciatingly extricate the prongs from your body. You tug at the shaft, fighting both the red-hot pain and the urge to immediately remove a foreign object, until it’s free. What might be ragged flesh or pieces of intestine or old dirt clings to the ends. Blood gently spurts from the sizable holes left behind. But worst of all is the trembling. No matter what you do, it just won’t stop.

What follows next, you’re not entirely sure. The dull rattle of wood hitting stone. A hand coming away from your stomach, hot and wet and tacky. The dog-child butting against the wall with a yip as you shove past.

Backtracking now. Blind corner after blind corner with no real clue of where you’re going. Cold brick on skin as your stride momentarily devolves into a stumble. Eventually, the alleyways release you from their grip and you stagger back out into the open on what may very well be your last legs.

Against all odds, you’re back on the main road. A line of distant lights stretches laterally across the road in the direction you came from. The roadblock. Nothing of that sort exists in the other direction. You see instead the village coming to its natural conclusion at the canyon’s mouth as buildings grow sparser and more sporadic. Brick becomes supplanted by wood; stone tiles transition to dirt.

You start moving towards the edge of town. Why even bother at this point—you’ve no idea really. Every subsequent step takes more effort than the last, like summiting a mountain only to see in the distance a taller peak previously obscured by fog and cloud.

You won’t lie; things aren’t looking good. It’s getting more and more doubtful you’ll even make it out of town at this rate. And even if you did, you have a feeling you won’t be getting very far. If nothing else, you suppose it’d be nice to go out on your own terms. Maybe die on some lonely knoll, preferably one with a tree you can collapse against. Yes, you think you’d like that very much.

But something on the road ahead stops you in your tracks. Cresting the inclined road leading up to the canyon’s mouth stands an oddly-shaped, dark figure. Between blood-loss induced delirium and sheer, unmitigated exhaustion, it takes a minute for the figure to register as a silhouette. It’s specifically that of a tall bird—a stork or heron’s perhaps—their outline rendered further indistinct by a round shape where their head ought to be. Only when the figure is backlit by the setting sun and the last light of day diffuses through the shape’s lattice-like material do you realize it’s a flat bamboo hat.

You’re not completely sure how to take this new development. Being relatively far away, the figure shows no sign of having noticed you as of yet, neither reacting nor moving all that much in the short span of time since you laid eyes on it.

Ah fuck it, you already came this far. Sure, you might be running on fumes but you just know you’ll never forgive yourself if a bird was all it took to stop you. Could always be worse. Could’ve been a vulture at the end of the road instead.

Before you even get the chance to try however, something big suddenly and violently makes contact with the back of the head. It’s all the encouragement your legs need to finally give out. The ground meets your knees. Darkness finally falls, total and complete, as the sun sets after a long day.

Chapter 11: Birds of a Feather

It’s a journey coming back to your senses. Not so much a snap back to consciousness as it is picking up bits and pieces of a world passing by. A snippet of conversation here, a flash of the back you’re being carried on there. Glimpses of the outside caught through an occasional break in the fence.

“…so-called plan…”

“…piss him off…”

“…back to the hideout…”

The waking part of your brain feels like the captain of a ship a quarter ways into a maritime disaster movie, right after something like a rogue wave or torpedo hits. It glances about the scarlet-tinged remnants of the bridge, ten different alarms blaring staccato in its ear. Status report , it demands. Radar’s shot—visibility’s at zero, sir. Helmsman, where are we on propulsion? Negative. Engines are online but something’s binding the propellers. Blind and dead in the water.

“…feel so good about this…”

“…thought this through? What are we…”

“…will change everything…”

After an indeterminable amount of time measurable only in brief pulses of lucidity, a transition in the environment occurs. It isn’t a change you can see so much as feel: a series of steps going down in elevation, a sudden drop in temperature, a corresponding rise in dampness. The air becomes thick and stale as though it could like dust. Wherever you are, it smells like a barnyard.

“…not sure it’s dead. I think I can hear it…”

“…back of the cave. Last thing I want is it between us and the…”

“…get this over with the better. Creeps me out just looking…”

You’re slid off a broad pair of shoulders and stood upright, arms limp at your side, back against some kind of hard surface. A rather subdued discussion is taking place in front of you, its participants forming a rough semicircle with you in orbit not too far away. A fire crackles in the center and provides some much appreciated abatement from the otherwise dank surroundings.

To recap, you can stand but you can’t move. You can hear but you can’t see. Are you blind, or is it the whole world around you that’s gone black?

No. As your faculties return, it becomes apparent that you can’t move because ropes bind your chest and you can’t see because a burlap sack covers your head. You tilt your chin down—having not been tightened, the sack comes sliding off easily enough. The first thing to meet your eyes is the floor of a cave, followed by your formerly white, now so-brown-they’re-almost-black slippers, then the bloody mess that is your midsection. An effort had been made to dress the wound which (while token) has done a decent enough job of staunching the flow of blood.

Someone had put a lot of effort into making sure you stay put. At least half a dozen lengths of rope stretch taut across your body, tying your legs together and restricting your arms to your side. You crane your neck back to see the ropes extending all the way around the stalagmite you’d been tied to, multiple times. Overkill would be an understatement; Jheur, the fat bastard that he is, probably wouldn’t be able to get out of these constraints. Breaking free yourself is out of the question, especially given your current state. You can’t ever recall feeling this weak.

As for your captors—they’re a motley crew alright, like a grab bag of rejected Kinder surprise toys. Sat around the fire at the four points of a compass is a large bull, a graying buck, a monitor lizard stood upright, and a leopardess in a half-veil. So preoccupied are they in their ongoing conversation that they’ve yet to notice you’re awake.

“He-heh,” the monitor lizard chuckles. The corners of his mouth curve ever so slightly up, lending him a permanent snigger. “In and out quieter than a chameleon’s concubine. Even the yuojing didn’t know what hit it until it was too late. I’d like to see those damned Jackals do that. See what happens when you lot do as I say?”

“Don’t mistake competence for the laws of probability at work,” the leopardess replies. She crosses her arms, irregular splotches of ombre beige and black breaking up her otherwise tan fur. “Given all the setbacks we’ve endured, something was bound to succeed eventually. Even then, it was a close call. If that kung fu master so much as glanced our way, we’d be mincemeat right about now.”

“Oh ye of such little faith. You really think I didn’t plan for such an occurrence? We would’ve simply turned in the yuojing at that point and thus be hailed as the heroes that saved the village.”

“The villagers must have short memories indeed to forget all the injustices we’ve been heaping upon them as of late.”

“Petty crimes, more like. Nothing that can’t be overlooked once we’ve put an end to the demonic threat.”

The graying buck interrupts with a snort and subsequent spit into the fire that sends particles of ash flying. He has the look of a grizzled veteran about him, the frayed remains of a mantle cape draping his shoulders. He states rather matter-of-factly, “You’re both stalling. Guess I’ll be the one to bring up the elephant in the ricefield then. So, which one of us goes first? Shall we draw straws?”

The leopardess unhooks her arms to gesture at the lizard, saying, “I nominate Sima. It was his plan after all, as he is so keen to point out. Only fair he should have first dibs.”

“No”, counters the lizard, Sima presumably, “Bian ought to go first. He already killed the thing. All he needs to do now is go all the way. There’s a sort of poetry to it, the completion of an arc.”

“Mm, friends?” the bull finally deigns to chime.

“There we go. Heard my inspiring words and the big oaf can’t help but heed the call to action. Were you two even half as agreeable.”

“That’s not it, boss. I think it’s still alive.”

Three heads swivel in unison to join the one already staring at you. An awkward silence takes hold for a second. Then all four are immediately on their feet as though there’s a very real possibility that you’re about to break free at any moment.

The atmosphere is suddenly thick with cactus needles; eyes narrow, jaws tighten, hands reach for not-so-hidden knives. For all their earlier bluster, fear clings to them even now, thick as treacle and twice as heavy. A collective breath is held, nervous glances exchanged.

Christ, what do you even say at a time like this? What can you say? In the absence of anything better, you spout the first thing that comes to mind.

“Why’s everyone looking at me like you’ve all just seen a ghost?”

Might as well have just said you’re about to start guzzling down baby spines from the looks they give you. The animals side-eye each other, uncertain of how to proceed with this unexpected development.

It’s Sima that recovers first. “Calm yourselves,” he says, a directive not meant solely for the other three, “The bindings will hold; I tied them myself. Furthermore, its wounds are severe. We all saw how much blood there was. No creature can lose that much and be in any condition to do harm.”

“Speaking of which, thanks for patching me up. That couldn’t have been an easy choice to make,” you say in an effort to defuse things somewhat.

The old buck wrinkles his nose at the comment, “Don’t be. It wasn’t your life we were trying to preserve.”

“I don’t like this, Sima,” states the leopardess, “You never mentioned the thing might try to… converse with us. The longer we delay, the likelier it is to vex us in some manner. Why is the demon still alive?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let’s all just calm down for a minute and talk things through! Nobody wants to get hurt. Least of all me. I mean do I look like I’m in any position to hurt any of you even if I wanted to? You said it yourself! I’m harmless! Hell, why would I even want to?! I don’t even know who you people are!”

“See?”

“On that we are in agreement. Bian, it seems your last task assignment was not carried out to completion. See that it is. Right. This. Instant.”

“What’s that mean, boss?”

“Must I always spell everything out? It means go get a big rock and cave its head in!”

Your jaw drops at the revelation. The large ox gives you a plaintive look, uncertainty carving frown lines into his cheeks. His substantial shoulders slump. Sighing through his cavernous nostrils, he proceeds to pick up a rock the size of a pumpkin, palming the thing with as easily as you would a baseball and slowly approaches. He’s a big boy alright— Big Bian —shorter than the stygian Ox-Head but wider by a non-insignificant margin. It’d be trite to say he’s built like a linebacker; it’d be more accurate to say he subsists on a steady diet of linebackers.

“H-hold on! You guys think I’m a demon, right? That the reason why you want to kill me? Well I’m not! I swear!”

That manages to give Bian some pause. He halts, looking back at Sima for some sort of sign.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t listen to it! It’s a being from the netherworld! Such creatures lie as easily as they breathe, if they do even that. There’s no telling what it would and won’t say to try and escape.”

“No! I’m telling you the truth! I swear on my mother’s grave! I’ll swear to God, or whatever god you believe in! I’ll swear on a Buddha statue if you’ve got one!”

Bian bounces the melon-sized rock still in his clutches from one hand to the other, saying, “I ain’t so sure about this nomores, boss. It was one thing to slog a demon in the back of the head when it’s all dark and lookin’ like it’s covered in some poor sod’s blood. But now, lookin’ at it right the eye and it lookin’ back, I dunno…”

“Bian,” the old buck preemptively says before Sima can get a word in, “Will you or will you not destroy the creature?”

The bull alternates between looking at the others to looking at you as though an answer lies in someone’s face. After some silent hemming and hawing, he quietly places the rock on the ground. The ox returns to his place with the others, avoiding Sima’s simmering gaze all the while.

You take advantage of the lull to offer an alternative to you being dead.

“Alright, you people made your point. You clearly don’t trust me. So why don’t we, say, put this here bag on the ground back on my head and cut me loose somewhere far away? Then we can just go our separate ways. Let bygones be bygones. No hard feelings. And don’t worry about me sticking around. I’ll be long gone by this time tomorrow. That I can promise.”

When your suggestion is met with naught but stares, you continue, “What the hell do you people want from me then?! You can’t have me breathing but you also can’t let me go? Why bring me here if you’re just gonna kill me as soon as I wake up?!”

The four look at one another, the question of whether or not to let the yuojing in on their plans evident on their faces. At last the leopardess posits, “Perhaps we ought to tell it. Even the condemned have a right to know what brought about their sentence.”

The buck responds, “Wasted breath, Miss Ren. Words are better spent on the living. What good is an explanation to the dead, or soon-to-be dead?”

Sima says, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

And the buck continues, “…although it does seem to be in a state of considerable distress, which may have an effect on the meat. Could be beneficial to tell it in that sense. Might put a stop to its incessant yapping if nothing else.”

“Whose side are you even on? Bian, back me up this instant. Surely, even you can see sense.”

“I think Ren and Duan got themselves some decent points, boss.”

Sima grits his reptilian jaw, “Fine, I know when I’m outvoted. Just let it be known that I think this a very, very bad idea. As for you, demon, none of this was supposed to happen. We never meant to bring you back to our hideout for you to hear all this. The blow Bian delivered was meant to kill you outright. It would’ve made the next part easier.”

“And the next part is what exactly?”

“The part where we consume you to absorb your powers,” the buck answers, “We’ve all heard tales of demons preying on bodhisattvas in order to absorb their chi. For our purposes, a demon should serve just as well as a saint.”

You’d be knocked back on your ass if you weren’t already tied up. Not only would you be dead had their plan played out the way they wanted it to, you’d probably be roasting over an open fire to boot.

“Well then,” Sima says, “Now everything’s out in the open. Are we all satisfied then? Good. Duan, since you took it upon yourself to burden the creature with the circumstances of its own demise, perhaps you’d be so inclined as to finish where Bian left off. Go on and show us that age is no guarantee of febility.”

The old buck, or Duan as the others call him, first raises a brow, then it’s his turn to eye you up and down. He tilts his head this way and that, his antlers looking decidedly weary and world-weathered in the light of the fire, all the while giving you a good once over with the marginally-less cloudy of his two eyes. Finally he starts walking towards you. His steps are ever so slightly labored, as though each is supporting the sum of an entire lifetime’s worth of half-healed injuries. He stops less than an arm’s length away, a distance that could easily be closed by something like a golf club or a cane.

Or a sword.

You gotta say something. Fast. Here’s hoping he won’t be too hung up on the fact that deer can be opportunistic carnivores.

“The cat and the lizard wanting to eat me I can understand, but you? Last I checked, herbivores don’t eat meat! I might not be from around here, but something must be seriously wrong with the world for deer to start eating meat. Serious, natural-order ending, pear-shaped wrong. That really a world you want to be a part of?” It’s not clear if your words get through to him. His face is inscrutable save for one expression.

Grim.

“Sima. Watch closely,” he says. You see movement from underneath his cape right where his right hand would be, though the garment obscures whatever’s actually occurring beneath from view. There’s zero indication as to what it could be. The readying of a punch? The drawing of a blade? Regardless, there isn’t anything that can be done except shut your eyes and brace for whatever’s about to come.

.

..

…

A few seconds pass and your windpipe remains intact. If something was gonna happen, it would’ve already. You squint an eye open to see Duan’s cape shifted aside by his now raised arm, presently extended in your direction. He’d doubtless be pointing at you too, had he a hand to point with. No sword sits in his hand because there isn’t a hand at the end of his arm. The limb cuts off just above the elbow, cloth bandages covering the stump, freshly changed.

“Much as it pains me to say, the demon speaks sense. I shan’t eat meat. None of us should. We’ve forgotten an immutable law of the universe and nearly did something terrible as a result. Bah, to be lectured on morality by an infernal spirit.” With that, Duan hawks another wad of spit into a far off corner. He lowers his arm and returns to his place by the fire. You and Sima both let out near-simultaneous sighs—yours, one of relief. His, frustration.

“Really? Of all the times to get pangs of conscience? Now when the power we’ve always wanted is nearly within our grasp? Need I remind everyone that we are a band of criminals?!”

“Many things I’ve forsaken, but my eternal soul? That is not a price I’ve stooped low enough to pay. Not as of yet.”

“We’ll speak more on this later. Eating the demon is besides the point anyways. The more pressing issue is its continued survival. Might I suggest we do something about that on the off chance any of us wish to remain alive ourselves? Ren, I believe this was a matter you were particularly passionate about. If you would be so kind, do us the favor of putting it out of our misery.”

After a second of languid contemplation, Ren, the leopardess, cocks her head at you. Only her eyes, grey as the tempest seas where sky and water become one and the same, are visible above her cloth half-mask. Insteading of approaching you however, she stays right where she is, saying, “Go on then, yuojing.”

When confusion is evident on your face, she continues, “You managed to convince these two bundan to stay their hands. What words do you think will sway me?” She raises a paw at Sima’s impending dissent. “Call me curious. What works best on me I wonder: honey or vinegar? Either way, best make it good.” The scraping of metal against wood is audible as a dagger is drawn halfway free from its scabbard.

“Erm, alright. Ren, is it? I’ve been nothing but straight this entire time so believe me when I say this is all just one big misunderstanding. I am not a yuojing.”

“Then what are you? None of us have ever encountered a being remotely similar to you. And don’t say ‘monkey’. I spent some time in the Southern Kingdom, and you don’t look like any monkey I’ve seen.”

“T-there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that.”

Fuck. It’d almost certainly be easier for them to believe you’re a demon rather than some dude from a whole ass other dimension. Small wonder then that they refuse to believe anything other than the former. Given what happened the last and only time you told someone where you’re really from, maybe it’d be best if you kept that little factoid to yourself. Meanwhile, time to make shit up.

“I’m not surprised you’ve never seen or heard of my kind before. I come from a faraway land—I’m talking reeeeal faraway. Like, I really can’t understate how far I’ve come to get here. Stick to one direction your entire life and you still wouldn’t be able to reach where I’m from. So yeah, nothing more than a weary travelers. And sheesh by the way, I would’ve stayed home if I knew ahead of time this is what passes for hospitality around here.”

“And the monk in Shepherd’s Gorge? Mind explaining why the entire town was out searching for a yuojing that supposedly did battle with said monk? An encounter that warranted the attention of a member of the Furious Five no less.”

“Furious what now?”

“Kung fu masters based out of the Valley of Peace. Even just one of them is bad news for every bandit and scoundrel in a fifty li radius. They wouldn’t come all the way out here, not unless they had a good reason to. Helpless villagers beset upon by a demon for instance.”

“The people around here are a bunch of superstitious, slack-jawed yokels that have probably never seen the inside of a bathtub, much less a stranger from a foreign land! They wouldn’t know high society if Marie Antoinette pissed on them from the second-story of the Louvre! I half-expected to be doused with garlic and holy water the entire time I was there!”

“...well?” Sima says, “Do you believe it?”

Ren puffs out a ‘hmmph’, neither a condemnation or affirmation. “Hard to say. Everything about it smells fishy—the blood, the clothes, the way it speaks. I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but I know we’re not getting the whole truth. Best not to take any chances. Shame too, I was hoping for something more convincing.”

You blink and Ren is suddenly halfway between you and where she was standing previously. She’s frozen in her pose, stiller than stillwater, with the fire at her back reducing her entire form to little more than a shadow. Only the silvery gleam of metal in her paw is visible. Then it hits you: this is a fucked up game of redlight, greenlight .

“W-wait! Umm, you guys want money, right? And power? Well you’re going about this all wrong. Why eat me when you can learn from me? I know things, I’ve seen things. Things you wouldn’t even believe. The land I’m from, the technology I’m used to—might as well be magic to you!”

Greenlight. You blink again and she’s closer still. There’s barely any indication she heard you. Barely, but not none. One of her ears flits back and forth just a tiny bit, noticeable only because the rest of her outline is completely rigid. Redlight.

“Demonic knowledge?" the silhouette asks.

“Oh for fuck’s sake… yes, demonic knowledge. If that’s what it takes for you to believe me.” You’re getting close now, you just know it. Just gotta reel her in. Nice and easy like. “Just imagine for a minute: devices that can answer any question at the touch of a button! Buildings so tall that we literally call them skyscrapers! Weapons so deadly all you need to do is point at someone and, BANG, they’re dead! How’s that for shit you guys don’t see everyday? And the best part? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. All you gotta do is ask.”

Greenlight. Another blink and she’s suddenly occupying the entirety of your vision. Her face is inches from your own, dagger just a hair’s breadth away from your exposed neck. A gulp of air gets caught in your throat and cold iron grazes your skin. Her overcast eyes stare deeply into yours, as though searching for the lie. Redlight .

She evidently doesn’t find one. One last blink and Ren is back with the others. She’s sat criss-cross applesauce, leaning back on her hands and practically lounging next to the fire like a cat appropriately enough.

“Oh please,” Sima says, “Don’t tell me you’re listening to this tripe."

“And what if I am? Contrary to what you might think, power doesn't solely take the form of beating someone to a bloody pulp. Maybe the information it has is useful, maybe it isn’t. Can’t be certain until it’s squeezed out. Until then, why not hold off for the moment? Nothing precludes us from killing and eating it later.”

“Unbelievable. Truly, not one of you has the stones to do what’s necessary? I should remind you lot that I’m the head of this outfit and I say the demon must die! This is not a matter of morality or potential power to be gained, nor is this up for debate! This is about our very lives!”

“You want the thing dead so bad, be my guest. Don’t foist responsibilities on me that should by rights be yours. You might be able to con Duan and Bian into doing your dirty work, but not me.”

“Hmmph, can’t be assed to use a blade unless someone’s back is turned more like. How very much like one of your kind. And not just you either—I look around the fire and all I see is cowardice. Fine then, I’ll do it myself. Rather it be done right anyway.”

With that, you become Sima’s sole focus. The others watch silently as he turns to regard you, double-lidded reptilian eyes blinking in sequence like the ready, set, go lights of an F1 track. The lights flash and he’s off to the races. The monitor lizard’s slinking is accompanied by the sound of his tail being dragged on the ground behind him and the occasional rasp of claws against stone.

“Warmbloods. Not even once.”

“C-come on, Sima. You seem like a pretty logical guy. Let’s just talk things through for a second, maybe reach some kind of agreement that doesn’t involve anyone doing something they might regret.”

“The time for talk is over, demon. Your tricks won’t work on me. Do us both a favor and save any words you have left for Judge Yanluo. Perhaps he’ll be more inclined to listen to them.”

Shit shit shit. This guy’s dead serious about offing you right here, right now. You need to do something. Not later. Not in a minute. Now. Even if it’s just to buy a few more seconds. In this split-second moment, the thought occurs to you: Sima’s been wrong about you on pretty much everything, but he is right about one thing; you’ll say or do anything to stay alive.

Even if it means embracing a lie.

Slowly, your chin tilts down until your eyes are no longer visible. A sound emanates from deep within your chest that freezes Sima mid-step. It continues with no sign of stopping in addition to increasing in volume and vibrato, ultimately filling the entirety of the cavern with strange reverberations that must make its waveform look like the edge of shattered glass. The sound is a low laugh, typical of those by mad scientists, tyrannical despots, and Bond villains.

Or even a yuojing.

At last it begins to die down. As your echoing laughter fades into uneasy silence, a visibly perturbed Sima stammers, “W-what’s so funny?” He doesn’t sound all too enthused to hear the answer.

“Oh nothing really. Gotta hand it to you though. You got a good head on your shoulders. I can see you ain’t budging and y’know what? I can respect that. Do what you gotta do. But if I can be so bold as to make a request—whatever you do, don’t take off the piece of paper on my chest. It’s a talisman. I’ll spare you the details, but basically I’m the kind of demon that can’t stay on this plane without something to tether me here. Without the talisman, I’ll just fade away into nothingness.”

Bian raises a questioning hand, “So you’re like a ghost?”

“Sort of, in that I don’t have much power in my current form, but I’m still tangible. All you’ve gotta do is take off the talisman though and I’ll be gone before you can say sayonara.” You puff up your chest a bit in an effort to make the paper talisman’s somewhat visible top-half as obvious as possible.

All eyes are immediately upon it. Sima regards the sliver of paper with open suspicion. He narrows his eyes incredulously, asking, “Duan, how much of this is true?”

“The part about the paper strip being a talisman might be at least. The thing looks the part enough I suppose. Beyond that, can’t say. I don’t recognize any of the characters written down it. The script is strange, possibly ancient. Definitely occult considering it looks like vellum as opposed to actual paper.”

Sima takes a few seconds to process this new information. He’s visibly deliberating, weighing potentials and judging possibilities that may very well mean the difference between life or death.

Yours to be exact. At last, he breaks his concentrating mug with a wide smile.

“This is a trick. No demon would divulge such a critical weakness so readily,” Sima turns to face you headon, “Wish to know what I think? I think you want us to take off that talisman. I think that talisman is a protective seal, placed there by the monk no doubt. In addition to suppressing your abilities, it must also be enchanted to prevent your removing it. That’s why the villagers were willing to hunt you down. As long as it stays on, you’re just like us. A mortal creature of flesh and blood.”

You try your best to act like you can’t believe you just got found out. A splash of fake confidence, a dash of nonchalance, and some flippancy for taste oughta do it. Might as well include some wounded pride to really seal the deal while you’re at it.

“That’s an interesting theory. Only one way to find out whether or not it’s true.”

“No,” Sima replies promptly, “I don’t think we will. The talisman stays where it is. So long as it does, we’re safe from its demonic abilities. Is that clear to the rest of you?”

Sima’s three compatriots simultaneously grunt out a confirmation. Ren then asks, “That mean we’re not killing it?”

“For the moment. First, we learn what we can. It’d be a waste to only eat the flesh of a melon and throw away the rind when both are perfectly edible.”

Everyone lets out a collective breath they didn’t even know they were holding up until now. You slump your head back, the stalagmite behind you suddenly a million times more comfortable than the finest down pillow. For what feels like the first time in a long time, you close your eyes without having to worry about the threat of waking up dead.

The last thing you hear before crashing adrenaline piledrives you back into unconsciousness is Sima’s voice saying, “Rest up, all of you. Tomorrow we see just how much the demon’s supposed knowledge is worth.”

Chapter 12: Humanity In Brief, An Abridged Account

Morning proves blissfully uneventful. You rouse from sleep still strapped to the pillar with only the smoldering remains of the fire to keep you company.

Bian appears shortly thereafter. He handfeeds you a loosely-packed rice ball that’s big enough to stop your stomach from growling but not big enough to satisfy. He leaves before you can even finish swallowing. Asking for so much as a bathroom break is a moot point. You’re left to stew in the darkness all by your lonesome, which happens to give you plenty of time to reflect on recent events and take in this cave that could very well be your home for the foreseeable future.

It’s incredible how much easier it is to observe your surroundings without four nutjobs baying for your blood. The space you’re in seems to be the back of a shallow cave system. You gather you’re not too far from the outside; dim light trickles in from the chamber’s only exit, lending a shiny shrinkwrap sheen to every surface in sight. All manner of damp-looking stalactites and stalagmites are clustered about, blocking sightlines and forming columns where limestone-rich water has been dripping unceasingly for untold eons. A small clearing containing four bedrolls and a stone pit for the fire had been trampled down in the center. You note the fact that the clearing lies between you and the exit.

Embers are still aglow in the firepit. Time has passed, but not much. It’s probably morning if your internal clock is still anything to go by. Your mind flashes back to the night before and how you only narrowly avoided being dinner for Sima and the others. It’s hard to believe you almost met your end as many times as you have in as many hours. Then it occurs that you’re not even completely out of the woods yet.

Tomorrow we see just how much the demon’s supposed knowledge is worth.

Shit. That was the last thing the lizard said before you knocked out. They’re probably expecting you to drop some earth-shattering revelations or technological know-how once they get back. Doubt cracking an egg into a bowl of instant ramen is gonna cut it. How long you have to live might just depend on how much from fucking social studies you can remember.

First things first, let’s get all your ducks in a row. What might you—a twenty-first century wage slave—know that a pre-industrial Chinese bandit lizard might not? A shit ton in all likelihood, but the more pertinent question remains: what can you even recall that he would find useful enough to continue keeping you alive?

Think. Think. Think. What did you bring up right as the leopard was about to smoke you?

Right, first thing was smartphones. Devices that can answer any question at the touch of a button. One loaded up with a copy of Wikipedia would be pretty useful right about now, especially considering all the science and engineering that goes into making such a thing is as much magic to you as it would be to anyone else here. You’re no luddite when it comes to technology, but getting what’s essentially rocks to do math is probably a tad beyond your knowledge base. And that’s not even touching the witchcraft that is electricity.

Next up, skyscrapers. Buildings so tall they literally scrape the skies. A little more doable than smartphones, but not by much. What goes into building a skyscraper again? Glass is a big one; that’s probably something that hasn't been industrialized yet. Just gotta heat up sand until it turns into glass, right? If it were that simple they’d probably know how to do it already, plus you have no idea what goes into the process beyond that.

Now—concrete. You’re enough of a historybuff to know how much of a game changer concrete was when it first came around. Ancient Romans swore by the stuff; their empire only got as big as it did arguably because of it. Certainly didn’t help western civilization when the recipe became lost knowledge for the next couple hundred years. Might as well rename the Dark Ages to the Concrete-Less Ages. As for making the stuff, erm… something, something, aggregates? You mentally kick yourself for not paying more attention when your old man tried to D.I.Y. a patio that one summer.

Last but not least, steel. You’re decently certain you haven’t seen any steel tools in your short time here so far. Shit might very well be unheard of (or at least be uncommon to come by). Skies the limit when it comes to uses and applications; not just tools, but buildings, bridges, ships, weapons, armor—the list goes on. Fuck yea, demon blacksmith , purveyor of the strongest arms and armor this world has ever seen. That’d certainly be a reason to keep you around. Now if only you knew a single goddamned thing about making it besides the phrase Bessemer process.

Phones and skyscrapers are a wash, which leaves weapons so deadly all you need to do is point them at someone and, BANG, they’re dead. Ah yes, the humble gun, otherwise known as a piece, a gat, big irons, the ultimate equalizer, man’s great problem solver. What can be more perfect to offer a bandit than the brutally beautiful and beautifully brutal, utterly simplistic notion of death from afar? What’s more, the things shouldn’t even be too hard to make; China’s the birthplace of fireworks afterall. The idea actually sounds pretty promising. Best put a pin in it for now.

This is starting to feel like a poorly thought-out isekai. If only—you’d probably have magic powers and be knee-deep in a harem of hot babes by now if that were the case. Hang on a minute. Do you have any powers? It stands to reason, right? You take some time to test your bonds; super strength is a bust, as well as telekinesis, pyrokinesis, and basically every other kind of kinesis you can think of.

The answer to whether or not you have superpowers is a resounding fuck no. You feel the exact same as you did back home (albeit a hell-of-a-lot more exhausted, though that’s more likely a consequence of having been on the verge of death more times than you can count). Figures. No matter what universe you’re in, you never get anything for free.

Some rules never change. Obviously it's the ones with the express intent of fucking you over.

***

A few hours later, your captors traipse their way back into the cavern looking very much like they’ve been through the collective ringer. They wordlessly collapse around the campfire atop their respective bed rolls, physical and mental exhaustion writ large on their faces.

“The hell happened to you guys?”

The old buck and the leopardess exchange looks that can be summed up as do you want him to tell or should I? The deer, Duan if you recall correctly, settles that little debate by uncorking a small clay flask and proceeds to busy himself with the occasional sip from it.

The leopardess, Ren, sighs. She turns to you, her masked expression unreadable save for the irritation evident in her eyes, “What happened? We just got our asses handed to us courtesy of the Jackal Gang is what happened.”

With no small amount of sarcasm, the monitor lizard, Sima, says, “Forgive me for thinking it wise to make use of the good fortune we’ve recently been blessed with. Strike while the iron was hot as it were.”

“One captured yuojing does not a lucky streak make. Anyways, Sima got it in his head to hit a merchant trader that passes through here on the way to Shepherd’s Gorge. Things actually went well at first. Duan got his wagon to stop and was chatting him up. Sima and I were unloading cargo from the back while Bian stood by to receive. Then the Jackal Gang showed up. Bastards were on us in an instant. Had to drop everything just to have a chance of getting away.”

“They must’ve been tailing the wagon since Stone Lantern Crossing. Damn it! We were so close! I had a whole bottle of plum wine in my claws! Why didn’t we see them coming?!”

“You know why. You had me unloading the wagon with you instead of keeping watch like usual. Still, I blame myself. I should have heard them coming from a li away. They’re not usually so clandestine."

Duan puts his flask down briefly enough to state, “The arrest of their last patriarch was not the boon we thought it’d be. Seems this new one possesses an eye for stratagem. I fear our situation is no longer tenable. Unless one of us relocates, annihilation is all but assured. The only question is whose.”

“Brother Duan?” Bian asks, “The trader, did you see him get away?” Duan’s only reply is to take a longer swig.

Sima says, “We are not leaving. We spent too damn long learning the lay of this place. Not that there’s anywhere we can go to begin with. Need I remind all of you that the lands north, south, east, and west of us have already been staked out by other gangs?”

“Agreed,” says Ren, “Running away would just be a slow death. A coward’s death. It’s us or them.”

“And I choose us. Demon, you’ve had all morning to think. For your sake, I hope that time was well spent. Give us something that will make us the most feared gang in all of Luyun province or at least something that will help us beat the Jackal Gang.”

You can practically feel the balance of power shifting ever so subtly in your favor. Not by much, but it’s something, and something’s always better than nothing. Something is something you can work with. First things first, getting untied from this fucking column.

“Hold on, before I pull a Prometheus and hand down forbidden knowledge, I’ve got a few requests of my own. Only fair I get something in return after all. Y’know, tit for tat. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

The gears in Sima’s head turn as he parses your demand. He says, “The only thing I’m liable to do to your back is stick a blade in it. If I’ve not made it clear before, let me clarify now: you’re in no position to negotiate.” He’s standing now, and while he doesn’t yet have his knife out, his reptilian claws hover just above the handle.

“Don’t tell me you’re dumb enough to think the threat of violence is the end-all, be-all to an interrogation. Nah, you’re too smart for that. You’re smart enough to know that the carrot works better than the stick. Little incentive is all I’m asking for.”

“The pain of death ought to be incentive enough. But if encouragement is what you require, allow me to provide. I shall count to a thousand. For every moment that I don’t hear something of substance, I knick your hide. Not too deep of course. Perhaps we’ll reach a thousand before you bleed out.”

“C’mon! Torture’s even worse! Think about it, you hurt a guy bad enough and there’s nothing he won’t say to make it stop. Maybe you get something useful out of me, or maybe I tell you whatever it is I think you want to hear if it means it’ll get you to stop. It’s all a tossup when pain and suffering is part of the equation.” Your eyes flicker to Duan briefly. Here goes another Hail Mary. “Go ahead, ask the deer. He looks like he’s seen a thing or two in his day.”

Sima folds his scaled arms, glowering that you’ve picked up on an interpersonal dynamic within the gang. You figured they’d only keep an armless buck around for what he knew rather than what he could do, and it seems you guessed right.

He turns to Duan and asks, “Can you vouch for any of this nonsense?”

With a heavy sigh, Duan says, “When the Tungsk clans still lived beyond the Wall, my section captured a handful of forward scouts. Our objective was to find and destroy their main raiding camp, so the commander assigned us each a prisoner and told us to get a location by any means necessary. All we got out of most of them were a few split knuckles. Of course, not all of us took that approach. One of the newer recruits opted to break bread with his prisoner instead. Got him sacked in the end, but it did net us the camp’s location.”

“And the scout?” Bian inquires.

“Rotting in a shallow grave somewhere in all likelihood.”

Sima narrows his already narrow, slitted eyes, “Fine then. What do you want, demon?”

You suppress a smile, “First off, let’s talk bathroom privileges…”

***

Thankfully, getting the gang to untie you isn’t nearly the ordeal you thought it’d be. The logistics of having to constantly tie and untie you from the column every time you had to answer the call of nature wasn’t appealing to anyone. As soon as that particular pill was swallowed, it was just a matter of convincing them that keeping you immobile was simply more trouble than it was worth. Understandings were reached, proverbial hands shaken.

Of course, completely free reign remained a total nonstarter; even with them believing your (nonexistent) demonic abilities are locked away on account of the paper talisman, it was deemed too risky to have your hands and feet anything less than totally bound, which is how you came to rest at your new position a short ways from the center clearing. Not in it of course, but closer to the fire than you were before. Sima even had the wherewithal to have Bian relight it. Pretty good for an hour's worth of bullshitting if you do say so yourself.

Once you’re sat up and as comfortable as you’re like to get, Sima continues where the conversation last left off, “Let it not be said that the Brigands Bold are without honor. We’ve kept our end of the bargain. The time has come for reciprocation. Tit for tat, as you said. What, pray tell, did we purchase with our benevolence?”

“Not everything has to be a zero-sum game, my man. But yes, I did give it some thought. If you must know—”

Your mind hitches on what to say next. There’s a niggling feeling in the back of your brain, muffled but apparent like the sound of footsteps from behind a door. The feeling evolves into a voice saying that the gang probably isn’t going to be satisfied with some half-remembered Modern Marvels factoids.

The others have stopped whatever they were doing previously to join Sima in staring at you now, expectant looks all around as they wait for you to break the silence. The mood grows unexpectedly somber; quiet save for the crackling of flames. Those same flames cast long shadows across their nonhuman faces. The effect should make them monstrous, but more than anything else they look vulnerable. Looking at them now, they each have something in common. There’s a glimmer of something familiar in their eyes.

The glimmer of hope.

On top of whatever problems they were already dealing with, this situation with the Jackal Gang really backed them into a corner. They might not even be aware of it, but these people don’t just want your help. They need it. They need whatever ultimate knowledge is locked away inside your head. In you is the solution to a problem that’s been long overdue. You’re their Hail Mary.

This might be something you could turn to your advantage. You might have more leeway than you initially thought. With that in mind, perhaps a different approach altogether is called for.

“—I have some ideas on things you guys could improve on. But first, I need information.”

“On?”

“Anything. Everything. Whatever you’ve got that’d be even remotely useful. The more I know, the better I’m in a position to help.” You sense Sima about to protest, which you preempt by saying, “I mean, you want to beat the Jackals, right? Well, this is how you’re gonna do it.”

“No, no, no. This isn't the deal we agreed on!”

“You’re right. This is a better one.”

Sima fumes while Ren, Duan, and Bian take turns looking at one another. The looks are of resignation, of having tried a myriad of things, one after another, and it all falling short. Desperation tugs the corners of their mouths into scowls. After some unspoken deliberation, they nod in unison, the act apparently serving to override whatever authority Sima possesses. The lizard has to bite his tongue to refrain from saying anything.

Ren sits up on her haunches, “Where do we start?”

The remainder of the day is spent gleaning all the information you can. It’s an arduous, at times hair pulling process; despite their initial acquiescence, pains are taken to ensure nothing divulged can be turned around and somehow used against your captors. Every piece of information is endlessly conferred upon and weighed and debated to determine whether it would do more harm than good for a supposed demon to know. That means, at best, only the briefest and vaguest of insights into their backgrounds, their pasts, the circumstances of how they came to form this ragtag group, etc. It’s hard to blame them really; were you making a crossroads deal, you ideally wouldn’t want Satan to know more than the bare minimum about you.

The end result however is being told things you yourself had already gathered for the most part. The fact that you’re in an underground cave somewhere in the vicinity of Shepherd’s Gorge isn’t news, nor is its resident monk being a pompous ass much of a revelation. On the flip side, your own encounter with the virtuous Marshal Tianpeng is good for netting a few laughs at your expense.

You elect to recap your thoughts from this morning to them as well. They’re interesting enough on their own, but that’s all they are to them—interesting. Your captors aren’t exactly academics, so the notion of cars and computers without any means to manifest them is about as useful as nipples on a man. Even your proposal to derive guns from existing technology is met with bemused skepticism. Ren is quick to point out that the substance you know as gunpowder already exists, having been invented by Chinese alchemists dowsing for the elixir of life. The thought of weaponizing the stuff isn’t exactly a novel idea either. A primitive form of firearm apparently already exists, not so much guns as spears tipped with wads of gunpowder. Your claim that such devices (which are viewed as novelties at best and unreliable at worst) can be turned into deadly killing machines falls on deaf ears.

Things do start cooking when the discussion shifts to how the gang conducts itself as, well, a gang—which is to say not well. Recent foray into kidnapping notwithstanding, their activities pretty much top out at petty larceny in terms of heinousness. Lotta trespassing and pickpocketing for the most part. For all their bluster, violence isn’t really in their repertoire if they can help it. Not a bad call, morally-speaking.

But these guys aren’t supposed to be in the business of being moral. They shouldn’t really be in the business of being criminals either. The fault lies mostly with ignorance and incapability on their part. After some prying, it turns out that, out of the four of them, only Bian had previously been in a gang. None of them have any real idea on how to run one, their leader least of all.

But you might. The conversation extends well into the evening before reaching its natural conclusion as the fire becomes overdue for a top up. Bian is sent out to collect more firewood while the rest of the Brigands Bold retire to relax, leaving you alone to ruminate on everything you’ve learned. Sleep doesn’t come easily, your mind brimming as it is with ideas and potential.

Chapter 13: Sole Tree Ape’s Conviction

“Don’t get me wrong, guys. I’m glad to be out stretching my legs, but remind me again why I'm headed back to the place that wants my head on a spike?” The question hangs in the air like a bad smell. You hope the anxious feeling in your chest doesn’t come through in your words.

It wasn’t too long ago that you had narrowly escaped an untimely death at the hands of the denizens of Shepherd’s Gorge. Yet here you are on the road back to it, escorted by the same people that whisked you away that fateful evening.

“The answer remains the same as the last dozen times you asked—your stratagems have yet to bear us fruit,” Ren is none-too-quick to point out, “The villagers are not inclined to pay for our protection. Mayhaps you’ll convince them otherwise with that silver tongue of yours, yuojing. No doubt you’ll be persuasive, what with your life depending on it.”

“Right.” You and your big mouth. The halfmask-wearing leopardess isn’t wrong though. It was your idea to try a protection racket in the first place. The premise was simplicity itself: have the villagers pay up in exchange for maintaining the peace in their backwards, stain-on-the-map little hovel that is Shepherd’s Gorge. As for who or what might want to threaten that peace…

Suffice it to say you encouraged Sima, Ren, Duan, and Bian to use their imaginations. Their initial reactions were as though they had been struck by lightning. It hadn’t even occurred to them that such a course of action was available to them. Kinda ironic then that your protection racket idea might just end up sinking you in the end.

A couple days have passed since you were captured—stress-filled, anxiety-ridden days where every word of every minute of every hour felt like riding the edge between life and death. As soon as you catch a break by convincing your captors you were more valuable alive than dead, they have the audacity to march you straight back into the frying pan. Nothing quite like having the Sword of Damocles pull away only to drop down closer than ever before.

Eh, at least there’s silver linings. Despite how grim the circumstances are, it really is nice to be outside again. The sunshine is almost blinding to your dark-accustomed eyes, vision long since adapted to the absence of light now dragged kicking and screaming into the light of day. It’s painful to be sure, but after wondering if you’d ever see natural sunlight again, you drink it in for all its worth.

Even the bindings around your wrists and ankles aren’t quite enough to ruin the moment. Your hands being tied in front of you—as well as the clean(-enough) set of robes and cap with face veil you now don—all lends to your appearance as that of an aged scholar. The whole getup was Sima’s idea and you can’t help but give him props for it. It was an ingenious solution to the conundrum of disguising your appearance while also keeping you restrained.

“Gotta say, Sima, you’re going along with all this uncharacteristically well. Even tricked me out with fresh threads—which I should ask how you got but won’t seeing as I probably won't like the answer. No threats to disembowel me? No tying me on top of a bamboo shoot or dripping water on my forehead?”

“Oh, don’t pay me any mind.” The monitor lizard walks with hands clasped squarely behind his back. His forked tongue occasionally darts out to sample the crisp, morning air. “I’d like nothing more than to see you fly high. By all means, soar high above the clouds on wings of gold and gossamer. Touch the very heavens so that all creation knows your name. T’would only make your fall all the sweeter in the end.”

“You really don’t have any faith in me, do you?”

“Have you so little faith in us? You honestly believe this isn’t something I’ve already considered and thought not worth pursuing? Extortion rackets are a dime a dozen. Even a child understands that rackets are backed by threats and threats are only as good as their capacity to be carried out. Much as it pains me to say, the gang is not in any position to do much threatening. Not without reprisal. Who is going to burn down a shop when the shopkeeper opts not to pay? You?”

Well, that’s certainly a wrinkle in your plan. Of all the criminal gangs in China, of course you’d get shanghaied into the only one that can’t into crime. The remainder of the walk takes place in silence as you muse over this dilemma, your mind already hard at work unraveling Sima’s words.

***

Returning to Shepherd’s Gorge is a surreal experience to say the least. The sight of every tile and doorway brings with it memories of the night you were harried in the streets like a rabid dog needing to be put down. Those same streets are positively lively now, awash with people on their way to work in the fields or trawling the many roadside stalls for good deals on produce. Instead of giving you a wide berth, they pass by you and your entourage with smiles on their faces. A small piglet even stops to give you a polite nod while catching up with her litter of friends; a far cry from the terrified expressions you were treated to not all that long ago. Amazing what a thin piece of fabric in front of your face can do.

Sima, being Sima, greets every smile with a sneer, “Bah. Never did like it here. Whole town stinks of the paddock. I don’t want to spend any more time in this place than necessary. Duan, where did you set up the meet?”

“The teahouse up the main road is where we’re headed. I suggest we pick up the pace as well. Judging from the shops we passed, most of the merchants will have assembled there by now.”

Bian prods you further down main street until a teahouse, oddly familiar, comes into view. You’re ushered through the entrance and into a fragrant, well-lit space that could accommodate sixty but at present is inhabited by just six, pigmen without exception, all seated round the opposite half of a circular table in the center of the room. The appearances of the individuals are collectively nondescript—brown aprons and rolled-up sleeves are rough commonalities—but the table settings before them are decidedly not. A crisp white cloth separates them from the unfinished wood while fine china traced with cerulean filigree rests in front of them.

This is all apparently within the realm of expectations. The half-occupied table is strided over to. Chairs are scraped out, seats taken. You yourself sit in the very middle, with Bian and Ren on one flank and Duan and Sima at the other. Those already seated remain silent the entire time, sipping copiously from dainty white cups that resemble thimbles pinched between cigar-esque fingers.

Correction, there weren’t only six individuals already present. Lucky number seven stands a short distance away, too far to be part of the proceedings but close enough to be called upon without raising one’s voice. Her white paws clutch at a broom taller than she is.

She’s a rabbit, easily mistaken for the Girl at first glance but distinguished by her apparent lack of desire to throw anyone under the nearest bus. One of the pigmen clicks his tongue and the rabbit hustles to bring over additional (plain) cups and a fresh pot of tea.

A large brass kettle, the most metal you’ve seen in a week, is set down on your side of the table. You make to grab for it, but Bian clamps his turkey-sized mitts down on the handle. His face twists into a scowl, the first and only sign of aggression he’s shown you thus far. For a second you wonder whether you’ll be getting any tea, but he proceeds to delicately hoist the kettle up and pour you a cup, his expression returning to its usual placid countenance. He occupies himself with the filling of the others’ while everyone else gets busy mean-mugging whoever’s directly opposite to them.

Things remain tense as the gang settles in. Ren wastes no time pulling down her half-mask and enjoying her tea. Sima rubs the side of his snout. Someone coughs.

Finally, Duan breaks the silence with, “Gents, allow us to begin by expounding our appreciation. We of all people know how busy you must be, what with the necessity of your business to the good folk of Shepherd’s Gorge. For taking the time to meet with us, you have our infinite thanks.”

The pigmen sit there for a moment looking none too impressed. Still, one of them eventually responds, saying, “Let’s not stand on pretense. Our time is valuable according to your own words. Prove this by seeing it does not go to waste. I take it your group has a proposal for us? For all our sake, let it be more worthwhile than the last one that was brought before us.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Duan motions to you with his one remaining hand, “As you can see, we’ve brought a third-party to renegotiate the terms of our deal. Master, if you wouldn’t mind taking over?”

Shit. Feels like you just got dropped into the deep end of a pool without so much as a water wing to keep your head above the water. Given the ostensibly antagonistic nature of an extortion racket, you were honestly expecting a lot more screaming and hollering by now. Instead, you and the gang were treated to tea. There’s an undercurrent of hostility to be sure, but things are merely simmering in lieu of outright boiling. Must be that one social cultural-thing in Asian societies at work. Face, you think it was called. Would’ve been nice to have gotten a primer on it or even just a recap of what exactly the gang had proposed previously, but it is what it is. Time to bullshit.

“Um, yes. I am here to facilitate the smoothness of things and ensure that things go, err, smooth.”

One of the pigmen cocks his head at you, “Master, eh? Color me surprised. We don’t get many learned creatures around these parts. I’ve certainly never seen you before, and I see everyone at some point or another. Comes with being the proprietor of this fine teahouse. For my own edification, might I ask ‘master’ of what exactly?”

“Funny you should ask…”

Lost at what to say, your voice trails. A quick glance at your compatriots proves about as much help as another three-hundred pound mahogany writing desk to the Franklin expedition. You’re on your own, which is your cue to start jawing. Well, here goes nothing.

“...I have a bachelor’s in English with my post-grad being business admin. In hindsight? Not the smartest move. Should’ve known that climbing corporate ladders is more who you know than what you know. Learned that after the fact, but if you ever need someone to punch up some P.R. material, I’m your guy. I can keep going if you’d like. Don’t even get me started on SOHO layout optimization. If I see another operations manager put a router behind three walls of concrete, it’ll be too soon.”

The pigmen raise a collective eyebrow, uncertain of how to take this glut of information. A few of them visibly bounced off not even halfway through your spiel.

Ren quickly chimes in, “The master oft says things that might sound strange to our unaccustomed ears, but his words make surprising sense once one learns how to unravel their meaning. Such is the life of an academic I suppose.”

There’s some head-turning, eyebrow-raising. You must’ve sounded convincing on some level because one of the pigmen follows up, “And does the good master have a name?”

“Course I do. It’s, umm, Hu. Hu Min.”

“Another time perhaps, Master Hu. As Mister Duan said, time is in short supply.” After glancing around the table, the pigman gently leans in. He plants both elbows on the table and lowers his voice as if to insinuate what he’s about to say is meant for you and for you alone, “I must say—it’s unusual for someone of your station to keep such sordid company. Whatever relationship you have with them, this is a mutual arrangement?”

The question blindsides you. It’s been a while since anyone cared enough to ask about your wellbeing, which makes the words that are about to come out of your mouth all the more baffling.

“As it so happens..,” You can’t help but glance over to Sima. He’s side-eying you, his gaze narrowed a hair more so than usual, “...I found myself in some hot water not too long ago, which Sima’s, err, group was kind enough to pull me out. They took me in and I’ve been their guest ever since.” You don’t need to look at the gang to see the confused looks on their faces. You can only imagine how perplexed your own is beneath your faceveil.

“Very well. In that case, on to the proceedings then. Needless to say, we found the last set of terms Mister Sima brought before us wholly unsatisfactory.”

Sima takes the opportunity to interject, saying, “I think some of us could do with a refresher, so allow me to run by them again. For the nominal fee of two silver sycee—paid upon the start of each month—my companions and I guarantee the continued safe operation of all your various enterprises in Shepherd’s Gorge; day or night; morning, noon, and evening. That includes any outlying areas and personnel relevant to the running of said enterprises.”

“Therein lies the rub. Two sycee from each of us amounts to four-hundred copper pieces a month, which is highway robbery. For that kind of money, we could hire additional caravans and split our shipments between them so that the loss of one is merely inconvenient instead of catastrophic. For that kind of money, we could petition the provincial governor to post additional guards on the roads. Hell’s bells, we could even retain a kung fu warrior. I’ve certainly heard that particular idea come up in conversation once or twice.”

Bian stiffens at the mention of a kung fu warrior-for-hire entering the equation.

“Which is all besides the point,” one of the other pigs opines, “My partners here are being coy so as to not to step on any toes. Why that is when we’re all thinking the same thing is beyond me. I, however, have no such scruples. Master Hu, this band you’ve chosen to throw your lot in with—the Brigands Bold I believe they like to refer to themselves—they’re cats without claws, hounds without teeth. These veiled threats of theirs are like the mewlings of a petulant child. They’re about on par in terms of danger. If you’d all indulge me, what has their time near our fair town amounted to even? A few cut coin purses and some missing foodstuffs? I for one welcome any attempts to malign my business. No need for guards or mercs either. Just me and my boys. Let us see what happens when this pathetic excuse for a racket meets a staunch line of boar tusks.”

The mood around the table takes a decidedly dour turn. Duan stares off into the distance. Ren nurses her cup. Bian shifts in his chair whilst making every effort possible to avoid even the possibility of eye contact. Even the other pigs look a smidge uncomfortable. Everyone’s working to at least keep the facade of civility going, Sima more so than anyone. Despite the verbal coup de grâce that was just unleashed, he sits perfectly straight as though supporting a ten high stack of books atop his head. It’s hard not to be affected by it all.

It just so happens that you’ve heard more scathing exchanges on public playgrounds though.

“Be that as it may, I just have one question for all of you then: if the gang is as non-threatening as you say they are, then why was it necessary to float the idea of hiring extra muscle?”

The pigmen look at one another. You’ve seen those kinds of looks before. Someone’s been caught out and a reckoning is due. “No point not telling them. News of the attacks will reach the townsfolk sooner or later.”

“Attacks?”

“Bandit attacks on our caravans. We know they’re not the work of the Brigands Bold because… well, we just know. Survivors say the attackers were exclusively canine.”

“The Jackals,” Ren confirms.

“Whomever they are, they will be dealt with in due course, as will anyone else that dares malign the good people of Shepherd's Gorge. Whether or not you lot wish to be dealt with alongside them is no skin off our nose.”

The room falls silent as both halves of the table stew in the other’s respective threats. For a while, all that’s audible is the occasional slurp of tea and the rabbit-servant’s rhythmic sweeping.

“What if we stopped the attacks?” you blurt out, unprompted, “What if we can guarantee your caravans safe passage? I’d say that counts as us holding up our end of a protection job, wouldn't you agree?”

“…and you can accomplish this?”

“What have you got to lose? I mean, you could go with those other solutions, but getting started on them will take time—time you don’t have because every second you’re not acting is a second the Jackals are attacking your caravans. I doubt you guys have guards or mercs on standby. Your shipments aren’t making it in or out to town as it is, so I ask again: what have you got to lose?”

The pigmen don’t have an immediate response. “Pardon us for a moment,” one of them says before they huddle together as closely as the table allows and start conferring amongst themselves. Their murmuring rises and falls, even getting quite heated at times. Points of apparent contention include but are not limited to: honor, profit margins, trustworthiness, efficacy, social standing, bottom lines, and more. Clearly some kind of consensus is reached because when they break apart it’s smiles all around.

“We shall give you this opportunity to prove yourselves. As a show of good faith, we’ll even front half the agreed-upon payment now. But we expect not a single interrupted shipment going forward. One grain of rice goes unaccounted for and we’ll have no choice but to re-enter negotiations. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Shake on it?”

You stand up to stick your bound hands across the table, which the lead pigman looks positively confounded by. To his credit, he picks up on what he’s meant to do and extends his own hand in return.

Before the two of you can shake however, the front door creaks open behind you. Outside light sweeps up from behind as if to herald the approach of plodding footsteps and the singularly unpleasant odor of sweat trapped beneath folds of fat. All of the pigmen rise in unison to greet the entrant with bows so deep they practically kiss the table.

“I am pleased to see both the lawless and law-abiding in such harmonious coexistence."

“Welcome, Monk Jheur!”

The familiar form of a hirsute, enrobed boar enters your periphery and ponderously rounds the table to exchange one-on-one bows. He takes his sweet time with each pigman, giving you every opportunity to reacquaint yourself with the same eyes that were previously filled with mock concern, the same fist that came so perilously close to caving in your face, the same mouth that spun the lies necessary to siccing the entire town on you.

The pigmen part in their center to make room for Jheur to settle his ample self into. So certain is he that a chair is behind him that he doesn’t even check to make sure such a chair is in fact present. Sure enough, a chair indeed materializes thanks to a certain quick-of-foot servant.

“I hope you don’t mind my joining in the middle of proceedings. The walk from the temple was not a short one, especially with so many kind souls giving me alms along the way. Understand my joy then that I am able to participate, Master..?”

Tongue-tied, you fail to say anything for a longer than acceptable amount of time. Duan, ever quick to plug the silence before it gets too awkward, answers in your stead, “Master Hu Min, your eminence. And not at all. I know I speak for all of us when I say we are grateful you could find the time to bless us with your presence.”

“Please please, it is only natural for someone such as I to take an interest in matters concerning the whole of the village. Now then, what was it everyone was in the middle of when I interrupted?”

The pigman that was about to shake your hands, which are now hidden so deep beneath your robes that not even James Cam the Sea-Man could find them again, turns to him and says, “We were just about to finalize an arrangement between us and Mister Sima. For a sum of silver, Master Hu contends that they can stop the heinous attacks on our caravans.”

“Does he now? That’d be quite the feat indeed. Thank the heavens then that the timing of my arrival was so fortuitous. It so happens that I possess a problem that needs solving and I believe Sima’s friends are just the group to solve it. Call it a test of aptitude if you will, proof that you are every bit as capable as you say.” The other pigmen nod feverishly at the smartness of Jheur’s decision-making.

Sima proceeds to ask the million dollar question, “And this problem is what exactly?”

“Not what. Who. A certain street urchin that has been a thorn in the town’s collective side for far too long. Well no longer I say! One way or another, you are to encourage this Girl to find someplace else to ply her thieving ways. Am I understood?”

After a second’s hesitation, all Sima can manage is a subdued, “Consider it done.”

“Excellent. The Girl counts among her belongings a bracelet. Stolen, no doubt. Bring it back as proof of a deed well accomplished. Oh, one more thing before we adjourn. I couldn’t help but notice that odd gesture Bo and Master Hu were in the middle of when I walked in. I consider myself a cultured boar, yet I can’t quite seem to place it.”

Faced with your continued silence, Ren quickly covers by saying, “Er, it’s a southern expression. From Yier-Lham. Quite new. Popular in academic circles from what I understand, and we all know how inscrutable scholars can be. Small wonder you haven’t encountered it before, your eminence.”

“Yier-Lham, you say? Hu Min does have a somewhat Nanyuean ring to it. Color me surprised to have an foreign scholar in our humble midsts. Let it not be said that our humble town is unwelcoming to outsiders or their customs.” Jheur rolls his sleeves up to expose arms that bear more than a passing resemblance to fallen logs. He thrusts said arms out, palms open and hands ready to receive.

Sima moves to reciprocate, to which Jhuer responds, “Not you. Him.”

‘Him’ referring to you of course. He’s looking at you intently now, curved tusks and shark-eyes lending his face the impression of both a grin and a sneer without fully committing to either. Everyone’s eyes are on you. No more tea is being poured. Even the rabbit-servant has ceased her sweeping.

All there is is Jheur’s awaiting hands.

With effort, you lift your hands from your lap and close the gulf between you and Jheur, trying to keep any bare skin beneath the sleeves of your robe as you do so. Your hands wrap around his in a double-handed handshake. Two pumps is all you intend, but Jheur’s grip tightens and he refuses to let you breakaway.

“A curious gesture. What does it signify?”

You strain your voice to disguise it as best you can.

“Building bridges.”

You tear your hand away. A few seconds pass.

Then Jheur breaks out into a wide, shit-eating grin, “Hah! I would not expect scholars to come up with something so poetic! It has charm to it. I hope it catches on. It seems things are settled then. Do let Bo know when you’ve completed your task. If there’s nothing else, I believe it’s time I took my leave. Someone has to make sure the novices are keeping the temple prim and proper after all!”

Jheur pushes away from the table and gets to his feet, an action repeated six additional times as the pigmen on either side stand up to join him. Apparently unwilling to leave the boar unattended for even a single second, the gaggle of pigmen accompany him all the way to the door and even to the outside world beyond, each baying for a scrap of his limited attention. Their voices are cut off by the door closing shut behind them, leaving you and the gang almost entirely alone.

The air in the room is suddenly a great deal easier to breathe. Everyone relaxes as though permission had been given by some stern, invisible schoolteacher.

“That could’ve gone worse,” Ren says, leaning back in her chair, “Could’ve gone better too, but could’ve been worse. Not bad, considering what we had to work with. So, Master Hu—don’t expect us to call you that when we’re not in public by the way—all that stuff about business and routers, how much of that was you blowing smoke?”

“You can be the judge of that. Let’s just say lies tend to go down easier with spoonfuls of truth in my experience."

“Not bad, my scaly ass. He froze up like a schoolboy caught with characters on his wrist when the monk walked in. What happened to all that bravado too long ago?”

Bian says, “C’mon boss, remember what he said the night we took him in? I wouldn’t know what to do either if I had to yumcha with someone that tried to have me put down. He was just shocked to see the monk is all. None of us were expecting him to show up."

“I’ll not hear excuses, and certainly not those covering for someone else,” Sima takes a big glug of tea before slamming down the empty cup, “First things first: you. Did the monk recognize you? Is he screwing with us?”

“I don’t think so. Jheur’s a terrible actor. I saw as much when he faked being possessed by Major Tenpenny or whoever. What’s up with that by the way?”

“Marshal Tianpeng,” corrects Duan, “Commonly worshipped as Commander of Heaven’s armies. If one was to battle a demon, one could do worse as far as gods to petition.”

“We had an entire phrase for people pretending to be in the military where I came from. Judging by how well-respected he is, wouldn’t surprise me if it’s a standard trick the guy keeps in his backpocket to be pulled out when opportunity comes a-knockin’. As for whether or not he recognizes me—nah, the guy’s just smug. Seeing as I just got you paid, I’d appreciate easing off my back.”

“On that subject, might I point out that we’re now on the hook for each and every caravan belonging to those slimy hogs. How do we mean to stop the Jackal gang's attacks? We can hardly fight them. Not if we want our insides to remain that way at least.” The others murmur their agreement.

“Ye of little faith. I always have a plan. Except when I don’t. Ren?” The leopardess’s ears straighten at the mention of her name. “You said something about not hearing the Jackals when you guys tried robbing that wagon and how weird that was at the time.”

“Yes. A mishap on my part. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m counting on that. If you stay ahead of the caravans when they’re on their runs, you could spot the Jackals ahead of time and warn the drivers before they get too close.”

“Like a forward scout,” Duan says, pulling from his military past.

“Exactly. No fighting, no danger, no risk. Just a good pair of eyes and some legwork.”

Ren rubs her chin with the tops of her knuckles, “Such a plan isn’t outside the realm of possibility. It goes without saying that it would necessitate us working closely with the caravan teams. We’ll need their schedules, itineraries, timetables. And it would work best if Bian tagged along with me to act the messenger so I can maintain an eye on the Jackals should we encounter them. Us up in front, flanks covered by Duan and Sima as secondary screening, caravans in the middle of it all.”

“Doubt getting those things from the merchants will be much of a problem. It’s their money on the line after all.”

“Before any of that however, it’s vital that I relearn how to track the Jackals. Their new boss has a knack for keeping his boys hidden I’ll admit, but that just means they have new tells I needs must pick up. They haven’t moved out of their hideout in Emerald Grotto as far as we know, so we ought to establish a lookout position nearby, preferably well-hidden. We’ll take turns watching them naturally.”

“I’m glad you’re having so much fun,” says Sima, “But that’s far from the first thing we have to do. Have you all already forgotten? None of this matters one bit if we don’t find this Girl Jheur spoke of and relocate her. Knowing him, there’s no real choice in the matter.”

Bian raises a hand timidly as if asking for permission to speak, “Brothers, sister—are we really to run someone out of town? Where will she go? How will she survive? What will the gods think of us?”

“Jheur mentioned that the Girl is a thief. If that’s true, she’s part of the lake, same as us.”

“The lake?” you wonder out loud, “Care to fill a clueless foreigner in?”

Sima actually lights up at the prospect of explaining something new to you. For once, he doesn’t look like he wants to skin you alive, “The lake is both everywhere and nowhere. It touches all yet can’t itself be touched. Above its surface are everyday people living out their everyday lives. Then there are those that wade in its waters or swim beneath its waves: bandits, brigands, outcasts and the like. People like us. Two worlds, the lawful and the lawless, existing in parallel. As a criminal herself, the Girl is part of the lake and fair game as far as I’m concerned. It’s her or us. I choose us.”

Duan and Ren echo the sentiment. Bian, still harboring reservation, twiddles with his cup. To your surprise, everyone’s eyes gradually flick to you.

“Sorry, big guy. My mind’s made up. That Girl is the reason Jheur has it in for me in the first place. It was her idea for me to see him. The way I see it, I’ve got a score to settle with her.” Dejected, Bian lowers his hand in defeat.

“It’s agreed then. The Girl goes. Ren, have you lain eyes on her?”

“Just glimpses.”

“Very much like Jheur to assign us a task that’s easier said than done. What do we know about her then? Vanishingly little I suspect.”

“You suspect correctly,” Duan answers, “As for what we do know: she’s a hare. Can’t have seen more than twelve or eleven winters. Sustains herself via petty theft. No fixed location.”

“A child…” Bian mutters ruefully.

“No fixed location is just another way of saying she has more than one place to lie low. Ren—see if you can’t sniff out any of her hiding places. Try to ferret her out; failing that, render them unusable. Duan and I will canvas the townspeople for information. Bian—take Hu back to the hideout. Once that’s done, assist Ren. Well then? What are we all waiting for?”

The other Brigands take that as their cue to leave. Last gulps are taken. Chairs are pushed back. As they’re getting ready to stand, you make a fist and bring it down on the table hard enough to splash some tea over.

“You’re not going to find her.”

That raises a few eyebrows. Attention secured, the Brigands retake their seats.

“And why, pray tell, might that be?” asks Sima.

“She’s not gonna be found unless she wants to be found. That’s not me saying that either, those are her exact words when I first bumped into her. And from what I’ve seen, she’s more than capable of making good on those words.”

Sima spreads his claws out in front of him, rhythmically drumming on the tabletop to some inaudible tune. Whether consciously or not, his tapping starts to fill the gaps of silence in-between the servant-girl’s sweeping in the background. Tuh-tuh-tup-sweep.

“Well there you lot have it. Master here says we’re fucked. Suppose we oughta pack it in now. Might as well disband the Brigands Bold while we’re at it. I hope you all still have your former lives to return to, because I certainly don’t. If you’ll excuse me, there was a filthy ditch I saw earlier that should suffice.”

Bian asks, “Suffice for what, boss?”

“A grave.” Tuh-tuh-tup-sweep.

“Hold on, you big drama queen. I didn’t say we’re fucked. You were just never gonna find her that way.”

“What is it you suggest we do then? Because I certainly hope you didn’t dismiss the plan out of hand without having a better one to take its place.”

Hard to argue with that honestly. Nothing worse than an armchair critic that complains but doesn’t have anything constructive to add. You lean back, lacing fingers behind your head as if to support the contemplation going on inside of it.

Tuh-tuh-tup-sweep. Tuh-tuh-tup-sweep. Tuh-tuh-tup-sweep.

Lightbulb.

“I got it. The Girl grew up on these streets. She knows them better than we ever will. We’ll never beat her on her own turf; all we’d be doing is chasing shadows. What we gotta do is draw her out into the open where she can’t use her size to her advantage by disappearing down some hole we can’t follow.”

Duan opines, “Agreed, in broad terms. The demon is in the details however. If the girl is as vigilant as you say, how do we compel her to defy her own instincts?"

“It’s all about risk versus reward. Everyone’s got a threshold where a bet becomes too good to pass up. That threshold’s the key; all we need is to find something she won’t be able to resist popping her head out into the open for. Lucky for us, we have something that should fit the bill.”

“I know where this is going and I already don’t like it. Was looking forward to some spending money,” Ren says.

“Technically that money isn’t ours yet. But yea, we’re gonna need that advance payment from the pigmen for this to work. One of us ought to go grab it before we get started.”

“I’m lost,” admits Bian, “Are we to pay the girl?”

“Guess again, big guy. You just landed the star role. I’m picturing a big, bumbling, out-of-town merchant with a fat coinpurse on his belt. The perfect mark in other words.”

Bian’s face takes a cue from Rube Goldberg as the different parts of it work in sequence to decipher what you mean. He purses his lips, which go on to puff out his cheeks, which leads to squinting his eyes, which ends up furrowing his brow, etc. It’s quite something to watch, and you can’t help but snigger at the visual. In a rare moment of shared levity, the rest of the gang joins you, one by one, everyone bemused in their own, specific way.

Duan chuckles into his cup. Sima tries to remain stony-faced but his minute headbobs are evidence of being anything but. Ren even chokes back what might be a giggle beneath her half-veil.

At last Bian catches on. His eyes light up, previous reticence all but forgotten or abandoned or misplaced or whatever, “You want me to be an actor! Like in one of those operas in the Imperial City! Oh boy oh boy oh boy, I’ve always wanted to be in one of those!”

Sima has stopped his drumming at this point, “The public square outside the temple. Highly open, highly visible. That’s where we’ll catch her out.”

“Sounds good. Bian ought to parade himself around town first to let his presence be known. We also don’t want the Girl to make her move anywhere other than the square. Ren, know anyplace nearby where we can stash the money? Somewhere out of the way but secure?”

“That really necessary? We can save ourselves some potential headache if Bian doesn’t actually have any money on him. Makes no difference whether a purse is filled with coins or stones to the outside eye.”

“It’s gotta look real for the Girl to even consider taking the bait. Like I said: lies, spoonfuls of truth, et cetera.”

“Have it your way. There’s an abandoned house two streets over. Well, more of a shack really. Locals give it a wide berth on account of the owner strangling his wife and not having been seen since. Allegedly. Should suit our purposes just fine though.”

“Sounds like we got a plan then. Bian, get your hooves on some decent clothes and start strutting about town. Sima, tail him—make it obvious but not too obvious. We want the Girl to think someone else might take the money if she won’t. Duan, get the money from the pigmen and stash it at the abandoned house. Ren, standby at the square. Well? What’re we waiting for?”

Sweep.

***

It’s late in the afternoon.

Through the pitted roof of the abandoned shack, sunlight comes down at an oblique angle and paints the walls with shapes reminiscent of jagged-toothed maws. Motes of dust hang suspended in the stale, still air, occasionally catching the light and filling the space with stars.

Just about every indication this was ever a lived-in space has been scoured away by the merciless passage of time. All that remains in the single-room abode are the few pieces of furniture not easily carried away such as the carcass of an old bed or a wardrobe next to the door.

An old buck had entered not too long ago. In his hand—the one that was still remaining—were a pair of silver ingots resembling miniature flattened canoes. He gave the house’s interior a onceover, going slowly so as to give his good eye plenty of time to find what needed to be found, before singling out a corner thick with leaves and cobwebs. He walked to it and knelt before burying the ingots beneath handfuls of debris. Satisfied the ground looked as close to undisturbed as he could get it, he took his leave shortly thereafter.

Little happens in the interim. That changes when the door cracks open and in slips a small rabbit Girl. She had been outside ever since the buck left, watching and waiting just in case someone else was doing the same to her. No one had seen her enter and no one had entered since; of these things she was certain. Certain enough to sneak into the shack and steal the money out from under the gang. If they wanted her to have it so badly, she’s more than happy to oblige.

She surveys the room, moving ghost-like on padded feet, hesitant to disturb even the dirt on the floor. A patch of ground in the corner catches her eye. She gravitates towards it, tracing the barely-visible hoofprints left behind by the last visitor.

The buck carried himself well for a deer his age. Even if his body was debilitated, the same couldn’t be said for his faculties. He had a sharp air about him. Maybe the Girl could’ve lifted the money off him on the way here, but it was a dicey maybe.

Safer to try her luck once the goods were left unattended. She glanced down at the innocuous pile of dirt and debris at her feet and began to brush it aside. She couldn't recall the last time she smiled, so the fact that she broke out into a wide grin upon seeing twin silvery gleams in the light was a surprise in and of itself.

So imagine her surprise when the dresser door opens and out you step.

The Girl’s ears jolt upright at the sound of unexpected company. She snaps around in time to see you bracing your shoulder against the side of the dresser. One good shove and down it comes, once-proud lumber now reduced to a splintered heap that only serves to block the exit.

You’ve hiked up your sleeves and the hem of your robes to have your limbs—still bound at the wrist and knees—as unimpeded as possible. You’ll have need of them soon enough. The Girl stares at your uncovered face, eyes wide with disbelief as though the sheer act of trying to process your presence is stalling her thoughts. Now more than ever, she looks every part the young, vulnerable prey animal that she is.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Her shock doesn’t last long. With a vigorous shake of her head, she blinks it all away, mind and body already working in tandem to extricate herself from the situation. She starts by clamboring up to a boarded-up window only to find it impossible to kick out. Then she tries the ceiling, which could’ve offered escape if she didn’t care about being shredded to ribbons in the process. She evidently does however, dropping to the floor with haggard, desperate breaths and eyes already on the lookout for whatever next might offer salvation.

All the while you’re advancing on her. You must be a stark contrast indeed—your steps, slow and measured; your gaze, icy and unwavering. Hard to say if your pulse even gets above seventy. You’re not entirely sure what you intend to do. All you know is this: it isn’t going to be pretty.

You can see the Girl visibly weighing her options, few to begin with and growing fewer still. She crouches low against the ground, eyes alternating between looking at your feet and looking at your hands. The former bring you ever closer to her. The latter, bound together at the wrist but with fingers spread and ready to grasp, no doubt look like a primed springtrap from where she’s crouching.

“I thought you were dead,” she says, stalling.

“Didn’t take.”

“I see that. How’d you know I’d be here?”

“The same way you knew the money was going to be here. I’m sure the serving girl at the teahouse didn’t spare any details. I mean why would she? The things we do for family, right?” The Girl’s eyes go wide. It’s all you need to know you’ve hit the nail on the head. “She’s your sister I take it. I figured she’d listen in on the plan I laid out to Sima and the others.”

“The plan… It was the bait all along.” She sounds like she’s choking tears.

“Relax, she didn’t give you up. Not directly anyways. I take it you’ve got siblings all across town. That’s why you had me leaving carrots everywhere. That’s why you steal. You don’t do it for yourself. You do it for them.”

The Girl toes the ground. An ear wilts enough to flop over, covering an eye. She takes it, rubs it against her cheek.

“We weren’t always apart from each other. My family went from village to village, fixing whatever little things that needed fixing—just baba, mama, and us. One day, my siblings and I were inside the cart when we stopped in the middle of the road. We heard voices. We heard our parents. Then we heard nothing. There was no one around when we came out. We waited for as long as we could, then I took my brothers and sisters up the road to the next town.”

“Which happened to be Shepherd’s Gorge.”

“Where its monk had us split up and handed over to his friends. Raised as though we were their own flesh and blood, they told us. Treated like servants more like. Being the eldest, I was the soonest able to take up my new duties, so naturally I went to him. Four years I spent under his thumb before running away.”

“Hence you and him being on bad enough terms to want you ran out of town.”

“Anything to hide his dirty laundry I guess. I’m a walking reminder that he’s a lying sack of shit.” The Girl laces her fingers together, eyes all but unwilling to meet yours, “Does this change anything? Between us, I mean?”

Your jaw tightens, voice dropping to a barely-audible whisper, “You sent me to him knowing full well what he was capable of. I almost died because of you. Family or no, that’s a hard thing to forgive.”

“But you didn’t die, just like I knew you wouldn’t! You’re like me. A survivor. Hell, look at where you are now! Look at what you’ve accomplished!”

“And that’s why you lied to me then? For my benefit?”

The Girl goes quiet for a beat. She sighs, “Is there anything I can say that would make you think otherwise?”

“No. I suppose there isn’t.” There’s no ill will to your words, just plain statement of fact in the same tone of voice you would use to comment on the weather.

A lull settles as your previously bottomless well of grievances begins to run dry. It’s not that you don’t want to scream and shout, curse and cry; things couldn’t be further from the truth. She wronged you. Plain and simple. Not a jury in her world or yours would claim otherwise.

But standing where you stand now, all you see is a scared little rabbit girl. A girl that’s lost her home, her family, even her name. The two of you stare off into the distance, at the ground, at one another’s clothes, anywhere except one another's faces.

She mumbles words you can’t quite hear, directing them downwards so they’re only audible half a millisecond after they've bounced back up off the floor, “You’ve done well for yourself. Going from public enemy number one to calling the shots for a bandit gang. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Her words barely have time to register before the Girl springs forward as though every fiber of her being had been under tension ever since she stopped moving. She uses that tension to become a blur against the ground with the express intent getting around you and to the front door.

Her attempt at a breakthrough has her skimming along the wall so as to keep as far from your questing fingers as possible. Even with the quarters being as close as they are, she’s a wiley thing; infinitely more suited to the shack’s cramped confines and nigh impossible to keep track of like a stubborn mosquito that refuses to land. Just as she’s about to commit to passing on your right, at the last possible moment she pivots left.

Which is the correct move, tactically speaking. Lefties account for ten percent of humanity; no reason that wouldn’t hold true for the rest of the animal kingdom. Fat chance of a right-hander writing their name legibly or catching a ball with their non-dominant hand on the first go. Sub out the ball for a small rabbit and it’s easy to see why this is her game to lose. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, she slips by without even so much as breaking a sweat.

Maybe the stars are aligned just right or maybe you’re just wise to her bullshit at this point, but today is turning out to be full of exceptions.

The pivot is a fakeout. All the physicality of a last second turn is there but none of the follow-through. She uses that momentum to continue shifting on her heel a full three-sixty degrees, returning to her original trajectory.

And straight into your grasp.

The Girl is so preoccupied with trying to pull one over you that she doesn’t see your hands until it’s too late. She runs straight into them and they close around her accordingly.

Hands wrapped around her tiny neck, you hoist her up before forcefully slamming her tiny form against the wall. The act completely stuns her, and more than a little yourself. Everything that happened did so in a fraction of a second. Comprehension is slow to dawn on her. When it does, it’s a slow, creeping kind of realization. A realization that she’s fucked.

“Wait! S-stop!” she cries, fingers desperately scrabbling at your own to no effect, “Th-this isn’t y-you! You wouldn’t, ngh… do this!”

“What makes you so sure?” you respond icily. Your fingers interlock around the back of her neck, thumbs in particular settling into the hollow of her throat. All it would take to cut off her air is the tiniest bit of pressure. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. I’m not even sure I do, especially after the shit you pulled.”

“M-my brothers and sisters! I’m all they have! P-please! If not me, have mercy on them! F-for their… sake!”

“You should’ve thought of that before lying to my face. And I have family too in case you weren’t aware. Or had. Starting to doubt I’ll ever see them again. Not that I expect you to care.”

“I… I do care. And I’m… sorry for what I did.” The Girl chokes and sputters like a dying engine, strength leaving her body almost as noticeably as the color from her face. The flailing of her limbs becomes more and more feeble by the second.

“Bullshit. If we’re really anything alike, then I know for a fact that you’ll say just about anything to save your own skin. Can’t trust a goddamned word out of your lying mouth.”

“Maybe… not, so h-here’s some that aren’t… from my lying… mouth. You’re… not what… everyone s-says… you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“A… m-monster. Told me… as much… y-yourself. Rather be… the demon-slayer t-than the demon… if you… had the… c-choice. Oldsmobile… full of… chemistry books… r-remember..?”

She’s shaking at this point. A full-bodied tremor. Low-intensity but constant. Like being sick with the flu.

Then you realize it’s you that’s doing the shaking. You glare at her, wanting to hate but ultimately feeling none. Already you can feel your shoulders slumping as though all the rage and indignation that had accumulated there are presently hissing their way out.

One by one, your fingers loosen.

The Girl slips from your grasp, falling on her palms and knees. She gasps for breath, tiny white hand reaching to caress a tiny white throat. Trying to stand results in a backwards stumble into the wall behind her, whereupon she slides her way down to a sitting position, still hacking and coughing on the way down. She eventually recovers enough to look up. You expect nothing less than daggers.

Instead, she pats the ground beside her.

In the same way someone wouldn’t hesitate to walk through a held-open door, the gesture is so unexpected that you can’t help but comply. You sit down on the floor beside her right then and there. The tension in the air is gone—in its place, a sort of mutual resignation. The two of you just sit there for a while, silently watching the cracks in the ceiling go from gold to crimson.

After however long it takes for her to recover, all you can think to ask is, “So what’s new with you?”

“Could be better. Could be worse,” is her candid response, her voice still noticeably hoarse, “You really shook things up around here. The town’s calmed down since, but there was alotta fear and confusion the night you showed up. Made off with some things I wouldn’t have usually, things like–” She cuts herself off with a bite of her tongue.

“Things like a jade dragon statue?”

“...just the pearl that was in the claw. Wasn’t strong enough to haul the entire thing out the window, remember? Not that it matters much; the one time I tried fencing the thing, dude figured he could double his money. Bastard tried to rob me. Elsewise, haven’t talked to anyone much, especially since Ainu and her family moved away.”

“Ainu?” Your mind flashes back to your first encounter in this world. They were a pair, a pig-child and her mother, traveling without a care in the world when a strange ape-like creature appeared out of nowhere to accost them. You recall how they flew at the sight of you, leaving screams of ‘yuojing’. That, and a sockmonkey. “They moved away?”

“That’s what the townspeople are calling it. Me—I call it something different. I call it forced exile.”

You fall silent as realization dawns on you. Then you ask, “Why?”

“Jhuer didn’t like the attention they got from the yuojing. Said it was their fault the demon was drawn to Shepherd’s Gorge to begin with. He blamed everything on them.”

“If I hadn’t… If I had just… It’s my fault what happened to them.”

“You and I both know that isn’t true.”

“Thanks for saying that. Heh, someone’s trusting all of a sudden.”

“I said you wouldn’t hurt me and I stand by that. Took some getting to, sure, but I never had any doubt. Someone like you just doesn't have it in them to hurt someone like me.”

“So why run just now?”

“Dude, I’m a rabbit. It’s what we do,” she says whilst massaging her neck.

“Yea well, you kinda had it coming. Don’t think for a second you and I are square just because I’m too chickenshit to get my hands dirty.”

“I figured.” She’s still at her throat. A pang of guilt assails you, every bit as real and stinging as a slap to the face. On inspection, it’s apparent that she’s also twiddling with a necklace that was hidden up until now. It’s a tiny thing of alternating beads and charms, all handmade, none precious. Sized just right to be a necklace for a rabbit or a bracelet for a boar.

Her leg fidgets against yours. She asks, voice tinged with uncertainty, “What happens now?”

“Dunno. Was thinking dinner maybe.” The statement earns you a (half-hearted) punch to the shoulder.

“I meant between us. And Jheur. This is what he wants,” referring to the necklace she’s fiddling with, “It’s the only thing I have to remember my parents by. He knows I’d rather die than give it up.”

You take a minute to think, leaning your head back until it comes to rest with a thunk against the wall.

“…what if you did? Give it to him, I mean. Temporarily at least. Jheur wants your necklace as proof that you’re out of the picture, right? So how’s he gonna know whether or not you are and not just, say, keeping a low profile?” The Girl shifts until her head rests slightly against your arm, contemplation visible beneath the growing shadows on her face. “This is what you’re going to do: lay low for a bit. That means no stealing, no pickpocketing, no anything that might put you on his radar.”

“Contrary to what you may think, I don’t steal for the heck of it. How am I supposed to survive?”

“Got you covered.” The Girl watches as you rise to your feet and walk over to the corner, whereupon you return a moment later, shiny silvery ingot in hand. You plop it into her lap, eliciting a squeak of surprise. “There. That oughta be enough to support you and your siblings.”

Gingerly, she picks up the ingot, cradling it in her hands as though expecting it to disappear before her very eyes, “I… I… don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say. Besides, this ain’t a charity. I don’t expect you to sit on your ass and do nothing for the foreseeable future. This here’s payment. I’m paying you for your services.”

“To do what?”

“Be my eyes and ears here basically. Y’know—gossip, rumors, all the going-ons and day-to-day bullshit. Especially everything that fat fuck is up to. I want to know what he’s doing before he does it. Oh, and one last thing: keep me up to date on how your brothers and sisters are doing. As a courtesy.”

A sly smile crosses her lips. She unclasps her necklace and places it in your hand. She closes your fingers around it, as though asking you to keep it safe.

“That I can do.”

Notes:

09/01/2025

Bad news - Chapters are getting too lengthy for me to keep pace with monthly updates. Story is by no means on hiatus. Just expect a more bimonthly/inconsistent upload schedule.

Good news - The protag is finally in a position to start meeting some rather prominent individuals.