Chapter Eight: Pheasants Are Easily Hunted, But Fox Shadows Are Hard to Follow

Fang Zheng woke even earlier than the previous day. By now, he had finished his morning exercises and was making final preparations for his ascent. Despite having slept late last night, he felt energetic and clear-headed. Each day, both mind and body seemed to improve, as if every minute brought progress—a sensation he found utterly addictive. He could distinctly sense that his hearing, sight, and sense of smell had all markedly sharpened, and his strength was growing rapidly, like tender shoots in spring. Everything was moving in a positive direction, filling him with confidence for the journey ahead.

He made a final check of his gear: a quiver of feathered arrows and a long bow slung across his back, a cloth pouch at his waist containing dry rations delivered by Aunt Zhao earlier, and a small water flask beside them. A thumb-thick rope coiled around his waist completed his equipment. The rations and water flask had been prepared for him before dawn by Aunt Zhao, bringing him a warmth he had never felt before—perhaps this was what people called family affection, as moving as the legendary love of a mother.

Once everything was set, Fang Zheng stepped out. He had shed his usual scholarly appearance; his hair was tied up in a topknot, and the sky-blue robe, cinched at the waist with the rope, accentuated his tall, upright figure. His bright, lively eyes set off his neatly arched brows, sharp as swords, and his well-defined features lent him a charm distinct from the natives of this world. Though traces of scholarly air lingered, it mingled with the ethereal grace unique to practitioners, resulting in a refined aura edged with a subtle, steely vigor.

Fang Zheng himself felt a bit awkward; though he was satisfied with his outfit, he was unaccustomed to it. Gazing at his empty hands, he sensed something missing—perhaps he should fetch a sword to complete the look. The thought made him chuckle inwardly; after all, he had never seen a hunter bring a treasured sword along on a hunt.

The weather was favorable, the sky still dark but filled with stars—a good day to venture out. As he was about to greet Aunt Zhao before leaving, the door to the eastern room creaked open. The little girl poked her head out, peering at Fang Zheng in the courtyard. Braving the chill of the late autumn morning, she ran straight into his arms, calling out, "Brother!" Fang Zheng quickly scooped her up, worried she might catch cold, and carried her toward the kitchen. "Why are you up so early, Yaya?" he asked.

"Brother is going hunting, so Yaya got up to see him off—Yaya has a gift for Brother, too." She handed him a small, ancient bronze pendant. Fang Zheng freed a hand to take it, curious.

"This is Yaya’s charm for peace. Grandma says Great-grandfather gave it to Yaya when she was born, and she’s always worn it. Now it’s for Brother—it will surely protect you." Fang Zheng kissed her forehead and was about to gently refuse, but saw her big eyes brimming with expectation. They had reached the kitchen, where Aunt Zhao was tidying up at the stove. Smiling softly, she said, "Fang Zheng, just wear it. It’s Yaya’s heartfelt wish."

"Then let Yaya help Brother put it on, shall we?"

"Mm!" The little girl happily took the pendant and hung it around Fang Zheng’s neck.

He set her down. "Brother is about to leave now. Yaya must be good at home, listen to Grandma, eat well, and remember to take your medicine!"

"Mm, Yaya will listen to Grandma. Brother, be careful in the mountains." She replied obediently, her eyes full of reluctance.

"All right, Brother will remember Yaya’s words and be careful. Go back to sleep for a while—children need more sleep to grow tall." He patted her head and strode away.

At this moment, Fang Zheng looked rather disheveled: the hem of his robe was half gone, his face streaked with dirt, making him look like a refugee. Two small animals hung at his waist—a gray mountain pheasant and a wild rabbit. He was chasing a white blur through the forest, its shape indistinct.

Late autumn had stripped the mountain woods of color; plants had lost their vitality, and the undergrowth was tangled with dry grass and vines, leaving no solid footing. Fang Zheng could only run atop the vegetation.

It was already past noon. The once sunny weather had turned gloomy, the weary sun hiding behind clouds, offering feeble warmth and light. Fang Zheng was growing frustrated. After setting out in the morning, he had headed toward Wild Dog Slope, encountering several rabbits and a flock of mountain pheasants. His barely competent archery had yielded modest results—the two animals now at his waist. But the journey thereafter had been troublesome: he first stumbled upon a bear taller than a man and fled in panic, losing his dry rations in the process. When he paused in a clearing to drink and rest, he encountered the fox—more precisely, a white fox.

Even a novice like Fang Zheng knew the value of such a creature. In his days at Green Ox Village, Zhang Qi had once hunted a white fox; its pelt, taken to the county town, sold for ten gold taels. Fang Zheng had been astonished—he understood the worth of gold and silver here, and ten gold taels was a true fortune, equivalent to about two hundred thousand yuan on Earth. He had mused: though worlds differ, the wealthy are everywhere. Some on Earth sweat and bleed for a meal, while others spend hundreds of thousands on a single garment. Things were no different here.

The prospect of ten gold taels made Fang Zheng nock an arrow instantly, but he hadn’t expected the fox’s speed and agility—it was astonishing, almost as if it were mocking him. Fang Zheng shot every arrow in his quiver, yet failed to so much as graze a hair on the fox, which merely stood its ground, watching him with what seemed a taunting gaze. Stung by frustration, Fang Zheng knew his archery was poor, but not so bad as to be mocked by a fox. Even a clay figure has its temper, so he gave chase, and had been at it for hours. By now, he had lost all sense of direction; everywhere was the same—yellowed foliage, bare trees, tangled grass and vines. To make matters worse, the fox would run, then stop, as if deliberately waiting for him when he nearly lost sight of it. After several hours, even with his newfound endurance, Fang Zheng was flagging. Sweat soaked his back, and his shoes were so worn his toes poked through. He was ready to give up—the day was far spent, and he’d lost his bearings. It was unwise to press on; he did not want to spend the night in the forest and worry Aunt Zhao and Yaya.

Just then, the fox vanished in a flash. Fang Zheng was perplexed. Ahead lay a cliff, several yards wide, but towering so high its top was out of sight. He was certain the fox hadn’t darted left or right, but had vanished before the cliff face.

He hurried forward for a closer look. Before the cliff was a fissure about three feet wide; the rock on the left extended outward at a strange angle, perfectly concealing the gap from his earlier perspective, making the cliff seem whole.

Revived with curiosity, Fang Zheng pressed on—since he’d come this far, he might as well explore. Mystery always sparks curiosity, and this place exuded a sense of the unknown. He advanced along the fissure, gripping a feathered arrow warily. The passage narrowed in places, forcing him to turn sideways; after some ten yards, he emerged into a small valley. Strangely, the valley brimmed with greenery, some unknown plants even blooming with bright flowers. About a hundred yards away stood three thatched huts, but the white fox was nowhere to be seen. The scene filled Fang Zheng with excitement. The ancient tales of Peach Blossom Spring had always been alluring; though no people were visible here, birds sang and flowers bloomed, and the three huts hinted at something extraordinary.

Ignoring everything else, he approached the huts and called out, “Is anyone here? I am Fang Zheng, passing by your honorable abode—please forgive the intrusion!” His voice echoed gently in the valley, but no reply came. Examining the huts, he found weeds overgrown at their doors, and the middle hut’s roof had a gaping hole, clearly abandoned for a long time. He felt a touch of disappointment. “So it’s just a deserted place,” he concluded, and walked up to the hut on the left. He pushed at the door, which was rotten and collapsed inward, raising a cloud of dust. Fang Zheng stepped inside; it should have been the owner’s living quarters. The furnishings were simple—a bed about three feet wide with rotted bedding, and in the center, a square table with a set of coarse porcelain tea ware. By the left wall near the door stood a low stool bearing a pottery basin, likely for washing. Finding nothing remarkable, Fang Zheng did not touch anything and turned to leave; after all, even if abandoned, it was someone else's home and best not to disturb their belongings.

The middle hut, its roof punctured, was clearly a kitchen, its stove and utensils evident.

His excitement fading, Fang Zheng opened the last hut’s door. Based on the previous two, he expected nothing special; it was just a place where someone had lived long ago. But upon entering, he noticed something different. Unlike the others, the wall opposite the entrance was not made of grass or wood, but was a sheer mountain rock. From outside, he had seen all three huts built snug against the cliff, but the first two had four walls; this one had only three. More unusually, in the mountain wall there was a person-sized opening, pitch-black within.

Fang Zheng approached the opening, taking out a fire striker he had bought in Bin County in preparation for his trip to Qingyun. He blew it alight, holding it before him, an arrow clutched in his right hand, and peered into the darkness beyond.