The world narrowed to the path beneath his feet. Han Li moved deeper into the forest, where the familiar, sun-dappled trails of the outer woods gave way to a quieter, more ancient realm. The air here was cooler, thick with the scent of damp soil, stone, and rotting leaves—a smell of both life and decay. His grip on his woodcutter's axe was firm, a practical comfort. He knew these woods with the cautious knowledge of a villager, not a master woodsman. He knew where the old pine grew straight and tall, where the ground grew soft and treacherous near the creek, and where the shadows clung a little too long for comfort.
The cheerful chatter of sparrows and finches from the sunlit canopy slowly faded, replaced by the low sigh of wind through high branches. It was not silent, but the silence within the sounds felt deliberate. The forest seemed to be listening, holding a breath it had drawn centuries ago.
Han Li's pace slowed, his boots making soft, deliberate impressions in the loam. His senses, honed by solitary work, stretched out beyond the visible. It was a feeling first—a prickle on the back of his neck, a hollow quiet in a space that should have held the scurry of a squirrel. Then came the sound: a soft, rhythmic compression of foliage, keeping pace with him from the deeper thickets to his left.
Not the clumsy crash of a boar. Not the light, bounding retreat of a deer.
This was measured. Heavy. Deliberate.
He stopped, his body turning slightly toward the source, every muscle taut but not frozen. His knuckles were pale on the axe handle.
From behind a veil of thorny brambles and wild hydrangea, two eyes emerged. Pale yellow, like old amber, and utterly still. They held an intelligence that was immediately, chillingly apparent. A wolf stepped into a narrow beam of fractured light.
But it was wrong. Its pelt was the color of a moonless night, its build leaner and more corded than any mountain wolf he'd ever seen sketched on a warning poster at the village gate. As it shifted, the faintest suggestion of patterns—like shifting charcoal shadows—seemed to ripple along its flanks. The air around it tasted different; cool, clear, and thin, like the air atop the high ridge. A low-level spirit beast. A creature from the tales old men told by the fire, now standing twenty paces away.
Han Li exhaled, a slow, controlled release of breath. Running was the first, fatal instinct of prey. He held its gaze, assessing. The wolf lowered its great head, the motion unnervingly slow, and took one single, silent step forward.
Instinct won. Han Li spun and ran.
He did not follow a path. He crashed through ferns, ducked under low branches, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The forest became a green blur of stinging slaps and tripping roots. Behind him, the rustle of pursuit was constant, a ghost at his heels. Yet, after a dozen frantic heartbeats, a cold clarity pierced his panic. The wolf was fast—it had easily flanked him, cutting off his most obvious retreat—but it had not closed the final gap. It was herding, not hunting.
He skidded to a halt behind a broad cedar, back pressed to the rough bark, and peered back.
The wolf stood calmly in a small clearing he'd just fled through. It wasn't panting. Its yellow eyes simply watched him.
Reason warred with fear, and for a moment, reason held. "What do you want?" Han Li's voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
The wolf did not snarl. It took another step, then deliberately shook its massive head side to side.
Han Li stared. A denial. A clear, intelligent response.
Before he could process it, the beast approached. Han Li forced himself to stand his ground. It stopped within arm's reach, the scent of wild musk and cold stone washing over him. It did not bare its teeth. Instead, it leaned forward and gently, precisely, caught the frayed edge of his homespun robe sleeve in its mouth. It tugged once, softly. Released. Then it took two steps back and sat, watching him.
The message was absurdly clear. Follow.
Every fiber of his village-born sense screamed against it. But beneath the fear, a spark ignited—a deep, pulling curiosity about the world that lay beyond the firelight and the harvested fields. He gave a single, stiff nod.
The wolf stood. Swallowing hard, Han Li moved forward and climbed awkwardly onto its back. It was like mounting a living storm. The wolf surged forward, and the world dissolved into a streaking tunnel of green and brown. The beast moved with impossible, liquid grace, leaping gullies and weaving through dense stands of bamboo as if they were morning mist. The air grew colder, the light fading to a perpetual twilight.
The wolf stopped as suddenly as it had started, beside a raw scar in the earth—a sinkhole or an old pit, hidden by a fallen, rotting log. It peered over the edge and whined, a low, anxious sound that vibrated in its chest. It nudged Han Li firmly toward the precipice.
Han Li crept forward and looked down.
In the muddy bottom, a small, dark shape lay curled. A wolf pup, little more than a shadow with ribs that fluttered like a trapped bird. It looked up, its blue puppy eyes clouded with exhaustion and fear. It was stranded.
Understanding arrived not as a shock, but as a simple, clear fact. He looked from the pit to the adult wolf. "You need help getting it out."
The spirit wolf stared back, the intelligence in its gaze now utterly laid bare as raw parental concern.
"I'll help," Han Li said, his voice firming. He turned, his woodcutter's mind switching to practical solutions. He scanned the trees, his eyes landing on a young Chinese parasol. Its bark was perfect. He used his axe not to fell, but to skillfully score and peel long, fibrous strips. His hands worked with swift, practiced efficiency, twisting and braiding the strips into two robust, if rough, ropes.
He secured one end of the first rope to the trunk of a sturdy oak, testing the knot twice. He carried the other end to the wolf. "You must pull. Gently. Understand?" He placed the coiled end in its mouth, guiding its grip. The wolf's jaws closed with careful precision.
Han Li took the second rope and lowered himself into the pit. The walls were slick, the mud sucking at his boots. The pup shrank away as he landed, a tiny growl rumbling in its throat. "Easy now," Han Li murmured, his voice low and steady as he approached with slow movements. He fashioned a harness with the rope, looping it securely around the pup's middle.
"Now! Pull steady!" he called up.
Above, the spirit wolf braced its powerful legs. The rope snapped taut. With immense, controlled strength, it lifted the pup smoothly out of the pit and onto solid ground. Han Li hauled himself up after, mud streaking his clothes.
The scene above was quiet. The adult wolf was nuzzling the pup, licking it vigorously, her entire body shuddering with a palpable wave of relief. The pup, wobbly-legged, pressed into her side.
Han Li stood back, coiling his ropes. He felt no surge of heroism, only the quiet satisfaction of a necessary task completed.
After a minute, the spirit wolf turned. Once more, she caught his robe and tugged.
This time, the journey was shorter. They emerged in a small, hidden clearing where the sunlight filtered down like scattered coins. The wolf nudged aside a curtain of vine with her nose.
Han Li's breath caught. Ginseng. Not a single lucky find, but a small, cultivated-seeming patch. Ten plants, their pronged leaves forming a delicate canopy over the rich soil. Some had three prongs, young and tender. Others boasted five or more, their necks thick with the rings of decades. A treasure trove. A reward that could change a poor woodcutter's life.
He turned to the wolf and bowed, not deeply, but with genuine respect. "My thanks."
He worked with a forager's reverence. Using a digging stick, he carefully unearthed only the four oldest plants, leaving the younger ones to thrive and sustain this secret place. He brushed the soil from the humanoid roots, their intricate, arms-and-legs shapes feeling strangely potent in his hands. He nestled them in his basket, cushioning them with moss.
When he straightened, basket weighty on his back, the clearing was empty. The wolves were gone, as if absorbed back into the forest's spirit.
The walk home felt different. The basket was a tangible anchor to an extraordinary event, making the ordinary path seem like a dream. He was halfway to the village edge when he saw it.
To the west, beyond where any path led, a light pulsed softly between the trees. It was not firelight, nor sunlight. It was a cool, blue-white luminescence, steady and rhythmic as a resting heartbeat. It made no sound, yet it seemed to pull at the edge of his vision, a silent summons.
Han Li stopped. The weight of the ginseng pulled at his shoulders, a fortune leading back to a simple, mortal life.
He turned his head fully toward the distant, pulsing glow. It promised nothing, explained nothing. It simply was.
The forest around him was still, offering no counsel. Behind him lay home, safety, and a changed fortune. Ahead lay the deep, unknown west and its silent, beckoning light.
Han Li stood for a long moment at the crossroads, the choice settling in the quiet space between heartbeats.