Han Li's heart beat a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He stood perfectly still at the fork between the known and the unknown, the weight of the ginseng a tangible anchor to sense and safety. The blue-white light from the deep west pulsed with a slow, patient rhythm, like the quiet breathing of the mountains themselves.
What could that light be? The question echoed, hollow, in his mind. It is not my business. I should run. I cannot take the risk.
He took a half-step back, the soil soft beneath his heel. The forest around him was a silent witness. The logical path was clear: turn around, follow his own trail back to the village, present his fortune to Auntie and Uncle, and change their circumstances. It was more than enough. Greed was the downfall of men in every story Old Zhang had ever told.
Yet, a deeper, more stubborn current pulled within him. It was not a spirit's voice, just his own relentless curiosity, shaped by a youth of poverty where every glint in a stream might be a coin, every unusual rock a potential treasure. What if there is something important to see? What if that light is a sign, just as the spirit wolf was? To turn away from a mystery is to remain a woodcutter forever.
The internal debate was not loud, but it was arduous. It cycled through rejection and acceptance a dozen times as the light continued its silent call. It was a foolish risk. It was a necessary look. It was a predator's lure. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. The basket straps dug into his shoulders, a constant reminder of the real, tangible fortune he already possessed.
Finally, with a sharp exhale that fogged in the cooling air, he turned his feet toward the west. "Just a look," he muttered to the trees. "From a distance. Then I will go."
The journey took twenty minutes of careful, tense progress. The land sloped slightly upward, and the trees grew more gnarled, their bark silvered with lichen. The pulsing glow grew no brighter, but it felt closer, its source hidden behind a final ridge of mossy stone and thick cedar roots.
Han Li crested the ridge and stopped. Below lay a small, rocky hollow. There was no grand spectacle, no shimmering pool or ancient ruin. There was nothing there. Nothing but a dark, unassuming opening in the base of the stone wall—a cave, its mouth like a shallow, silent exhale from the earth.
His initial surge of adrenaline cooled into wary disappointment. Was the light coming from this? It looked utterly ordinary. Worse, it looked like a potential den. The risk assessment began again, sharper now. What if it is the cave of a predator? A spirit beast far less benevolent than the wolf? I cannot risk my life. I need to deliver this ginseng to Auntie. This is a full year's ration for us. This is security.
He stood for a long minute, weighing the mundane hole in the rock against the vital contents of his basket. The prudent choice was obvious.
"Huh," he grunted aloud, the sound startling in the quiet. A final, stubborn thread of curiosity refused to be cut. The cave mouth was low, but wide. It didn't look like a frequented den—no bones, no matted fur, no thick animal scent on the wind. It just looked… empty.
"Let's go in," he said to himself, his voice low. "I need to check. After all, it doesn't look like a den. A quick look."
Setting his basket down carefully beside a tree root, he took up his axe and approached. He ducked his head and entered the cave.
The inside was anticlimactic. It was nothing special—a shallow, domed space no larger than the main room of his hut. The air was cool and still, smelling of damp rock and age. The ceiling was a clutter of ordinary, water-smoothed stones, some looking loose and precarious. It was almost disappointing.
Han Li's shoulders slumped. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "What is this? What did I follow here for?" He shook his head, a wry, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "Old Zhang is true. We shouldn't be greedy. I got these ginseng. I thought I might find a golden mine here. Foolish."
Feeling both relieved and chastened, he turned to leave. As he ducked back toward the dimming twilight of the entrance, a faint, metallic glint caught the very edge of his vision from a crevice near the cave wall. He paused, then knelt.
There, half-buried in gritty dust, was a little locket-like object. He picked it up, brushing it clean. It felt cold and simple in his palm, utterly ordinary. It was a chain, thin and made of some dull, greyish metal that was neither silver nor iron. The pendant was a tiny, intricate miniature of a tall, multi-eaved tower, so finely detailed he could make out minute windows and tapered roofs, yet it was no larger than his thumbnail.
He held it up to the faint light. No glow. No hum of energy. It was just a piece of finely made, if plain, jewelry. What will I do with this? It had no practical value he could see. Yet, the craftsmanship was precise, and it was clearly man-made, not a natural formation. Someone had been here, long ago.
"After all, it is well-structured," he murmured. "Let's keep it."
He slipped the chain over his head, tucking the tiny tower pendant inside his robe, where it lay against his chest with a slight, cool weight. He retrieved his basket and began the long trek home, the strange light forgotten, replaced by the practical focus of reaching the village before full dark.
Nearly two hours later, under the deep purple of dusk, he reached the small, familiar cluster of houses at the forest's edge. Lamplight glowed from his family's window, but outside the door, a scene of distress unfolded. His Auntie was sitting on the stoop, her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His Uncle stood beside her, a hand on her shoulder, his own face drawn and anxious in the fading light.
"—I shouldn't have sent him! It's your fault!" Auntie's voice, thick with tears, carried on the still evening air. She was not truly cursing, but voicing a fear that had grown into a sharp, desperate blame. "You asked him to go collect firewood in the deep woods! What if a beast, what if he fell—"
"Don't worry, woman," Uncle said, his voice strained but firm. "He is a careful boy. He will be here. He will—"
Uncle's words cut off as he spotted Han Li emerging from the tree line. A profound relief washed over his weathered features. "Han Li!"
Auntie's head snapped up. For a moment, she stared, as if not believing the sight. Then, with a cry that was half-anguish, half-joy, she surged to her feet and rushed forward. She did not hug him so much as seize him, her hands gripping his arms tightly, her eyes searching his face for injury. "You foolish boy! Where have you been? The sun is down! We thought a tiger had taken you!" Her words were sharp, but her eyes were overflowing, her touch trembling.
"I am well, Auntie. I am sorry," Han Li said, his own throat tight. He endured her frantic scolding and patting, a familiar ritual of love and fear.
Uncle approached, his relief softening into a stern but gentle expression. "You gave us a fright, nephew. The deep woods are not for lingering."
"I know, Uncle. But… I found something." Han Li's voice dropped. He gestured toward the door. "Inside."
Once within the modest, warm confines of their home, under the steady light of a single oil lamp, the emotional storm gradually settled into concerned curiosity. After assuring them repeatedly of his health, Han Li moved to his basket, which he had left by the door. He carefully folded back the layer of protective moss.
Auntie and Uncle leaned forward. Their eyes, still red-rimmed from worry, went wide. Two sharp, simultaneous intakes of breath filled the small room.
There, lying in the rough weave of the basket, were the ten ginseng roots. Their shapes were robust, twisted, and potent with age, the skin taut and deeply ringed.
"Ten…?" Auntie whispered, her hand hovering over them as if they were mirages.
Uncle reached out a calloused finger, tracing the distinct, human-like shape of the largest root. His voice was hushed with awe. "This… this lignification… the neck rings… Han Li, these are not decades old. Some of these are approaching a century of growth."
"It is equal to an annual ration," Han Li said quietly, stating the fact they were all realizing. "Enough to see us comfortably through the next year, with care."
The shock on their faces was pure, unadorned by drama. It was the stunned, breathless realization of a lifetime of scarcity momentarily repealed. Auntie's tears began anew, but these were silent, rolling down her cheeks as she stared at the fortune her nephew had laid before them. Uncle simply placed a firm, grateful hand on Han Li's shoulder, the squeeze communicating more than words ever could.
There were no more kisses, no grand pronouncements. The crisis of the evening had already peaked and passed. Now, a practical, vigilant joy took hold. Together, they carefully transferred the precious roots to a secure, hidden storage pot, burying it beneath a loose floorboard in the corner. They ate their simple evening meal in a state of quiet, shared disbelief, the usual talk replaced by meaningful glances and small, incredible shakes of the head.
Later, in the darkness of the loft where he slept, Han Li lay on his pallet. The day's events replayed in his mind—the spirit wolf, the pit, the ginseng, the cave, the pendant now cool against his skin. His body was weary, but his mind hummed with a low, steady current of change. The world, he understood now, was deeper and stranger than the village's borders suggested. As sleep finally claimed him, his fingers absently closed around the tiny, ordinary tower resting over his heart.