Old Wu had been wandering in the larch forest at the northern foot of the Greater Khingan Range for eleven hours—from seven last night until six this morning. His canvas shoes had worn through the soles, the two catties of water in his canteen were long gone, and he had eaten four of the five steamed buns in his ration bag. The last one he kept tucked inside his jacket. When the sun finally rose over the eastern ridge, he discovered he was less than three hundred meters from his own ranger station.
This was his twenty-third year as a forest ranger in the Greater Khingan Range. He knew this forest—forty li from east to west, seventy li from north to south—like the back of his hand. Which larch had a woodpecker's nest, which slope produced hericium mushrooms in July, which gully yielded antlers shed by red deer around the winter solstice—he had it all stored in his head.
But today, he was lost.
The larch and birch around him grew dense, less than two meters apart, their trunks covered with gray-green old man's beard lichen that hung down like an old man's whiskers. The air was thick with the sour smell of humus, mixed with pine resin and something else—a sweetness he couldn't name, faint but cloying. He looked up at the sky. The sun was slightly east of overhead, but he couldn't tell north from south—the canopy was too thick, splitting the sunlight into fingernail-sized fragments that scattered on the moss like spilled gold coins.
He pulled out his pocket watch. 6:17 AM. The enamel face was cracked—it had been for five years, since he dropped it on a rock. The hour hand pointed to six, the minute hand to seventeen. The second hand still ticked, click-click-click, loud as a hammer in this dead-silent forest.
He had circled that old pine tree—the one carved with "Mount Tai Stone Dares to Stand"—seven times. Every tree looked the same to him now, every rock familiar, every patch of moss something he'd seen before. He'd marked the trunk with his machete, walked for half an hour, and found the mark again—the cut still fresh, the wood not yet oxidized, the shavings still hanging beside it, curled like a withered hand.
Old Wu was fifty-seven, a stocky hundred and forty pounds on a five-foot-five frame, built like a tree stump. His face was etched with lines carved by wind and frost; the deepest ran from his brow to his jaw—a scar from a falling pine branch twenty years ago, eleven stitches. His hands were rough as pine bark, the calluses on his palms a coin's thickness, the black under his nails—a mix of resin and soil—permanent.
He wore a faded military greatcoat, the wool pile on the collar worn down to the backing, two brass buttons missing, replaced with twisted wire. On his feet were canvas shoes, the soles worn through to reveal the corn-husk insoles. At his waist hung a machete—an eight-inch blade with a four-inch birch handle, darkened by years of sweat—and an aluminum canteen, dented from a fall years ago. The canteen had been empty since three in the morning.
Even now, the memory of last night made cold sweat prickle on his back.
Yesterday evening at 5:40, he'd finished his patrol of the three-hundred-acre Korean pine seed forest on the south slope and was heading back down the firebreak to the ranger station when he heard a gunshot. A homemade shotgun—the report was muffled, not sharp like a military rifle. Poachers.
He'd followed the sound, tracking through the forest for about four li—forty minutes at his pace. The poachers had fled, but they'd left behind a pool of blood. He'd touched a finger to it, sniffed: heavy with the smell of blood, but with a musky undertone—not deer, not roe deer. Fur-bearer blood.
He'd followed the trail a little further. The blood was intermittent—on leaves, on moss, smeared on tree trunks like someone had flicked a bloody brush. Then night fell. In October, darkness came fast to the Greater Khingan Range; at 5:30 it was still bright, by 6:00 you couldn't see your hand. He'd checked his watch: 6:08 PM.
He'd planned to turn back, but as he walked, he realized something was wrong. The path he was taking wasn't the path he'd come by. The markers he'd left—triangular cuts in the bark—were gone. He'd called out: "Anyone there?—Anyone there?" The forest swallowed his voice like cotton soaking up water. No echo.
Then he'd heard it.
A sound from deep in the forest. Like human laughter, like a baby's cry—high and thin, drifting in the darkness, near and then far, like fingernails on glass.
He'd thought it was an owl—he'd heard Ural owls a hundred times in these woods—and hadn't paid it much mind.
But the sound came closer. Not straight toward him—in circles, tightening like a noose. Until it was right beside him, next to his left ear, close enough to feel the air move—like lips pressed to his ear, a soft breath, then a laugh.
He'd spun around.
Moonlight leaked through a gap in the clouds, illuminating a clearing. A weasel crouched three meters behind him, front paws pressed together, standing like a human.
It was enormous. An ordinary weasel is about a foot and a half from nose to tail, standing maybe four inches tall. This one was at least two and a half feet long, half a meter tall standing up—the size of a small dog. Its coat wasn't the usual yellowish-brown but a silvery white that shimmered in the moonlight like it had been plated with tin. Its tail was bushy as a broom, white-tipped, gold at the base, swaying slowly behind it.
Its eyes were green. Not reflecting light—self-illuminated, like shards of broken glass, like ghost flames, flickering in the darkness.
It tilted its head, watching him, its mouth open in a grin that showed two rows of fine, sharp teeth—thirty-two upper, thirty-two lower, more than a human's, needle-sharp and gleaming white.
Old Wu's hair stood on end. Twenty-three years in the forest, he'd seen over a thousand weasels. Never one like this. His hand went to his machete, thumb against the blade—a motion he'd practiced for twenty-three years. In three seconds, the blade could be out.
He stepped back. His right foot landed on a dead branch. Crack.
The weasel didn't move. It just tilted its head, its green eyes flickering like a lamp with a loose wick.
Then it spoke.
"Do I look like a human, or like an immortal?"
Its voice was high and thin, like a seven- or eight-year-old child's, but every word was clear, with a strange rhythm, like a song whose melody you couldn't quite catch.
Old Wu thought he'd misheard. A weasel, speaking human language? He blinked hard, pinched his thigh—it hurt—he wasn't dreaming. But the voice was coming from the weasel in front of him; he could see its mouth moving, its tongue flicking behind those needle teeth.
He didn't answer. He turned and ran.
He ran for eleven hours. From seven at night until six in the morning. He crossed four ridges, waded two streams, crashed through the forest like a blind animal. The soles of his shoes wore through, he raised six blisters on his feet, his canteen ran dry, he ate four of his five buns—the last one he saved, tucked inside his jacket.
When dawn came, he found himself still circling the same spot. The old pine with "Mount Tai Stone Dares to Stand" stood before him, the cut still fresh, the wood not yet oxidized, the shavings still hanging like a withered hand.
The weasel was gone, but he couldn't find his way out. The forest had become a maze, every path leading to the same place. He tried every trick he knew—tree crowns are thicker on the south side; bark is smoother on the north; moss grows thicker on the north. None of it worked. Every marker lied to him. Every direction looped back.
He had passed this pine seven times. Each time, he'd carved another mark. Now there were seven.
Old Wu squatted on a fallen log, reaching for his tobacco pouch. His hands shook so badly he spilled half the tobacco on the moss, where it lay like black insects. He put the empty pouch back in his pocket, pulled out a rolling paper from his greatcoat, rolled a cigarette with trembling fingers, and lit it with three matches.
He took a deep drag and coughed so hard tears came to his eyes.
"Ghost wall," he muttered to himself, his voice raspy as sandpaper on iron. "This is a ghost wall."
He'd heard of such things. Eight out of ten old-timers in the Greater Khingan had stories. Things in the forest, they said, could make you lose your way, walk in circles until you dropped. If it happened to you, stand still, wait for the sun to come out, or wait for the wind to blow them away.
But today there was no sun. The clouds were thick and gray, like an iron pot over his head. And there was no wind. The forest was silent as a tomb. You could hear pine needles fall.
He finished his cigarette, crushed it under his heel, stood up, and decided to try one last time.
This time, he followed a stream. Water flowed downhill, and downhill led out of the mountains. This was the old-timers' last resort—water doesn't lie. Downhill is the way out.
He walked for about half an hour. The stream narrowed: from a foot wide to half a foot, from half a foot to three fingers, from three fingers to a trickle. Then the water stopped. Not gradually seeping into the ground—it simply vanished, like someone had turned off a faucet.
At the place where the water disappeared stood a weasel.
The same one.
It stood the same way, front paws crossed over its chest, standing like a human. Its silvery white fur was wet with dew, gleaming faintly in the gray light. It tilted its head, watching him. Its green eyes were brighter than last night—bright as LED bulbs.
"Do I look like a human, or like an immortal?" it asked again.
Old Wu's legs went weak. He tried to run, but his legs were lead, every muscle trembling, unresponsive. He tried to shout, but his throat was blocked; air forced through his nose with a hiss, like a leaking tire.
The weasel took a step forward. Its paws sank into the wet moss without a sound.
"Do I look like a human, or like an immortal?" It tilted its head, its green eyes blazing.
Old Wu's mouth opened on its own. His tongue moved, his vocal cords vibrated, air rushed up from his lungs—like something inside him was speaking through him:
"You look like—"
"Don't answer!"
A sharp shout from deep in the forest, like a thunderclap, cut Old Wu off mid-sentence.
Old Wu spun around. Two people were running toward him through the trees—a man and a woman, both in dark jackets, moving fast. The man was foreign, Asian-featured, around thirty, with eyes sharp as knives. The woman had her hair in a low ponytail, her expression cold as ice, her lips pressed into a thin line.
The woman reached Old Wu and clamped her hand over his mouth. Her hand was cold, her fingers strong; Old Wu's face hurt from her grip.
"Don't make a sound," she said, her voice low, her eyes fixed on the weasel. "It's asking for investiture. If you answer wrong, your life is over."
Old Wu's eyes went wide, but her hand was over his mouth, so he couldn't ask.
The woman let go and turned to face the weasel. She pulled something from her pocket—a small copper bell, thumb-sized, rusted but with its clapper intact. She shook it.
Ding——
The sound was clear, resonant, echoing through the dense forest like a drop of water into a deep pool.
The weasel convulsed like it had been shocked, retreating two steps. It bared its teeth and let out a piercing shriek.
"Who are you?" Its voice was no longer a child's high pitch—it was rough, raspy, like bark rubbing against bark. "This is my forest. Mind your own business."
The woman ignored it and shook the bell again.
Ding——
The weasel retreated two more steps, trembling, its silvery fur bristling like an angry cat's. Its tail fluffed to twice its size, raised high behind it.
"Just you wait!" It shrieked, its voice shifting back to a child's, high and thin, almost tearful. "Just you wait! I'll be back!"
It turned and dove into the underbrush, vanishing. The bushes rustled, then stilled. The forest fell silent again.
And in that instant, the forest brightened. Sunlight broke through the clouds like golden knives, slashing through the gray mist, falling on the larch and golden birch. Light everywhere, shadows everywhere. Birds sang, insects buzzed, wind stirred.
Old Wu found himself standing on the slope behind the ranger station, less than three hundred meters from his own cabin. He could see the chimney on the roof, the canvas shoes drying on the windowsill, the axe by the door—the red cloth wrapped around its handle, which he'd put there last New Year.
His legs gave way. He sat down hard on the moss, which was cold and wet and soaked through his trousers.
"What... what was that?" he stammered, his voice distant.
The woman crouched down to look at him. Something in her eyes—not pity, not sympathy, something more complicated—weighed him.
"You almost didn't come back," she said, her voice calm, like she was commenting on the weather.
Mike, Lin Mo, and Zhao Tiezhu had arrived in Mohe three days earlier.
Luo San had passed them the message: in the northern foothills of the Greater Khingan Range, someone had encountered a weasel asking for investiture. Several locals had already been affected—one herb gatherer had gone mad, found naked in the forest hugging a tree, his mouth stuffed with dirt, his eyes bulging; one logger had disappeared without a trace, only his shoe found, filled with pine needles; one mountain forager, it was said, had been enchanted for seven days and nights; when they found him, he was squatting on a branch, naked, mouth full of dirt, eyes fixed on the sky, repeating two words: "Human, immortal, human, immortal..."
"Weasels are called 'Yellow Immortals' around here," Lin Mo explained, sitting on the heated brick bed in the ranger station, warming her hands. The brick bed was hot enough to burn, so she tucked her feet up, her toes hooked into her slippers. The thermometer on the wall read twenty-four degrees inside; outside, it was minus three, frost on the windows.
"In the northeast, weasels, foxes, snakes, hedgehogs, and rats are the 'Five Great Immortals.' The weasel is one of them. When they've cultivated enough, they find someone to 'ask for investiture'—they ask you whether they look like a human or an immortal."
"What's the difference?" Mike asked. He sat at the other end of the brick bed, uncomfortable with the posture, shifting like he was sitting on a hot griddle. He held a roasted corncob, the kernels charred, some split open.
Lin Mo picked a roasted corncob from the iron basin on the stove, broke it in half, and handed half to Zhao Tiezhu.
"If you say it looks like a human, it achieves human form. But it will hate you—because you only let it become human, not immortal. It will haunt you and ruin your family. It will stand by your pillow when you sleep, squat on your table when you eat, follow you when you leave, wait on your doorstep when you come home."
Zhao Tiezhu bit into his corncob, chewing twice, his cheeks bulging. "What if you say it looks like an immortal?"
"Then it becomes immortal. It will be grateful and grant you wealth and prosperity for the rest of your life. Food and clothing without worry, children and grandchildren, a peaceful death. But if you answer wrong—if you say it looks like a cat, a dog, a rat, or if you hesitate and say 'like a human, I guess'—it will kill you on the spot. Bite your throat out, or crawl into your body and make you strangle yourself."
Mike bit into his corncob, chewing, saying nothing. The kernels burst sweet on his tongue, with the charcoal-grilled smokiness. He remembered buying corn like this at a Chinese supermarket in New York when he was a kid—vacuum-packed, shipped from the northeast, three ninety-nine an ear. His grandmother couldn't bring herself to buy it except at New Year, when she'd buy one ear and split it three ways.
Zhao Tiezhu sat at the other end of the brick bed, holding his detector. The numbers on the screen kept jumping. He raised it toward the window, then toward the floor, then toward the ceiling.
"This forest is wrong," he said, setting the detector on the brick bed. "Readings steady between sixty-three and sixty-eight, but I can't find the source. Not a single entity—it's like the whole forest is one thing."
Lin Mo nodded, tossing her corncob into the stove's firebox. It hissed on the coals, a puff of white smoke rising.
"The Greater Khingan Range is one of the oldest forests beyond the Pass. In the Qing dynasty, it was imperial hunting grounds—no entry. In the Republic years, it was bandit territory—no one dared go in. After Liberation, it was designated a protected area—still off-limits. Places untouched for centuries—anything can grow there. Trees, grass, mushrooms—and other things."
She turned to the window. Outside lay a sea of trees, larch and birch leaves yellow, rustling in the wind like countless people whispering. In the distance, mountain ridges traced a jagged line against the gray-white sky. Farther still, a patch of gray-white mist hung over the forest, unmoving, like a closed eye.
"That ranger, Old Wu—is he still out there?" she asked.
Zhao glanced at his GPS. A green dot moved slowly across the grid, near the intersection of a contour line and a stream.
"Signal's in the forest, moving northeast. Very slow—less than a li an hour, half normal speed. Might be injured, or—" he paused, "or circling."
Lin Mo jumped off the brick bed, shoved her feet into her shoes, laced them tight.
"Let's go. Find him before dark." She glanced at the sky. The sun was already at the western ridge, the light turning orange, shadows stretching long. The ranger station's shadow stretched like a giant finger pointing toward the forest. "Once the sun goes down, that thing comes out."
Old Wu sat on the brick bed in the ranger station, holding a bowl of hot soup, his hands still shaking.
Mike had made the soup—instant noodle seasoning, dehydrated vegetables, dried black fungus, boiled in the big iron pot on the stove. Old Wu had taken three sips and spilled two, dark stains spreading on the brick bed.
He'd changed into dry clothes. His greatcoat hung by the heated wall, steaming, the smell of singed wool filling the room. His canvas shoes sat by the stove, soles worn through in two places, uppers caked with mud, the insoles—corn husks—reduced to pulp.
But his face was still white. Not normal white—bloodless white, like cabbage left in the cellar all winter. His lips were gray-purple, like frozen eggplant. His pupils were dilated, the color of his irises faded a shade, like ink soaked in water. He looked like he'd just been pulled from an icehouse, sitting on the hot brick bed wrapped in a quilt, still shivering.
"What you encountered last night was a Yellow Immortal," Lin Mo said, sitting across from him, her voice calm as a weather forecast. "It was asking for investiture. You didn't answer—that was lucky."
Old Wu looked up, his eyes unfocused, taking two tries to find Lin Mo's face.
"I... I almost answered," he said, his voice raspy, like someone had filled his throat with sawdust.
"I know," Lin Mo said. "If we hadn't gotten here in time, you'd be mad or dead by now. That herb gatherer you know? He met the same thing in the forest. He answered. He said 'human.' That weasel achieved human form, then crawled into his body. He ran for three days and nights in the forest. When they found him, he was hugging a tree, his mouth full of dirt."
Old Wu's hands shook worse. Soup sloshed from the bowl, burning his fingers—he didn't feel it. The soup dripped onto the brick bed, pattering.
"That thing... will it come back?"
Lin Mo didn't answer. She looked out the window. The sun had set, the last sliver of light fading behind the western ridge like a cooling wire. Mist was rising in the forest—gray-white tendrils creeping up from tree roots, seeping from moss, rising from leaf litter, like the earth breathing. The mist thickened, wrapped the forest in its embrace, leaving only the nearest trees visible, like tea leaves in milk.
"It will come," she said, her voice soft. "The rules of investiture: if it doesn't get an answer once, it can ask again. It will keep asking until you answer. If you don't answer, it will follow you every day, ask you every day, until it drives you mad. It will squat on your table when you eat, stand by your pillow when you sleep, wait by the pit when you go to the outhouse. Wherever you go, it follows. Wherever you hide, it finds you. If you don't answer, it won't leave."
Old Wu's lips trembled, his teeth chattering.
"Then... what do I do?"
Lin Mo pulled a talisman from her pocket, folded it into a triangle, threaded it with red string, and hung it around Old Wu's neck. The yellow paper was marked with cinnabar, twisting lines like a snake writhing on the page.
"This will hold it off for a while. But it will still come. If you want to resolve this completely, you have to face it and give it your answer."
"Face it?" Old Wu's voice pitched high, like a cat with its tail stepped on. "Face a weasel? It wants to kill people!"
"It doesn't want to kill," Lin Mo shook her head. "It wants investiture. Give it an answer, and it will leave. It's cultivated for three hundred years, waiting for one sentence."
"But... how do I answer? Should I say it looks like a human? Like an immortal? How do I know which is right?"
Lin Mo was silent for a moment. She picked up Old Wu's machete from the edge of the brick bed, weighed it in her hand. Three notches in the blade from where it had hit bone. The handle was blackened with sweat, wrapped in twine, the twine frayed.
"That," she said, setting the machete back down, "is for you to decide." She stood up, walked to the window. "You've spent twenty-three years in this forest. You know these woods better than anyone. You've seen more weasels than you've seen people. How many years do you think that weasel has cultivated?"
Old Wu's mouth opened, then closed. His eyes moved, like he was turning pages in a very old book.
"My grandfather..." he said slowly, his voice low, almost to himself. "My grandfather used to tell me. He said a weasel's fur turns white at a hundred years, gold at two hundred, and at three hundred—at three hundred, the fur turns silvery white, like moonlight."
He stopped. Something lit in his eyes, like a match struck in darkness.
"Its... its fur is silvery white."
Lin Mo turned to look at him.
"What else did your grandfather say?"
Old Wu's lips trembled. Something moved behind his eyes.
"My grandfather said... a weasel like that has cultivated for nearly three hundred years. It's... it's a good thing. If you meet one, it's your blessing."
"Do you believe what your grandfather said?"
Old Wu was silent for a long time. Outside, the mist thickened, swallowing the last trees. In the room, only the crackle of coals in the stove and the tick of the old clock on the wall.
"I believe it," he said.
Lin Mo nodded.
"Tonight, it will come again. You'll have one chance. Whatever you say, don't hesitate. If you hesitate, it will know—you're not certain—and it will latch onto you. You have to look into its eyes and say it clearly."
Old Wu looked down at his bowl. The soup had gone cold, a skin forming on top, like clotted blood.
"Can I... not answer?"
"No," Lin Mo said. "If you don't answer, it will follow you forever. Wherever you go, it goes. As long as you live, it stays. When you die, it follows your son, your grandson, your great-grandson. Generation after generation. Never leaving."
Old Wu's face went white.
"So," Lin Mo said, "you answer."
Eight PM. The sky was pitch black. The mist was thick as milk; beyond three steps, nothing was visible.
The ranger station's light was on, its yellow glow leaking through the windows, spreading into the mist like unmelted butter, soft and sticky. Old Wu sat on the brick bed, clutching the talisman, his knuckles white, his nails digging into his palms. The talisman was damp with his sweat, the cinnabar red bleeding like blood.
Mike stood at the window, staring into the mist. His breath fogged the glass; he wiped it with his sleeve, and it fogged again. Outside, nothing but white mist, and occasionally—shapes in the mist.
Zhao Tiezhu paced around the cabin with his detector, round and round. His canvas shoes squelched in the mud. The numbers on the screen kept jumping—seventy-three, seventy-eight, eighty-two, eighty-seven, ninety-one—the closer to midnight, the faster they climbed. His breath came heavier, white puffs that hung in the mist like cotton balls.
"It's here," Zhao said, pushing through the door, his expression grim. His eyebrows were wet with mist, his lashes too, like he'd been crying. "Behind the cabin. Less than fifty meters. The detector's at ninety-six."
Lin Mo stood up, took Old Wu's machete from the wall, weighed it in her hand. The three notches in the blade gleamed in the light. She hung the copper bell on her wrist.
"Old Wu," she turned to look at him, "are you ready?"
Old Wu's lips trembled, the muscles in his face twitching. He took a deep breath, let it out, the white vapor dispersing in the light.
"Let's go," he said, his voice steadier than it had been during the day.
The four stepped outside. The mist rushed in when the door opened, cool, smelling of earth and rotting leaves. Flashlight beams cut into the mist, illuminating only two or three meters ahead; beyond that, nothing but white. The beams wavered, like someone trying to draw white lines on white paper.
They walked around to the back of the cabin.
The moon was faint, blurred by mist, like looking through frosted glass. The forest was gray and hazy, nothing clear, only the sound of wind through larch branches—a low moan, like someone crying far away.
Zhao glanced at his detector. Ninety-eight.
"Close," he whispered, raising his flashlight, the beam sweeping through the trees.
Old Wu stood in front, clutching the talisman, his flashlight shaking. His breath came heavy, white puffs hanging in the mist.
"Where is it?" His voice trembled, his teeth chattering.
Lin Mo didn't answer. She listened, closed her eyes, opened them. Then she raised her hand and pointed at a larch.
"There."
The flashlight beam found it.
Crouching beside the trunk was a creature.
Gray-white—not the silvery white from last night, but a dull gray, like faded old cotton, like old newspaper. It crouched there, front paws pressed together, head tilted, watching them.
Its eyes were green. Green as shards of glass, glowing in the mist, flickering like a lamp with a loose switch.
Old Wu's legs began to shake. He could hear his own heartbeat, thump-thump-thump, like a drum.
The weasel stood up—stood like a human—and took two steps forward. Its paws sank into the wet leaves without a sound. It was less than ten meters away now, barely visible in the mist, like an ink painting soaked in water.
Moonlight broke through the clouds, falling on it. Its gray-white fur shimmered silver—not a dead silver, but living silver, like mercury flowing.
It tilted its head, watching Old Wu. Then it spoke.
"Do I look like a human, or like an immortal?"
Its voice was high and thin, like a child's, but every word clear, with a strange rhythm, like reciting a poem.
Old Wu's mouth opened. He could hear his own breath, like a bellows, huff-huff.
The weasel took another step forward.
"Do I look like a human, or like an immortal?"
Old Wu's teeth chattered, click-click-click, like someone knocking his chin. His hand shook, his flashlight beam danced on the ground like a snake with its tail stepped on.
Lin Mo stood behind him, her voice low: "Take your time. Think before you speak. Remember what your grandfather said."
Old Wu took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He thought.
Twenty-three years in this forest, how many weasels had he seen? A thousand? Two thousand? Spring, autumn, summer, winter. Big, small, yellow, white. Running on the ground, climbing trees, jumping in the snow, standing in the moonlight.
But he'd never seen one this color.
Silvery white. Gleaming in the moonlight. Like his grandfather said—three hundred years, the fur turns silvery white, like moonlight.
He remembered his grandfather holding him on the doorstep, pointing at the distant mountains. His grandfather's hands were rough, his knuckles big, dirt forever under his nails. His voice was low, like wind through pine needles.
"Child, things in the forest—if you respect them, they respect you. If you don't, they don't. But if one comes to you, it's your fate. Don't be afraid. Say what you mean. If you know in your heart, it will know."
Old Wu opened his eyes.
The weasel still stood there, head tilted, its green eyes flickering, waiting.
Old Wu looked at it. At its fur. At its eyes. At its body standing straight in the moonlight. Its tail swayed slowly behind it like a flag.
He remembered his grandfather's words. Three hundred years. Cultivated three hundred years, waiting for one person to say one sentence.
He spoke.
"You—"
The weasel's body tensed, like a drawn bow. Its green eyes blazed, like lamps lit behind those shards of glass.
Old Wu looked into those eyes and said the rest:
"You look like a human."
Silence.
The forest was so quiet you could hear everyone's heartbeat. Mike's, Lin Mo's, Zhao Tiezhu's, his own. Four hearts, four rhythms, mixing like a discordant song.
The weasel stood frozen, motionless, turned to stone. Its eyes still glowed, but no longer flickering—steady, like two stars fixed in the sky.
Then it smiled.
Its mouth split to its ears, revealing two rows of fine, sharp teeth. Thirty-two upper, thirty-two lower, needle-sharp and white. But the smile wasn't menacing. It was gentle, like someone who'd heard what they'd waited a lifetime to hear.
"Thank you," it said.
Its voice was no longer a child's high pitch, nor the rough rasp from before. It was old, weathered, like someone who'd lived a very, very long time—like a tree that had grown for three hundred years, like a river that had flowed for three hundred years.
It stepped back. Its body began to change. The gray-white fur sloughed off like shed skin, revealing the silvery white beneath, shimmering in the moonlight. It grew brighter and brighter, until it became a light so bright it hurt to look at. The light wasn't white—it was gold, silver, amber, like autumn sunset, like winter fire, like summer fireflies, like spring's first sunlight.
When the light faded, the weasel was gone.
In its place stood an old man.
Short, thin, wearing a silvery white robe embroidered with patterns you couldn't quite make out. His hair and beard were white as snow, his face deeply lined like knife cuts, each line holding a story.
He bowed to Old Wu. Ninety degrees, formal, like people in period dramas.
"Three hundred years," he said, his voice still old, weathered, "you're the first to say I look like a human."
Old Wu stood frozen, the talisman slipping from his hand, carried by the wind under the steps, into the mud. His hand still held its shape, fingers curled like they were still clutching something.
The old man—no, the weasel who had achieved human form—straightened and looked at Old Wu. His eyes were no longer green; they were warm amber, like two drops of amber with time caught inside.
"You saved me," he said. "Three hundred years of cultivation, waiting for that one sentence. Without it, I'd be a beast forever. With it, I am human."
He reached into his sleeve, pulled something out, and tossed it to Old Wu.
Old Wu caught it. A bead, thumb-sized, silvery white, warm, like it carried body heat. Inside, a light moved—not static light, but alive, like a fish swimming in clear water, like a heart beating in a chest.
"This is the pill I cultivated over those three hundred years," the old man said. "Eat it, and you'll never fall sick. If you do fall sick, hold it in your mouth—it will keep you alive. Another ten, twenty years."
Old Wu held the bead, his hands shaking. He looked at it, then at the old man.
"I... I can't take this..."
"Take it," the old man interrupted, his voice soft but firm. "It's the rule. You invested me, so I must repay you. If you refuse, my cultivation will be incomplete. Three hundred years wasted."
Old Wu opened his mouth, but no words came.
The old man looked at him and smiled. That smile was kind, like a grandfather looking at his grandson, like an old tree looking at new growth, like a mountain looking at a stream.
"Your grandfather," he said, "I knew him. Sixty years ago, he was in these woods too. He encountered a weasel asking for investiture. He answered. He said 'immortal.' That weasel achieved immortality and blessed him for life. Your grandfather lived to ninety-three, died peacefully in his sleep. The morning he died, he ate a bowl of millet porridge, half a steamed bun, a piece of pickled radish. Then he said he was tired, lay down, and never woke up."
Tears streamed down Old Wu's face. One, two, three, falling on the bead. The light inside flickered, like it was responding.
"My grandfather... he knew?"
"He knew." The old man nodded. "But he didn't tell you. These things, the less you know, the better. Don't you people have a saying—'Heaven's secrets must not be revealed'?"
He turned his back to Old Wu and looked out at the sea of trees. The mist had cleared. Moonlight fell on the larch and birch, golden leaves rustling in the wind like applause, like singing.
"I should go," he said. "Having become human, I must go where humans go. I can't stay in these woods anymore."
He took a few steps, then stopped and looked back at Old Wu. Moonlight fell on him, his silvery white robe glowing softly, like a robe woven from moonlight.
"These woods will be peaceful now. Take good care of them."
Then he walked into the forest and disappeared. Not vanished—walked in, step by step, like a man entering his home. His figure flashed a few times between the trees, then merged into the darkness, like a drop of water into the sea.
Old Wu stood there, holding the bead, crying. He made no sound, just tears flowing into his wrinkles, into the corners of his mouth. Salty.
Mike stood nearby, watching it all, unable to speak. His hands were in his pockets, fingers clutching the talisman he hadn't used, gripping tight.
Lin Mo walked over and patted Old Wu's shoulder. Her hand wasn't heavy, but it was steady.
"Come on. Let's go back."
Old Wu wiped his tears and followed them. He took a few steps, then looked back at the forest.
The mist had cleared. Moonlight fell on the larch and birch, golden leaves rustling in the wind. The forest was quiet, peaceful, as if nothing had happened. An owl called in the distance, once, then stopped. A roe deer poked its head out of the brush, looked at them, then ducked back.
But he knew—something had changed.
Three days later.
Mike sat on the brick bed in the ranger station, flipping through Old Wu's patrol log. The entries were in ballpoint pen, the handwriting crooked, some pages water-stained. The records were mundane—which patch of forest had pests, which gully had footprints, which hill had a fire risk. The most recent entry was from three days ago, one line:
"South slope Korean pine forest. Heard gunshot."
The day he met the weasel.
Old Wu was busy at the stove, making a pot of chicken stew with wild mushrooms. Hericium mushrooms he'd picked in the forest, blanched, simmered with chicken for two hours, the smell filling the cabin. His complexion was much better than three days ago, color back in his lips, his voice steady. He hummed while chopping scallions—a northeastern tune, badly off-key, but he hummed happily.
"That bead of yours?" Mike asked.
Old Wu pulled the silvery white bead from inside his shirt and held it to the light. The light inside still moved, like a fish swimming in a clear pond.
"Keeping it safe," he said, tucking it back, patting his chest. "Wear it close. Sleep with it in my hand."
"You're not going to eat it?"
Old Wu shook his head, tossing scallions into the pot, stirring with his spatula.
"Can't bear to," he said. "Besides, I'm healthy—don't need it. Might need it someday. My grandson's taking the college entrance exam next year. If he passes, I'll give it to him."
Lin Mo came in from outside, holding a telegram. Yellow paper, black print, the edges curled from wind.
"From headquarters," she said, handing it to Mike. "New case."
Mike took it, read it, frowned.
The telegram had only one line:
"Changbai Mountains. Someone encountered a White Immortal. Same mark as Qinghe, Cloud Mist Mountain, Line 10."
He turned the paper over. Blank. He looked at the line again.
The inverted swastika.
He handed the telegram to Lin Mo and looked out the window.
Outside lay a sea of trees. Larch and birch leaves fluttered in the wind like golden butterflies, like scattered coins. In the distance, mountain ridges traced a faint line against the sky. Farther still, a patch of gray-white mist hung over the forest, motionless, like an open eye.
"What is she trying to do?" he asked.
Lin Mo didn't answer.
She was also looking at the forest. Her fingers in her pocket touched the copper bell. It was cold, its clapper still.
The Yellow Immortal's matter was resolved. But Su Lin was still out there. Those inverted swastikas were still out there. The Kumathong, the wedding gown, the subway, Cloud Mist Mountain, Qinghe—there had to be a connection. She didn't know what it was. But she knew Su Lin did.
Old Wu brought the pot to the table and lifted the lid. Steam rushed up with the rich smell of chicken and mushroom. He ladled a bowl, handed it to Mike first.
"Eat, eat!" he said, smiling. His wrinkles folded together like dried chrysanthemums. "These mushrooms are special. Hericium, picked them in the forest. Tastier than meat. You city folks can't get this."
Mike took the bowl, took a bite, scalded his mouth, his face contorting. The mushroom rolled on his tongue twice before he swallowed.
Old Wu laughed, his wrinkles deepening.
"Take it slow. No hurry. In these woods, everything moves slow. Go fast, and you'll get lost."
Mike chewed the mushroom, looking out the window at the forest.
Old Wu was right. In these woods, everything moved slow. Go fast, and you'd get lost.
But he had a feeling—out there, beyond the mountains, the world wouldn't let them go slow.
Su Lin wouldn't let them go slow.
Outside, a crow landed on a pine branch, tilting its head to look at the light in the cabin window. Its feathers were black as ink, but in the light they shimmered with a blue-purple sheen. Its eyes were black as glass beads, reflecting the figures inside.
Tied to its leg was a red string.
The other end disappeared into the forest.
Into the mist.
Into the darkness.
Into the place Mike couldn't see.
He put down his bowl and walked to the window. The crow tilted its head at him, opened its beak, and let out a raspy caw:
"Caw——"
Then it spread its wings and flew. The red string trailed behind it, drawing a red arc through the mist, then vanishing.
Mike stood at the window, looking at the mist.
Something moved in the mist. Not wind. Something else.
He couldn't say what it was.
But he knew—it was watching him.