Chapter Four: The Mountain Lord

Year Nine of Martial Virtue, and winter arrived early on Mount Taibai.
Day and night, the cold wind howled, and the heavens, like a lavish noble, scattered snowflakes endlessly. In just a few days, every branch was adorned with long icicles, as though thousands of pear blossoms had bloomed, turning the mountain and its surroundings into a vast ocean of ice and snow.
Many animals hibernate—bears, snakes, hedgehogs—all had retreated early to their cozy dens, having stored up food since spring, now ready to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Even animals that do not hibernate preferred not to venture out in such harsh weather, unless hunger compelled them, waiting for the storm to subside before seeking food.
Yet, such situations do occur. Look there, on the distant slope—a furry creature moves.
It is a fox, a bright red fox, its fur gleaming like fire, standing out vividly amid the wintry landscape.
This fox is Zhou Hongxian. He had been in this world for a full month. A month was enough for him to grow accustomed to his surroundings and understand how to survive as a fox, how to hunt—but some things were lost forever with his crossing.
What he lost were the memories from before his fox body gained intelligence. Some might ask if this matters, but it proved crucial. Foxes are semi-hibernators; likely somewhere a den he had painstakingly built awaited him, stocked with food to fend off hunger and cold. Now, with his memories gone, these comforts were out of reach.
He was now a complete stray—a vagabond fox. Though part of a tribe, just as cities have their homeless, the fox group had its outcasts.
Foxes formed their own society, strictly hierarchical, and unlike humanity's later civilized societies, theirs was a naked world of the strong devouring the weak. Here, the strong could command the weak, even seize their gains. The weak, if they wished to resist, had but one path: become strong themselves. Compassion had no place.
Unfortunately, Zhou Hongxian was one such weak fox. Among his kin, his small size made him easy prey for any bully. It wasn’t just Fox Eight who tormented him, but other strong, intelligent foxes as well. He had fought back recklessly, only to be left battered and bruised. Now, the wound from his quarrel with Fox Eight still throbbed, and a few days ago, another spirit fox had bitten his hind leg during a dispute over food. Thus, he now limped awkwardly, his gait clumsy and pitiable.
In his previous life, Zhou Hongxian was an insignificant man, yet stubborn by nature, his dignity never trampled. But repeated bloody lessons taught him to bow his head; after all, for ordinary folk like him, survival outweighed pride.
Now, even if he found food first, should a stronger spirit fox be nearby, he would relinquish it and walk away quietly. He deliberately avoided others, often venturing dozens of miles from the fox valley to search for sustenance.

Not far off, birdsong echoed through the woods—a crow perched on a low tree. Though people regarded such birds as ominous, to a fox, it was a rare feast. Zhou Hongxian, however, shook his head regretfully; with an injured leg, he could not climb trees with the agility of a normal fox.
But fate does not cut off the fox’s path. Before long, Zhou Hongxian discovered a mountain stream ahead. There were fish in the stream, though its surface was now frozen solid. Even so, this posed little challenge. His paws, now incapable of crafting fishing tools like humans, could still lift stones—though not to smash his own foot, but to break the ice.
With a splash, the ice cracked. A peculiar, satisfied smile crossed Zhou Hongxian’s vulpine face. He extended his tail into the water, fishing with it—a method that looked somewhat comical, but mountain fish were unsophisticated; surely some plump, foolish ones would take the bait.
Persistence paid off; soon enough, several fish were caught, though he cared little for their size. Hours passed, evening approached, and in a remote corner of the forest, a strange scene unfolded:
A diminutive red fox squatted on a clearing, before it a campfire burned, its sharp, bright face illuminated by the flames, bearing a smile of excitement and contentment.
Foxes have no matches—how was the fire kindled? Zhou Hongxian had used the sun’s heat and fragments of ice to ignite dry twigs. His purpose was simple: to cook the fish. Though eating raw flesh was instinctive, and he had done so to survive in recent days, his human habits lingered. After filling his belly with a raw fish, he devised ways to roast the rest.
As dusk fell, Zhou Hongxian judged the fish well-cooked. Gripping a twig in his mouth, he doused the fire at the stream, waited for the ground to cool, then quickly dug up the fish wrapped in layers of dry leaves.
The aroma intoxicated him; this was the fruit of his labor, astonishing and wonderful! He swiftly seized a fish and swallowed it whole—delight! Wild fish, unlike those raised in his previous life, were indeed delicious and juicy.
But before he could finish his meal, a sudden, ferocious roar echoed through the woods. The abruptness startled Zhou Hongxian to his core. "What was that—tiger?" he wondered anxiously.
As if to confirm his suspicion, the roar sounded again, closer this time. Zhou Hongxian realized, "It really is a tiger! Exactly like those I heard at the zoo in my former life!"
To both humans and foxes, a tiger is a terrifying presence. Zhou Hongxian was nearly paralyzed with fear. Then, he glimpsed several shadowy figures ahead—not quite human, yet not entirely unlike, for under the sunset, they appeared semi-transparent.
"Ghosts!" Zhou Hongxian cried out, terrified, spitting out the half-eaten fish from his mouth, heedless of his injured leg or the remaining fish. He fled in panic. Normally brave, he was truly more afraid of ghosts—the unknown—than of tigers.

Moments after Zhou Hongxian’s departure, a foul wind swept the clearing. From within the wind, a dark figure snarled at the semi-transparent apparitions: "You wraiths, why did you not stop my prey?"
The ghostly figures cowered, their shadows wavering. "Lord of the Mountain, the creature was not a human, but a fox!"
"Nonsense! I clearly saw a campfire—what else could it be but a human?"
"Your servant dare not deceive you, Lord. It truly was a fox. Moreover, it spoke; it must possess cultivation. Thus, your servant feared to confront it."
Another tiger’s roar echoed from the wind, then the shadow spoke: "What does it matter if the fox is cultivated? Though I prefer human flesh, the mountain has been snowbound for days—no hunters venture here. My stomach is empty; a fox will suffice to sate my hunger! You useless wretches, always making excuses. I’ll consume you first to gain some power!"
"Mercy, Lord! Mercy!" the wraiths pleaded, kneeling.
But the wind suddenly revealed a giant tiger’s head, its mouth bearing two long fangs. Ignoring their pleas, it swallowed them whole.
The Netherworld Record says: "Man dies and becomes ghost; ghost dies and becomes shade." Thus, the wraiths vanished.
Finally, the dark shadow in the wind sighed: "Since I was wounded by hunters two years ago, my senses have faltered. Otherwise, why would I need your useless wraiths? These days, it is rare to see a living soul in the mountains—how tiresome. I suppose I must find other prey. Ah, after tasting human flesh, nothing else seems quite as delicious."
"Eh?" Its tone paused, and suddenly a whirlwind rose from the ground. From it emerged a burly man with thick eyebrows. He stooped, picked up the fish Zhou Hongxian had left behind, and stuffed them into his mouth. Chewing, he declared, "Well, this human food is good—the taste is quite remarkable. Once I survive the tribulation and am free of constraints, I’ll roam the human world at my leisure!"