When the one-eyed black wolf dragged her from the cave, its teeth tore into her foot. She felt no pain. She only sat at the mouth of the hole, dazed, staring at the massive "black dog" that had appeared from nowhere.
The villagers often brought offerings to the temple; the mountain beasts knew that this hole frequently yielded food. The wolf had dragged her out only to meet a rival pack.
The one-eyed wolf clashed with them in a frenzy of snapping jaws and blood.
Suddenly clear-headed, Little Bao bit through her bonds, grabbed the carrying pole left by the villagers, and swung it wildly.
"Hey! You lot—ganging up on one! What kind of heroes are you? No—what kind of dogs?!"
The crows in the trees practically rolled their eyes.
At last, the fierce one-eyed wolf drove the others off. Perhaps full from the fight, it didn't bother with her, instead dragging a wolf carcass back into the deep mountains.
She looked once at the lonely mountain temple, then down toward the barely visible village.
My father's dead. You… you threw me away so you could marry again. I hate you. I'll never speak to you again.
She followed the one-eyed wolf into the depths of the mountains.
Life here was strange and wild. No chores, no washing or mending, no mother crying all day. She played until the sky darkened.
Night in the forest was another matter. No light. No sound—no, there was sound. That faint hissing, the crawling things with patterned skin, cold as ice, slipping into her companions' clothes. She clutched her head, screaming and sobbing in terror.
She learned to gather mushrooms half-eaten by animals, fruit gnawed by insects. The one-eyed wolf lived in a nearby stone cave overgrown with wild roses and tall daylilies.
It was fierce and mean, often baring its teeth at her. She thought it was just a bad-tempered black dog—no wonder its master didn't want it.
But I'm not mean… and my mother didn't want me either.
She curled up in the smaller cave beside its den. With a "dog" to guard her, she would never leave.
She carved tree branches into spears, made bows from horn and sinew. She studied the traps of other hunters, prying them apart to see their secrets.
The mountains were dangerous. She nearly died after eating poisonous mushrooms. A tiger once tore a chunk of flesh from her leg; she spent a full day and night bleeding in a tree. A snake left her screaming hoarsely for days until her voice was gone.
Nights in the mountains were terrifying; daylight felt like safety.
Time in the wild slipped past without seasons. Her hunting improved. The one-eyed wolf noticed—and often stole her skinned kills. She would scold it, jabbing a finger at its nose, and it would growl back. Over time, she began to understand: warnings, threats, retreat, rallying others.
By the time she learned to snare wild boars, she had seven or eight dogs with her—black, brown, grey, mottled. Some had followed her for food, others were orphans she fed.
They would drive prey into her traps, and when she was done skinning, they ate their share.
She saved stranded ginseng diggers and hunters, guiding them out of the forest. From the dead, she took knives, swords, bows. Corpses always left her unsettled.
But she hunted constantly; the dogs needed meat. They shadowed her silently now, lying in the grass with only their ears twitching.
One day, she brought down a fully grown tiger. While the dogs feasted, she skinned it.
Then—hoofbeats. Fast. Urgent. She gave a low growl, and the dogs melted into the grass.
A troop of riders burst through the trees, dozens strong, clad in light white armor astride magnificent golden bays.
Hiding in the rose thicket, she watched a lone figure roping a wild horse in the sea of daylilies and roses.
His clothes streamed behind him, dark against the grass, like a shadow of the devil beneath the moon. The horse screamed, startling the wolves. He lifted his head and looked toward her.
"What's that?" he said, pointing. The riders turned toward the thicket.
They closed in. She slipped into her cave.
"A wolf!" someone shouted.
She nocked an arrow, listening. Suddenly, blinding light poured in.
A beautiful face appeared—almost too beautiful. She loosed the arrow, but he caught it effortlessly, brushing the flowers aside to pluck her up between two fingers.
"What is this?" he murmured. In his hand, she was a small, fur-covered creature. His voice was like music, though his expression was distaste.
Up close, she saw the soft black cloth of his robe, finer than anything she had known, patterned with subtle dark embroidery. She wrinkled her nose; he smelled of something clean and rare.
"Child? Or monkey?" someone behind him muttered.
He studied her—so filthy—and finally said, "You appear in the eastern mountains and live with the wild wolves. I will give you the surname Ling, and name you Xuanlang—the black wolf."
With a flick, he tossed her to a guard. "Put her with the other children. If she survives, keep her."
The guard carried her to the river and scrubbed her clean.
Above, the wild roses blazed, the daylilies stretched to the sky. He stood by the silver-threaded stream, drying his hands with silk. His fingers were long and immaculate, so perfect they made her dizzy.
She glanced at the water. The tall figure in it rippled with the current, circles spreading wider and wider.
Is this… the mountain god?