In the darkness, the forest loomed with twisted shadows, like countless demons clawing at the night—eerie and terrifying.
One by one, the mountain dwellers emerged from the mist and gathered at the temporary camp the Mountain Patrol Division had set up to turn in their haul.
"Old Zhang the Second—one coral millipede. Three pennies reward."
"Lame Song—two inkcap mushrooms. Five pennies reward."
...
The guards sat behind a large table, collecting the finds and handing out the meager payments.
Most people's harvests were pitiful.
Three or five pennies—just enough for a basic meal.
And that was the lucky ones.
Some poor souls earned nothing and came back worse off: one got his foot torn up by a wild porcupine, and bandaging plus medicine cost dozens of pennies.
Another had his hand stung by venomous bees; it was swollen like a sausage now, useless for days—he wouldn't dare go back in.
A few never came back at all.
As night fell, low, ominous roars echoed faintly through the trees—wolf howls, or something worse.
For an ordinary mountain dweller, failing to reach camp meant only one thing: death.
"They risk their lives just to scrape by..."
Heng watched in silence.
What else could they expect? They were born into the lowest class.
His own take today had been solid—kept to himself, it was worth over two hundred pennies. Even turned in, he'd get twenty-plus.
Did others hide good finds instead of surrendering them?
Sure, some tried—but they couldn't pull it off.
Every mountain dweller was kept under tight watch by the Mountain Patrol Division. Leaving meant multiple searches.
Just as Heng was thinking this, a malicious voice rang out.
"Big Brother Heng—I saw it clear as day. You picked a thumb-sized reishi, perfect color, perfect scent. Worth dozens of pennies easy. How come you're not turning it in?"
Scab Li had slunk over without Heng noticing and shouted it loud enough for everyone to hear.
Thumb-sized reishi?
Guards and mountain dwellers alike whipped their heads around.
That was prime stuff!
Word was a high-end medicated recipe had surfaced lately—one that could extend lifespan—and it called for exactly that ingredient, in serious quantities.
Prices had skyrocketed; you couldn't buy it for any price.
This kid got that lucky? One day's work—twenty pennies, maybe more!
Envy rippled through the crowd.
Heng's stomach dropped. Scab Li—again?
Like a bad penny that keeps turning up.
Looks like even if Heng was willing to let things slide, this guy wasn't.
Cold fury flickered in his heart. As the Mountain Patrol guards turned to stare, he hurried to explain.
He admitted he'd found a thumb-sized reishi, but then a vicious lynx had chased him, and he'd dropped it while running for his life.
A lynx was a big, cat-like predator—far larger and meaner than a house cat.
The guards looked skeptical. They searched him thoroughly, even cut his palm and sniffed the blood to make sure no medicinal residue lingered, before finally letting him go.
"Dropped a thumb-sized reishi?"
Just as the guards released him, a deep, commanding voice cut through the camp.
The moment it sounded, the previously arrogant guards bowed their heads, suddenly subdued.
Heng turned and saw a tall, broad-shouldered middle-aged man approaching slowly.
Everyone—guards and mountain dwellers alike—cleared a path instantly, moving with practiced speed. Respect and fear were plain on their faces.
This was the leader of the foraging expedition: Weasel Zhao, head hunter.
A registered hunter.
The kind of man every mountain dweller dreamed of becoming.
And he wasn't just a hunter—he held an official clerk position in the Mountain Patrol Division. The guards answered to him; his authority here was massive.
"That thumb-sized reishi is very useful to me. Find it tomorrow, and there'll be a heavy reward. If you don't..."
Weasel Zhao smiled, but his eyes were sharp as blades, boring straight through Heng.
A mere clerk wasn't true official rank, yet he called himself "this official." Overstepping, technically.
But no one in camp dared call him on it.
Zhao wasn't just high-status—he was strong. Daily medicated meals had built terrifying brute strength. Rumor said he once fought a sixteen-foot tiger bare-handed, never giving ground, and finally crushed its skull with a single punch.
A hunter had his eyes on Heng now?
This wasn't good. A thumb-sized reishi was barely over a hundred pennies—pocket change for a man like Weasel Zhao. Why would it draw his attention?
The rumors about that lifespan recipe must be true.
Damn it—Scab Li had screwed him hard.
Heng swallowed his frustration and kept his expression steady. He gave Weasel Zhao a respectful nod.
"Greetings, Head Hunter. I remember where I dropped the reishi. I'm confident I can recover it tomorrow. But I have one grievance—I'd like to ask you to uphold justice for me."
He'd made up his mind: turn over the reishi.
Even if he vanished into the mountains, a man like Zhao might track him down.
It was just one mushroom. As long as he stayed alive, he'd find plenty more.
He'd settle that score later.
But Scab Li's setup? That grudge needed airing now.
Scab Li—you think stabbing me in the back comes free?
"A grievance?"
Weasel Zhao frowned slightly. He clearly didn't care about the squabbles of lowly mountain folk, but for the sake of the reishi he said coolly, "Let's hear it."
"A few days ago I fell deathly ill. While I was out of it, the mountain dweller Scab Li broke into my home and cleaned me out..."
Before Heng could finish, Weasel Zhao waved impatiently. "Drag that Scab Li over here. Beat him. Keep beating him until he pays it back."
Zhao didn't care whether Scab Li had actually stolen anything. He only cared about getting the reishi.
Fairness? Justice? Those words meant nothing here.
In the Great Qing Dynasty, strength was the only law.
Scab Li's miserable screams soon filled the camp.
The guards showed no mercy. Thick water-and-fire clubs—over three feet long—slammed into his backside again and again. In moments his skin split open, blood and flesh flying.
Scab Li had taken three full silver taels from Heng.
But the idiot was a gambler; he'd blown it all long ago. No way he could repay it now.
In the end he had to beg high-interest loans from the guards just to hand over the silver and save his life.
Any more blows and he really might have been beaten to death.
Three taels of broken silver were pressed into Heng's hand.
Scab Li glared at him, eyes burning with venom and murderous hate.
"I'm only taking back what's mine, and you hate me for it?"
Heng sneered inwardly.
Looks like this guy still wasn't ready to let it go. If he didn't wise up soon, next time it wouldn't end with just a beating.