Chapter 49

Chapter 49

In the mountains in early spring, the cold of winter hadn't fully lifted yet. Rong Feng carried Bian Hong on his back, scouring every nook and cranny where herbs might be hiding.

One morning he'd be digging up a fiery-leafed medicinal root from a pile of rotting leaves in a valley; by afternoon, he'd be plucking tender green shoots along a thawing stream.

Rong Feng grabbed every second, barely sleeping or resting. In just a few days, his stubble had grown a few inches long and his hair was a mess.

One by one, the herbs on the prescription were found, prepared, and carefully fed to Bian Hong—and one by one, they got crossed off the list.

But Bian Hong showed no sign of getting better. In fact, he only got weaker. That day, he didn't even murmur in his sleep, just lay there in a daze, his pulse barely there.

In the end, every herb on the prescription had been crossed off except one—a fungus that grew in dense birch forests. It was early spring now, so maybe there was a chance.

Holding onto that last shred of hope, Rong Feng repacked their gear, hoisted Bian Hong onto his back, and waded step by step through the streams toward the biggest birch grove in the mountains.

In early spring, snakes and bugs were starting to stir. While hunting for the fungus, he had to be extra careful not to get bitten by a venomous snake that might suddenly shoot out from some hiding spot.

From the first cold, misty light of dawn to the slanted rays of sunset when distant birds flew back to their nests, they perched in their woven grass nests on the birch branches, chirping and tilting their heads, peering down the tall, thick trunks at the tiny figure wandering through the vast woods all day.

Rong Feng carried Bian Hong through the birch forest, hunched over, pushing aside the leftover crust of ice with his bare hands, then digging through the soft layer of dead leaves, searching inch by inch through that seemingly endless stretch of deep woods.

But the birch grove sat high up on Miemeng Mountain. Even though the Waking of Insects had passed, the ground was still cold, and the fungi hadn't started their spring growth yet.

It needed a warm, wet spring rain.

But Rong Feng still refused to give up. He had a breath of determination left in him—one that let him go days without sleep, roaming and searching through these mountains, feeling no exhaustion even after going a whole day without food or water.

Until, while pulling out his water flask to give Bian Hong a drink, he spotted a few short-antlered deer foraging in the woods.

At this time of year, dead branches and dry grass had rotted from being soaked by melting snow. The herbivores would actively dig for the new green under the snow crust, and fungi were on their menu too.

So Rong Feng quickly packed up, hoisted Bian Hong onto his back, and followed step by step behind those deer.

The short-antlered deer lived deep in the uninhabited forest, and having had little contact with humans, they weren't wary of them. A few even trotted over to Rong Feng, sniffed him, then lost interest and lowered their heads again, pawing through the forest floor for nutrient-rich tender shoots under the shallow snow.

Rong Feng followed the herd all the way to the edge of the birch grove, and only then, in a sun-drenched clearing where a big group of deer had gathered to feed, did he find the last herb on the prescription.

There wasn't much of it, but following the notes on the prescription, he picked a small cupful, then found a sheltered slope and started a fire right there.

The forest was damp, and most fallen branches and logs were wet, but birch bark caught fire easily. Rong Feng gathered the bark, lit it with dry twigs, then sat upwind with Bian Hong and opened the packet of supplementary herbs the old doctor had given him.

This was the last packet. Rong Feng carefully poured all the herbs into the medicine cup, simmered them over a low flame, and reduced them to a single spoonful of dark, bitter medicine, which he fed to Bian Hong.

In the dancing firelight, their two figures were cast together in shadow. The medicine trickled out of the corner of Bian Hong's mouth. Rong Feng's hands shook a little, but he held the spoon tight to catch the few precious drops and brought them back to Bian Hong's colorless lips, waiting until he finally managed to swallow.

Maybe the bitterness in his mouth was too much, because even unconscious, his brows stayed tightly knit.

Rong Feng reached out to smooth them, then pinched off a small piece of peach gum from the oil-paper packet that held their dried food. Winter had just ended, and this was the only thing in the mountains that had any sweetness to it.

Rong Feng wet Bian Hong's cracked lips, then placed the translucent peach gum in his mouth, hoping those always-furrowed brows might ease up just a little.

The sky slowly darkened, and the mountain forest went quiet. Rong Feng held Bian Hong tight, with nothing left to do but wait.

But after one night passed, that last glimmer of hope slowly crumbled in the agony of waiting.

After trying every remedy on the prescription, Bian Hong still wasn't any better. His body was still burning hot, and his breathing got shallower and shallower.

The sky turned murky, clouds covering everything, so you couldn't tell dawn from dusk.

At the end of his rope, at the end of the road.

The man only heard a buzzing in his ears; everything around him went blurry.

Except for the person in his arms, the one he felt he was about to lose.

He didn't want to stay put and wait for the body in his arms to go cold. He couldn't accept it, frantic, almost out of his mind.

He ran wildly through the mountains, clutching the silent figure, not knowing where to go—because going anywhere was pointless.

Maybe what others said was right—he was born under a bad star, and everyone who got close to him came to a bad end.

In his long, lonely life, there had only been one loss after another.

Not long ago, he'd lost his mother. Now he was about to lose Bian Hong.

In utter despair, Rong Feng wandered aimlessly through the mountains with Bian Hong in his arms.

It was like the whole world had died.

The sky spun, the ground tilted.

Finally, spent in body and soul, he collapsed to the ground with Bian Hong in his arms, his heart worn to shreds. In his blurry vision, all that was left were the swaying, slanting shadows of the trees.

But just as he was hovering between consciousness and oblivion, all across Miemeng Mountain, as wind swept the ground and clouds rolled through the mist, a thunderous tiger's roar suddenly shook heaven and earth.

Rong Feng was jolted awake by the roar, then quickly scooped Bian Hong up and looked around.

There, on the slope at the edge of the birch grove, a mighty striped beast appeared in the swirling mountain mist—with upturned eyes and a white forehead—staring straight at Rong Feng and Bian Hong.

Then the beast turned and headed toward a distant mountain stream.

Rong Feng found himself following without thinking. He felt like the Mountain Lord had come to guide him and Bian Hong, to lead them back into the arms of the mountain forest.

Stumbling along, they reached deep into the mountain's belly, where the beast glanced back at them once, then vanished.

When Rong Feng tried to keep following, he lost his bearings. Looking ahead, he realized he'd unknowingly wandered into a valley overgrown with vines.

Miemeng Mountain had always been impossibly vast. Even though he'd grown up here, there were still countless mysterious places he'd never set foot in—and this was one of them.

Above, muffled thunder rolled across the sky. Whether it would bring rain or snow, Rong Feng couldn't afford to think about it. He hurriedly looked for some kind of shelter so Bian Hong could lie down safely.

Luckily, just as he turned, he found a vine-covered cave. The inside was exceptionally dry—a real blessing in this season of spring meltwater.

Inside the cave, there was also a natural stone platform covered in soft, fluffy grass.

Rong Feng carefully laid Bian Hong down in the grass, covered him with a thick, warm wool blanket, and started a fire near the air hole.

He'd come to his senses. He knew that no matter how desperately he wailed in grief, it wouldn't do anything for Bian Hong, who was so gravely ill.

Bian Hong was still alive. He was still breathing, however faintly. So Rong Feng would keep moving forward with him—even if it was the last stretch.

The flames had just caught when, outside the cave, the long-awaited spring rain started to fall. The rain fell in a soft, lingering drizzle, carrying the smell of mountain trees and earth.

Going out to find food would be a hassle, but luckily, the cave was also full of vines just like the ones outside. It was early spring, and the vines had put out new shoots that looked tender, green, and tasty.

Rong Feng broke off a piece and tried it. It was full of juice—thick and gooey—and surprisingly sweet.

Bian Hong had a sweet tooth.

No matter where he went, he would pause briefly in front of stalls selling "sugar" items—not necessarily to buy, but always to take an extra look.

So Rong Feng picked a large cup of tender vine shoots, ground them with a medicine grinder, and fed the milky, viscous juice mixed with fresh green leaves into Bian Hong's tightly closed mouth.

Rong Feng also ate a great deal, and then he lay down on the grassy stone platform, curled up on his side, holding Bian Hong, listening to the patter of rain outside the cave.

He thought to himself, perhaps the vines might be poisonous—he had never seen such a plant before—but it didn't matter.

The tip of his nose pressed against Bian Hong's temple, nuzzling silently.

If they were to die together, this little stone platform would be a fine place to end up.

In the middle of the night, just as Rong Feng was starting to drift off, the person in his arms suddenly convulsed. Rong Feng bolted upright, unsure of what was happening, and could only hold Bian Hong to check his pulse.

The pulse was extremely erratic, and then Bian Hong, as if losing control of his body, turned aside and, with a retching sound, vomited onto the ground below the stone platform.

What he threw up was a charred black mess, unrecognizable, and then he began to sweat profusely, as if every fluid in his body were being pushed out through his pores. Within moments, his clothes were soaked.

Rong Feng hurriedly fetched rainwater, boiled it, blew on it to cool it down, and fed it to Bian Hong.

Though Bian Hong's entire body was as if he had just been pulled from water, he could now swallow water on his own.

Rong Feng froze for a long moment, then suddenly rose and dashed madly into the heavy rain. He tore off the vine branches and leaves that were gradually unfurling in the spring rain, quickly mashed them up, and continued feeding them to Bian Hong.

For two straight days, Bian Hong vomited large amounts of black water, and his sweat nearly soaked the sheepskin blanket through.

Outside the valley, the spring rain finally ceased, and the sky cleared. The morning sun slanted softly into the cave, shining onto the small stone platform.

The gentle morning light flowed over Bian Hong's fair face, illuminating the faint, barely perceptible down on his skin, as if it were edged with a soft, downy glow.

His hair at the temples was soft and jet-black, and his hair, long uncut, had grown quite long, trailing in fine strands across his damp cheeks and neck.

It was a fragile beauty, born from surviving a life-and-death ordeal.

His brows and lashes trembled slightly, and then he slowly opened his eyes.

Turning his head to look, the man was kneeling beside the stone platform, his upper body slumped over Bian Hong.

Completely disheveled, his brown hair splayed out like a tangled horse's tail, his stubble like grass scorched by a wildfire.

He looked haggard, and even closed, his eyes twitched from time to time—clearly restless and troubled.

Bian Hong slowly turned his eyes, gazing at him tenderly, and then slowly raised his arm.

With the back of his hand, he lightly grazed the man's gaunt cheek.