Chapter 60

Chapter 60

When the kid riding the deer appeared, Rong Feng looked him up and down, his eyes finally landing on the pair of weapons in the boy's hands.

Bian Hong looked over too. The kid was young, wearing little, just one thin layer, though he had a roughly cut animal-fur vest draped over it. The fur was tanned really well, its soft fluff rippling in the breeze, looking even better than Rong Feng's own work.

But the kid had scratches on his face, like from branches, and mud streaked all over him. He looked wary, both hands gripping a pair of weird weapons—not quite blades, not quite shears.

The weapons had four tips, nine edges, and thirteen blades, their bodies a deep blue that glowed faintly in the dark forest.

Bian Hong thought each one looked like the letter C locked back-to-back with another. After a moment, the name finally came to him.

Those must be a pair of Mandarin Duck Axes.

Rong Feng pulled out the cloth strip asking for help and held it out. "Did you send this distress signal with the red deer? State your name—which generation of Mountain Guard do you belong to?"

Hearing Rong Feng's words, the kid immediately got off the deer, though he landed a bit awkwardly—he must have hurt his ankle.

He couldn't help rushing forward a few steps, then stopped, asking cautiously.

"You... who are you?"

Rong Feng showed his token. "Miemeng Mountain, thirty-sixth generation Mountain Guard Rong Feng, here under the old pact to help Gui Mountain."

Only then did the kid run over to them, his eyes getting red.

"My name is He Zhuo. I'm not yet a Mountain Guard. I made this cloth strip from what my grandpa taught me. I didn't think it would actually bring help. Brother Rong Feng, it's urgent—please go save my grandpa!"

Though He Zhuo was young, no more than ten, he already spoke and acted like a proper kid. Even though he was anxious and upset, he explained everything clearly.

During the talk, he'd casually drop bits of knowledge only Mountain Guards would get, subtly testing whether Rong Feng was the real deal.

Clearly, he'd been taught well.

Once He Zhuo fully trusted them, he spilled the whole story.

It started a few days back, when Mountain Guards from all over were called to gather vines to treat a plague.

He Zhuo's grandpa, a Mountain Guard, was already a hundred and three. Though old, he was still strong and could climb mountains with ease. But in recent years, after taking in He Zhuo, he had to handle the kid's food, clothes, and lessons, leaving less time for patrols.

Not long ago, he answered the call to find vines, only managing to patrol half of Gui Mountain. Even then, the old man felt something was off, but gathering vines came first, so he didn't go deeper.

Only after turning in the vines to the prefectural office did he decide to go back into the mountain, telling He Zhuo to be careful at home and eat on time.

But He Zhuo waited at the foot of the mountain for a long time, and his grandpa still didn't come back.

In recent years, since the boy was home alone, his grandpa rarely went far. So He Zhuo got more and more worried, but he remembered his grandpa's words and waited at home like he was told.

Then one night, the forest got restless, and before long, the old deer that went into the mountain with his grandpa came back wounded, with no rider—just the Mandarin Duck Axes hanging from its antlers.

After that, He Zhuo tried many times to go into the mountain to search, but he hadn't finished his training or taken on the duties of a Mountain Guard. He hadn't even paid respects to the Mountain Lord, because his grandpa said the Mountain Lord rarely showed up these days, and you had to wait for the right time.

Still, He Zhuo went into the mountain. But he didn't know the animals there had turned savage and aggressive. He nearly got killed several times, surviving only thanks to the Mandarin Duck Axes in his hands.

Gui Mountain produced a peacock-blue ore, and these axes, made from fine steel and that ore, had been passed down through generations of Mountain Guards. They could be used for both attack and defense.

Though not as powerful in a fight as spears, sabers, or halberds, maybe because of the blue ore, striking them made an echo that could sense the mountain terrain and the nature of weapons, and the vibration frequency could drive off beasts.

So what kind of situation would make his grandpa hang such important axes on the deer's antlers and send them back to him?

Filled with anxiety, dread, and worry, He Zhuo tentatively did what he'd learned, wrote the cloth strip, and sent a plea for help to the nearest Mountain Guard.

After hearing the whole story, Rong Feng and Bian Hong felt the urgency—the old man must have run into serious danger, likely life-threatening. They needed to hurry.

But Gui Mountain wasn't what it used to be—it was full of danger. Rong Feng wanted to first pay respects to the Mountain Lord, hoping to keep the mountain's beasts in check for a while. But when they went to the Mountain Lord's stone, it seemed long abandoned—not even a trace of animal presence, let alone the Mountain Lord himself.

That left only forcing their way in.

He Zhuo wanted to come along, but Rong Feng stopped him. The boy had trained for less than four years, far from skilled enough, and unlike Rong Feng as a child—a wild boy raised in the mountains with deep bonds to his guarded terrain—He Zhuo lacked that connection.

So following them into the mountain now would only put him in danger.

One look at He Zhuo's eyes told Bian Hong this was no one who'd easily accept being left behind. Stubborn as Yuan Ding, even. Kids who were capable and mature beyond their years often had even stronger wills.

So he smoothly deployed the skills he'd honed on Yuan Ding and Guan Bao.

Rong Feng watched as Bian Hong, who had been silently following behind him, suddenly led the horse over to He Zhuo. He placed the reins into the boy's hands and spoke with solemn gravity.

"This is our most treasured friend. On this trip to Gui Mountain, she's borne much hardship, and mountain terrain is hard on horses. I entrust her to you—please watch over her carefully, don't let her run into the forest and get hurt."

He Zhuo had been turning over a hundred ways to sneak after them into the mountain, but the moment the reins were placed in his hands, the fire in his heart was snuffed out with a puff.

These men were heading into known danger to find a master, and now they'd entrusted their "most treasured friend" to him. Any real man wouldn't refuse!

"Don't worry. The horse stays with me—I'll keep her safe."

Rong Feng looked at young Khoja, who wasn't even as tall as Silver Frost's legs, that little champion of righteousness—who exactly was protecting whom was anyone's guess.

Then he glanced at Bian Hong, who had subdued He Zhuo so effortlessly with a calm expression, and couldn't help tilting his head and giving a thumbs up.

But then he thought—this man usually handled him the same way...

Bian Hong drew his curved blade and shot a glance at the brooding man. "What are you standing there for? Let's go."

Rong Feng snapped back to attention and started toward the mountain, clearing the way for Bian Hong.

Just then, He Zhuo called out to them from behind. Rong Feng thought the boy had thought it over and changed his mind—if so, the kid was braver than he was.

But clearly not. He Zhuo, still innocent of adult tricks, merely ran a few steps toward Rong Feng, then, after a moment's thought, unclipped the Mandarin Duck Axes from his waist and pressed them into Rong Feng's hands.

"Take these into the mountain. If you run into danger, don't forget to strike them—most animals will flee."

Rong Feng accepted the axes, feeling their weight settle in his hands—cold and solid.

A mountain's heirloom weapon was precious and vital, like the Yunjie Spear of Miemeng Mountain, never touched by outsiders. Even Rong Feng had to borrow it from his master in advance, and his master had even passed down the mountain itself but taken the Yunjie for his own use.

Clearly, these were formidable weapons.

Now, holding the Mandarin Duck Axes, Rong Feng saw this young boy not as a child anymore, but as the successor to Gui Mountain's Mountain Guard. He treated He Zhuo as a man.

"Don't worry. I won't fail you."

Gui Mountain was rugged and treacherous. Bian Hong didn't even know which way to go—in this vast wilderness, how could they find one person? Like searching for a needle in a haystack.

But Rong Feng walked with steady purpose, pausing briefly at ravines and gullies to examine something. The forest grew ever more menacing—not just beasts that might charge at any moment, but even snakes, insects, rats, and ants bared their fangs, showing no fear at all.

At first, the animals would retreat slightly at the ringing of the Mandarin Duck Axes, but as the two pressed deeper, the beasts stopped withdrawing. Instead, they circled nearby, watching the pair intently, waiting for an opening to strike.

While Bian Hong remained on high alert, he subtly sniffed the air, then turned to the man and asked in a low voice, "The smell is getting strange—can you smell it?"

It was gamey with a hint of sweetness, lacking the crisp freshness of mountain woods and vegetation.

Rong Feng pulled off his scarf and wrapped it securely around Bian Hong's face. "Be careful with your breathing—don't take deep breaths. This is miasma."

Bian Hong flinched, his voice muffled by the scarf. "Miasma? Winter just ended—how can there be miasma?"

Miasma usually came from the damp, sunless heat of rotting animal carcasses and decaying foliage. It was only late spring—how could miasma exist here?

"This ain't from one or two years—it's been brewing a long time," Rong Feng explained. "It thrives in summer, lies dormant in winter, and now that it's warming up, it's spreading."

"Is it connected to the plague?"

Rong Feng thought for a second. "Unlikely. This place is empty—no people for miles."

As they spoke, the beasts hiding in the shadows suddenly got restless. A few lunged out, only to be fought off by Bian Hong and Rong Feng without much trouble, while the others turned and fled.

Bian Hong figured the danger was over, but then he spotted patches of glowing eyes flickering in the trees. Through the scarf, he could just make out the silhouettes hidden behind the trunks.

"Wolves?"

Rong Feng stepped in front of Bian Hong, shielding him. "Careful—the markers left by He Zhuo's grandfather are nearby."

He had seemed to wander in circles through the mountains, but in truth, he was searching systematically, following the patrol habits of the Mountain Guard. Among the rocks and tree trunks, he had finally found the communication marks the Guard used.

The old man must've smelled trouble and left these backups, but he used symbols He Zhuo wouldn't understand.

He didn't want He Zhuo to find the marks and risk his life to save him—a kid would just get himself killed. So these marks were left for Rong Feng.

But the trail ended near here. The ground was a mess of boulders and cliffs—a natural fortress—and now the wolves had them surrounded.

Bian Hong's gaze hardened. He tore a strip of cloth from his hem and strapped the curved blade to his hand.

Once bound like this, even if the blade was chipped from battle and his strength was spent, the weapon wouldn't slip from his grip, and he could keep fighting to the last.

This was a lesson Bian Hong had learned the hard way—how to stay alive.

Just when it looked like things were about to go down, the wolves in the dark watched the two men for a while, then sniffed the air from a distance. After a long standoff, they backed off into the woods but didn't leave—just circled around.

Rong Feng grabbed Bian Hong's hand, prying open his clenched fist, and said, dead certain.

"Follow the wolves."

Bian Hong hesitated, but seeing the man so sure, he didn't argue and followed, blade in hand.

Sure enough, after trailing the wolves through the dense forest, they found the dying old man at the bottom of a deep, shadowy pit where rock and earth mingled, with a small gray wolf standing guard.

The pit was a natural trap—slick and hard to climb, its entrance choked with rubble, so narrow only small animals could squeeze through.

At the bottom of the pit, the old man lay surrounded by several half-grown wolf pups. They crouched low, slipping through the cracks in the rocks, and curled up beside the unconscious man, keeping his fading body warm.

Scraps of raw meat were scattered nearby—food the wolves had brought him. But to the wolves, this man who had led their pack through countless generations of alpha wolves now lay with breath so faint, so long unawakened, that they must have thought he wouldn't make it.

One wolf, resting by the man's neck, grew worried. It stretched out its tongue and licked his face, but still received no response as it once had.

Then, suddenly, the wolf's gentle gaze turned fierce. It raised its head, staring at the unfamiliar scent beyond the rocks above, baring its fangs with a low, warning growl.

But after a moment, a companion's head poked through the cracks in the rubble, glancing back at it.

Then the stones were shifted aside, and a sliver of light spilled in, illuminating the deepest part of the pit.

The wolf's eyes, long adapted to darkness, were dazzled and squinted against the glare.

From outside came the sound of "humans" speaking—words it couldn't understand.

The "human" language was so complicated.

Nothing beats a wolf's.