The story doesn't only take place in the small town of Fenghuai.
Shift the time back a bit, back to the rain-drenched morning of the third day of August.
Lift the view higher and further, move to the vast Xin Cang Mountain Range that Fenghuai leans on.
Here, cliffs rise high, trees tower, deep valleys plunge, and when you look up, you only see a thin strip of sky.
Dark clouds gather, a raging storm is held in Heaven's mouth, a light wind escapes from between Heaven's lips, growing stronger until the trees start quivering.
A figure is staggering in a desperate run.
Mo Wuqiang swallows a mouthful of blood that bubbles up to his throat, but the wound on his left arm splits open again, and a few drops of blood inevitably fall onto the ground.
He halts, picking up the blood-soaked soil and swallowing it. Ripping off a strip from his pant leg, he roughly bandages the wound.
A storm is coming and if his past decades of experience hold true, the rain would wash away his tracks, disperse the stench of blood, and render the beasts' tracking skills useless, then he wouldn't need to waste energy covering his tracks.
But this time it's different, thinking of that beast's ghastly sensitivity to blood sends ripples of unease through him.
The rain will wash over his wound, certain to spill blood. This storm may not be on his side.
But he has no choice; his bow and axe have been discarded, leaving only a small dagger around his waist. He can only run faster, even faster.
They ventured too deep into the mountains this time.
When they first discovered traces of that thing, he wanted to retreat. He had spent half his life hunting, even killed several tigers and leopards, but he'd never seen such an enormous stride in any feline.
But the young men, eager and brash, claimed that Uncle Wu was getting old and fearful; surely, they, a group of over ten, could defeat a large tiger?
And there was Gangzi, whose father was claimed by this very beast. How could anyone manage to dissuade him?
Most pitiable was Yunsheng, a clever boy. Mo Wuqiang knew Yunsheng believed him, but didn't want to leave alone and ended up following the others.
But bravery isn't all you need in hunting, and that thing isn't a mere prey.
A raindrop lands on Mo Wuqiang's parched lips, he takes a deep breath and lifts his head. Raindrops as big as soybeans fall vertically in his vision. Mo closes his eyes to accept it, and his eyelids sting from the rain's force.
The rain is fierce.
Mo Wuqiang quickens his steps once more, his only chance of survival lies in crossing the rope bridge before the beast catches him. Once he cut the bridge, no matter what that beast is, it won't be able to leap over a more than twenty feet wide ravine.
Stumbling over a steep slope, a small stream suddenly appears ahead. Looking upstream, Mo Wuqiang sees its source, hidden within the high cliffs and dense trees. A look of joy appears on his face, this is the stream flowing down from Rat Pool. If the pool is located upstream, it indicates that thankfully he hasn't lost his way and isn't far from the rope bridge.
Mo Wuqiang surveys his surroundings and barely finds a path across by stepping on rocks. He steps carefully onto the stones, but after only a few steps, his exhausted leg slips on some wet moss and tumbles into the stream.
The moment his calf hits the water, Mo Wuqiang freezes. His first impression is a bone-piercing chill, then the alarming realization surfaces, why is the water so hot?!
Mo Wuqiang quickly pulls his leg out of the water, crouches on a rock and gently rubs his leg. Only a moment has passed, and the part of his leg soaked in water is already turning red. Looking up, he notices faint steam rising from the entire stream.
Fortunately, the water isn't boiling hot; it hurts his skin but causes no harm. With the cool rain continuously spattering down, he's soon alright again. Mo Wuqiang, bewildered, glances at the stream, but right now, he neither has the energy nor the disposition to investigate. He only more cautiously steps across the stones.
The moment his foot reaches the ground, his tightly-held body instantly goes slack. His trembling legs can no longer support him, and he falls by the bank.
Laboredly panting, he looks down into the water, seeing his reflection twisted in the stream.
Dirty, torn single-layer shirt, disheveled hair, and in the midst of it all, the face of a man in his fifties.
The face is dark yellow, coarse, familiar, unfamiliar, with bloodshot eyes. He feels a sudden sting in his nose, and as his vision blurs, he harshly slaps himself.
How did he manage to survive?
Just this morning, in the darkness before sunrise, that thing stormed their campsite. When he was jolted awake, the strangely strong wind was already filled with a vile smell and the scent of blood.
Amidst the young men's angry roars and terrified screams, it remained silent, ghost-like. If it weren't for the faint light cast by the wavering torch, revealing a huge shadow, he'd even suspect that it was a ghost rising from the underworld.
He took up his bow, but didn't dare shoot in the darkness. Grasping his knife, he rushed forward. At that moment, he truly wanted to fight it to the death, but when its ghostly head turned to look at him, his heated blood felt as though it had been doused with a bucket of cold water.
In the face of those gold eyes, cold and all-consuming, the courage he had honed from thirty years of hunting leopards and tigers dissipated.
Wolves and leopards don't have such an aura. While they are extremely dangerous, they only make your mind tighten, your blood rush, your heartbeat quicken in excitement. But facing a tiger is different, a low, mighty roar, an oppressive body, and gaze, easily rob one of the courage to fight. They are the king of the forest, no question about it.
And if what's in front of him was a tiger, it was undoubtedly the king of all tigers. Just one glance made his heart chill and his courage falter.
How can a human kill such a beast? It can't be done...oh, it can't be done...