The fortune teller, Wu, had insisted that my life would be fraught with tribulation.
I wouldn't survive living at home.
Becoming his apprentice was the only way to have a chance, and even then, he warned, overcoming three particular trials would be challenging, especially the one at age nine.
Failure meant death; success hinted at a great change.
My father and grandfather, desperate, agreed. They felt a slim chance was better than none.
Wu whisked me away, seemingly afraid they'd change their minds. But not far from the village, his body was found – a gruesome sight.
Blood flowed from his seven orifices, his eyes wide with terror.
Death, it seemed, had startled him.
I, lying beside him, was unharmed and serene.
My parents had no choice but to bring me home. Wu's family, demanding answers, caused a huge commotion.
Although we weren't responsible for Wu's death, we were still strong-armed into paying a hefty sum, pushing our already struggling family deeper into hardship.
I later learned from my master that Wu's demise was due to his own greed.
When he took me in, he coveted something within me, seeking to steal my life essence. But that's a story for another time.
My father, after my return, was consumed with worry.
The truth of Wu's pronouncements remained murky, and his death made people wary of me.
Villagers whispered that I was a bringer of misfortune, responsible for an innocent man's death.
My unusual diet compounded their fears. I refused milk, consuming only blood.
Since birth, I hadn't touched a morsel of food, crying endlessly from hunger.
My family was distraught.
One night, while my father was in the outhouse, he heard rustling in the yard.
Several white foxes and weasels moved with an eerie grace in the darkness, their eyes gleaming.
One, a particularly large fox, perched on the windowsill, peering into the house.
Fear quickly gave way to anger.
As if a strange child wasn't trouble enough, now these creatures were adding to his woes.
He grabbed a brick and hurled it at them.
It struck the white fox on the windowsill with a thud.
It shrieked, the sound piercing the night, and spun around baring its fangs, momentarily paralyzing my father with fear.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and my grandfather, cleaver in hand, charged out.
He might have been nearing seventy, but he was still strong and quick, a remnant of his younger days as a soldier in the cleaver squad.
His eyes blazed, the cleaver flashing in the moonlight.
The animals scattered in terror.
"What's going on?" my grandfather demanded of his son.
"Those creatures were lurking, Dad! One was looking in the window," my father stammered, still shaken.
My grandfather sighed, shaking his head.
"One misfortune after another," he muttered. "A lifetime of good deeds, defending our nation, harming no one—and now this in my old age."
He noticed something by the doorway. He bent down, peering at it in confusion. "Where did these come from?"
My father joined him. His face fell. Several plump, still-warm rabbits lay by the doorstep. Their necks bore bloody bite marks from some wild animal.
"Dad, could they be from those foxes and weasels?" he asked, bewildered.
My grandfather nodded grimly.
"Likely. Hundreds of them knelt before us just days ago. We don't know the nature of their connection to the child, but since they've brought them...keep them. We'll use their blood for the child, and eat the meat."
The rabbit's blood finally quieted me, and I fell into a deep sleep. My family enjoyed a rare treat—a meal with meat.
To their surprise, the deliveries didn't stop.
Every night, the weasels and foxes appeared, leaving gifts—wild chickens, rabbits, fish.
Sometimes two offerings in a single night.
Our family was feasting daily on meat, a luxury unimaginable to most, achievable only on holidays.
We even had too much.
My father began selling the surplus at the market, drawing envious stares from other villagers.
He no longer shooed away the weasels and foxes.
He pretended not to see them.
They, in turn, moved past him, unafraid, depositing their offerings and leaving without a backward glance.
Three years flew by in this manner.
I drank blood, we ate meat, and our lives were good.
My parents even gained weight.
I grew older. Aside from my peculiar thirst, I was like other children.
My family attempted to introduce other foods, but I would always throw them up, unable to stomach anything else.
My features, once fox-like, softened. The white fur vanished.
I was, in fact, growing into a delicate-looking child.
As I approached my third birthday, my grandfather and father were anxious. They hadn't forgotten Wu's words.
Trials would arrive every three years.
What misfortune awaited?
On my third birthday, their fears were realized.
A death occurred in the village, and the villagers whispered that I was to blame.