A Disturbing Warning
The days of toiling in the fields had left Yiling's muscles sore and her body tired. But it was the sense of unease that lingered longer than any physical fatigue. Something strange had been happening by the river, where she worked tirelessly to transform the land. It was subtle at first—an odd chill on warm afternoons, rustlings that didn't quite match the rhythm of the wind, and fleeting shadows at the corners of her eyes that always disappeared when she turned.
Yet that evening, as she walked back from the river after watering the plants, the air felt thicker. The usual chirping of crickets was absent, and the night was unnervingly silent. The moon hung high, casting long, stark shadows across the uneven ground. Yiling wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did nothing to calm the uneasy sensation creeping up her spine.
Suddenly, she felt it. A whisper.
It was soft at first, barely perceptible, but then it became clearer, more insistent.
"Leave..."
The voice was childlike yet chilling—reminiscent of a nursery rhyme but twisted. The wind around her shifted, though the trees didn't stir. Yiling stopped dead in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat. She instinctively reached for the knife at her waist, fingers trembling just slightly. The unsettling feeling of being watched washed over her, but she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary in the dim moonlight.
The whispers continued, growing fainter yet clearer all at once. "Leave… or pay the price…"
Yiling's heart hammered. It wasn't the wind.
The silence that followed felt almost unbearable. Yiling stood there, holding her breath, every fiber of her being straining for movement, for a clue. Her mind raced—had someone been following her, or had her surroundings simply become hostile? Or, as impossible as it seemed, was the forest alive with something that had never allowed her entry into its depths before?
It could be nothing, Yiling told herself, shaking her head and trying to pull herself together. The wind is playing tricks, it's just… just tiredness from working the land. She felt a brief moment of defiance, as if she could will the strange feeling away with just the strength of her resolve.
But then, the sound of light footsteps—no, children's footsteps—crunched on the dry earth behind her. Yiling spun around, a sharp gasp escaping her as she gripped her knife tighter. The ground was empty. The sound ceased almost immediately.
Was it a trick of the mind? The question repeated in her mind. No sign of anything out of place. Just her shadow flickering in the dim light.
But deep inside, she felt an unmistakable weight in her chest, a pressure forming as though the earth beneath her had a pulse—a warning buried deep in its soil, calling her to leave. She turned quickly, her feet moving now out of instinct rather than courage, fleeing the weight of something unseen that watched every move she made.