The night-shrouded forest was a maze of looming shadows, trees twisting like cwed demons, eerie and terrifying.
Mountain folk straggled out of the miasma, gathering at the Mountain Patrol Division’s makeshift camp to turn in their finds.
“Zhang Two, one coral millipede—three coppers.”
“Cripple Song, two inkcap mushrooms—five coppers.”
The guards sat at a rge table, collecting the mountain folk’s meager hauls and tossing out paltry rewards.
Most had little to show.
Three or five coppers—just enough for a meal.
That was the lucky ones.
Some poor sods came back empty-handed, nursing injuries. One had been bitten by a wild porcupine, costing dozens of coppers to bandage and treat. Another’s hand, stung by a venomous bee, was swollen like a sausage, useless for days.
A few never returned at all.
As night loomed, faint roars echoed through the forest—part wolf, part something else, chilling the air.
For mountain folk who didn’t make it back to camp, only death awaited.
They risk their lives just to scrape by…
Jiang Heng watched in silence, his heart heavy.
That’s what it means to be lowborn.
His own haul was impressive—worth over two hundred coppers if kept, or twenty
if turned in.
Did others hide their finds, avoiding the guards’ take?
Sure, but they couldn’t get away with it.
The Mountain Patrol Division kept the mountain folk under tight watch, searching them thoroughly before they could leave.
As he mulled this over, a venomous voice cut through.
“Brother Jiang, I saw it clear as day—you nabbed a thumb-sized lingzhi! That quality, that glow, that scent—tsk tsk—worth dozens of coppers at least. Why not turn it in?”
Rat Li had slunk over, shouting for all to hear.
Thumb-sized lingzhi?
Guards and mountain folk turned, eyes locked on Jiang Heng.
A thumb-sized lingzhi was a prize!
Rumor had it a new medicinal recipe, said to extend lifespan, called for this exact herb—and demand was high. Its price had skyrocketed, a rare gem.
This kid got one?
Twenty coppers or more in a single day!
Jealousy rippled through the crowd.
Jiang Heng’s heart sank. Rat Li, you again?
Clinging to me like a curse, huh?
It was clear now—though he’d wanted to let Rat Li off, this snake wouldn’t quit.
Cold fury flickered in his chest, but with the guards’ eyes on him, he scrambled to expin.
He admitted to finding a thumb-sized lingzhi but cimed a ferocious lynx had chased him, and he’d dropped it in his escape.
Lynxes—cat-like beasts, but far rger—were pusible threats.
The guards squinted, suspicious. They patted him down, then sliced his palm to sniff his blood, checking for traces of medicinal energy. Finding none, they let him go.
“A thumb-sized lingzhi… lost?”
A commanding voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs.
The haughty guards instantly bowed their heads, tense and deferential.
Jiang Heng turned. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode forward.
Where he walked, guards and mountain folk alike parted swiftly, their movements sharp with awe and fear.
This was the leader of the treasure-hunting expedition, Sly Zhao, a hunter.
The dream of every mountain dweller.
More than a hunter, Zhao was a clerk in the Mountain Patrol Division, with guards at his beck and call. His authority was immense.
“A thumb-sized lingzhi is of great use to me,” Zhao said, his smile genial but his eyes sharp as bdes, slicing through Jiang Heng. “Find it tomorrow, and you’ll be richly rewarded. Fail, and…”
A mere clerk calling himself “lord” was overstepping, but in this camp, no one dared call him out.
Zhao wasn’t just high-ranking—his strength was monstrous. Fed daily on medicinal meals, his raw power grew constantly. Tales cimed he’d once fought a sixteen-foot tiger single-handedly, crushing its skull with a single blow.
Caught the eye of a hunter?
Jiang Heng’s gut twisted. A thumb-sized lingzhi was worth a hundred-odd coppers—nothing a hunter like Zhao couldn’t buy. Why was he so interested?
The rumors about that lifespan recipe must be true.
Damn it, Rat Li’s screwed me!
Frustration boiled inside, but Jiang Heng kept his composure, bowing slightly to Zhao.
“Greetings, Lord Hunter. I recall where the lingzhi fell and have a good chance of finding it tomorrow. But I have a grievance, my lord, and beg you to see justice done.”
He’d made up his mind to turn over the lingzhi.
If he fled into the forest, Zhao could still hunt him down.
A single lingzhi wasn’t worth his life. As long as he survived, he’d find more.
But Rat Li’s betrayal? That score needed settling now.
You think you can stab me in the back for free, Rat Li?
“Grievance?” Zhao’s brow furrowed. He had little interest in the squabbles of lowly mountain folk, but for the lingzhi’s sake, he waved a hand. “Speak.”
“When I was gravely ill, Rat Li broke into my home and stole my savings…”
Before Jiang Heng could finish, Zhao cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Drag Rat Li up here. Beat him until he pays it back.”
Zhao didn’t care if Rat Li had stolen. He cared only about the lingzhi.
Justice? Fairness? In this camp, they meant nothing.
In the Great Qing Dynasty, only strength mattered.
Rat Li’s screams echoed through the camp.
The guards showed no mercy, their meter-long batons smming into his rear. Blood and flesh flew as his skin split open.
Rat Li had looted three taels of silver from Jiang Heng, but the fool was a gambler. That money was long gone.
With no coin to repay, he turned to the camp’s loan-shark guards, borrowing at crippling rates to settle the debt and save his hide.
Otherwise, the beating would’ve killed him.
Three taels of silver, in fragments, were handed to Jiang Heng. Rat Li’s eyes burned with venom and murderous intent.
“I’m just taking back what’s mine, and you’re the one holding a grudge?”
Jiang Heng sneered inwardly.
If you don’t back off, Rat Li, next time won’t be just a beating.
