Something Watched

“What’s wrong, Master?” Jin Shanzhao asked, stepping back as he saw Li Huowang’s tension.

The black earthenware jars in the distance looked completely ordinary—just standard pickle crocks. The only thing that stood out was an inverted “福” (fortune) character pasted on each one.

Li Huowang didn’t drop his guard. “Something in there just looked at me.”

“Looked at you?” Jin Shanzhao hesitated, squinting at the jars again. “Is there someone inside? But Master, those jars are way too small for a person.”

“I didn’t say a person was looking at me.” Without another word, Li Huowang spread the Thousand Greats Record on the ground. Bloody fingernail clippings flew forth, easily slicing through the black earthenware.

A series of crashes rang out as the jars shattered, brown brine mixed with pickled vegetables spilling across the ground.

Li Huowang’s mind did not relax. He walked over cautiously, using his sword to prod through the shards and inspect each one carefully.

After a thorough check, he found nothing unusual. They really were just pickle crocks.

The noise drew someone from inside a house. An old woman leaning on a cane hobbled out. “You little brat! Why’d you smash my pickle jars? Pay up!”

Li Huowang sheathed his sword, pulled some碎银子碎银子碎银子 from his pocket, and tossed them at her feet. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on her, he backed away step by step.

“Master, where are we going? Weren’t we here to buy grain?” Jin Shanzhao hurried after him.

“We’re leaving this place. We’ll buy grain somewhere else.” After that incident, Li Huowang had completely lost trust in this village.

In this critical period, he would rather be wrong than be ambushed by something. He had already suffered enough from that kind of mistake.

The old woman didn’t stop them. Instead, she bent down to pick up the碎银子碎银子碎银子, mumbling curses through her toothless mouth.

Li Huowang led his group onward, traveling all the way until deep night.

They finally stopped in a bamboo grove. No matter what that staring thing was, this distance was enough to keep them safe.

A campfire was lit, and the group began to set up pots for cooking. Everyone was exhausted, but they still needed to eat; otherwise, their bodies wouldn’t hold up.

Li Huowang didn’t join the chores. He climbed onto the roof of the oxcart, using his sharp vision like a lookout tower, scanning the surroundings in all directions.

Mantou seemed to understand Li Huowang’s unease. He pressed his nose to the ground and circled, sniffing continuously.

But even after dinner, nothing unusual happened. It was as if the staring sensation from the village had been an illusion.

Was I wrong? Li Huowang felt a flicker of doubt about his own senses. Truth be told, he had never fully trusted them.

But he quickly pushed away that pointless uncertainty. Once a thing was done, there was no use hesitating.

“Brother Li, dinner’s ready. Come eat.”

Tonight’s meal was bamboo shoot noodles, made from local ingredients. The fresh bamboo shoots were crisp and sweet. There was no meat, but a thick layer of lard floating on the broth was deeply comforting to Li Huowang’s hollow stomach.

Around the campfire, the others ate with gusto—slurping soup, the crisp crunch of bamboo shoots filling the air.

Once their stomachs were full, drowsiness set in. The weary travelers lay down in their bedding and closed their eyes.

Li Huowang was assigned the night watch. At a time like this, he couldn’t trust anyone else.

Soon, the bamboo grove fell silent except for the crackling of the fire.

Only Li Huowang remained by the flames, gently stroking Mantou’s smooth fur.

But he wasn’t made of iron, and sleep soon crept up on him.

He shook his head vigorously, but the drowsiness wouldn’t lift. Pulling a sharp awl from his sash, he drove it straight into the palm of his right hand.

Blood stained the Daoist robe a deeper red. The flash of pain made Li Huowang’s whole body tense, jolting him fully awake.

“Little Daoist, how about I take over? Old folks don’t sleep much anyway.”

Li Huowang didn’t need to turn around. The footsteps and the familiar smell of tobacco told him who it was. “Troupe Leader Lü, get some rest. We have to travel again tomorrow. If you stay up tonight, you won’t make it.”

Lü Zhuangyuan, his face a web of wrinkles, sat down beside Li Huowang. He carefully pulled three strands of tobacco from his pouch, mixed in some crushed dry leaves from the ground, stuffed them into his pipe bowl, and lit up.

“Daoist, what do you think of my youngest?”

“Hm?” Li Huowang glanced at Lü Xiucai, who was sleeping curled up against his brother and sister-in-law.

He didn’t have a high opinion of the boy. Timid, hesitant, and slow to act.

“Little Daoist, I know it’s wishful thinking, but this old man is willing to swallow his pride and ask: would you take him as your disciple?”

“The boy isn’t really an actor yet—never even sung a note. Don’t look down on him. I’m not hoping you’ll teach him all your magic. Even just one skill—that would be smoke rising from the Lü family’s ancestral graves.”

Lü Zhuangyuan had barely finished when he saw the little Daoist suddenly stand up.

“It followed us! Everyone up!” Li Huowang’s shout jolted the others out of their sleep.

“On guard!” Sword in hand, Li Huowang walked slowly toward the bamboo grove. The grove, which should have been a fresh green, looked sinister under the cover of darkness.

He didn’t walk far before he spotted two white porcelain jars between the bamboo stalks.

The jars were small, about the size of watermelons. Each had a red strip of paper pasted on it, with brush-written characters.

Late Mother: Departed Ancestress, Lady Yang Fengling’s Spirit Tablet
Grandfather: Late Ancestor, Lord Li Gong Quanyou’s Spirit Tablet

They were clearly funeral urns. The traces of offerings in front of them confirmed it.

Li Huowang hesitated. Should he really smash these urns? Who knew what might come crawling out?

After a long moment of thought, he slowly withdrew. The firelight faded as everyone began traveling again in the dead of night.

Time passed. Slowly, the lids of the two funeral urns rose. From inside, two heads emerged—childish faces covered in white powder.

They were clearly not ordinary children. Their heads were no bigger than a grown man’s fist.

Bright red circles of rouge on their cheeks stood out starkly against their snow-white faces.

The little figures looked at each other and giggled. Then, arms and legs—also dusted in white powder—reached out over the rims of the urns.

They were about to leave when a figure descended from above, blocking their path.

Li Huowang, grinding his teeth, stared at the two strange things with bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep.