Chapter Two: The Soul Leaves the Body

In his panic, Zhou Yi managed to grab the leg bone of the roe deer and shoved it into the jaws of the lead wolf. The rest of the pack, seeing their leader pin Zhou Yi down, crouched motionless, their green eyes wary as they watched the man and the wolf locked in combat.

The wolves’ hierarchical order was strict: if the lead wolf hunted personally, no other wolf could assist, a testament to its strength. Had the lead wolf not intervened tonight, Zhou Yi would already be nothing but bones.

The lead wolf spat out the bone and lunged again, aiming for Zhou Yi’s throat. Zhou Yi, pinned beneath its weight, struggled, but the wolf’s teeth sank into his shoulder. With a savage tug, the sheepskin coat was torn apart—the wolf, acting on instinct, mistook the coat for the pelt of its usual prey. Ripping further, it tore a strip of flesh from Zhou Yi’s shoulder.

Overwhelmed by pain, Zhou Yi instinctively raised his head and bit down on the wolf’s neck. Warm blood flowed down his throat into his belly; with that bite, he tore open the wolf’s fur. The lead wolf’s blood flooded his mouth, and Zhou Yi, heedless of anything else, drank greedily. The wolf struggled but could not shake him off. It tried to summon the pack with its howl, but Zhou Yi’s jaws clamped its throat, stifling any sound.

Zhou Yi focused only on gulping the wolf’s blood. In moments, the lead wolf weakened from loss of blood, its struggles fading. Sensing something amiss, the pack surged forward to save their leader. Zhou Yi knew that if he released the wolf, he would surely be devoured; if he did not, he would still be torn apart once the wolf died. In desperation, Zhou Yi locked his arms around the wolf’s neck, wrapped his legs around its back, hanging beneath its body.

Wolves instinctively attack the throat of their prey, but Zhou Yi’s position beneath the lead wolf made it hard for the pack to find a spot to bite. As mentioned, wolves are second only to humans in intelligence; soon, they noticed Zhou Yi’s hands and feet entwined around their leader.

Just as the pack prepared to tear at Zhou Yi’s clothing, the lead wolf—drained of blood—suddenly collapsed, pinning Zhou Yi beneath its body. Zhou Yi had killed the lead wolf in the midst of the pack.

At that moment, distant barking and voices calling Zhou Yi’s name echoed through the night. Zhou Yi looked up to see over a dozen torches moving in parallel; surely, his father Zhou Dajiang had rallied the villagers to search for him after he hadn’t returned from the mountain at midnight. Zhou Yi knew salvation was near and tried to call out, but when he opened his mouth, only a wolf’s howl emerged.

“Oo-oo—aw!” Midway through the call, Zhou Yi realized something was wrong and quickly stopped. But after his howl, the restless pack grew unusually quiet, crouching in place, watching him, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Zhou Yi, preoccupied with his own voice, failed to notice this change in the wolves.

The search party, hearing the howl, called Zhou Yi’s name loudly and fired shots into the air to scare off the wolves. The pack, seeing the people below, fled deep into the mountains. Zhou Yi loaded a cartridge into his rifle, fired into the air to mark his position, and, after seeing the wolves disperse, suddenly felt feverish and weak. Darkness closed in, and he lost consciousness.

Here, the story pauses.

After Zhou Yi fainted, he found himself in a strange place. The light was gentle, bathing him in comfort. Before him stood a Taoist temple, its outer wall built of red bricks, towering over six meters high. Twin golden lions lay by the gate, and eight lacquered doors stood wide open. Above them hung a gilded plaque inscribed with “Temple of Profound Clarity.” Within, a Taoist statue sat cross-legged on a mat, clad in a dragon robe, hair tied in a topknot, eyes half-closed, its presence commanding respect without anger.

The statue held a dust whisk in its left hand, trailing to the side, while its right arm stretched forward, supporting a gourd. Zhou Yi frowned; Taoist temples were rare in the north, and such a grand one was unheard of. He recognized statues of Patriarch Hongjun, the Supreme Elder, the Primordial Lord, and the Master of Heaven, but this one was none of them.

He thought, “Though I don’t know this deity, it can’t hurt to pay respects.” With that, Zhou Yi bowed three times. When he looked up again, he was startled: the statue had opened its eyes and was smiling at him. Zhou Yi’s true body was still unconscious; his soul had left his body, or else he might have fainted again.

“Do not fear, young man,” the statue intoned, its voice deep, not stern yet impossible to resist. “Tell me, what year is it?”

“It is the sixth year of the Republic, the year of Bingchen,” Zhou Yi replied, uncertain, so he gave both the era and the lunar year, then stood with his head bowed.

The statue nodded gently and spoke no more. Zhou Yi dared not move. When he raised his head again and met the statue’s gaze, he felt his spirit waver; before this figure, he felt utterly transparent, all pretense gone. Yet, he bore no malice—only a sense of intimacy.

After a moment, the statue smiled and beckoned, “Come forward.”

The statue spoke in ancient language, and Zhou Yi was momentarily confused. Before he could react, a force drew him to stand before the statue.

“Your presence in this speck of space is proof of your deep fortune. I shall impart to you a method of cultivation—use it well.” With that, the statue extended its left hand to Zhou Yi’s crown, and Zhou Yi felt a sharp pain, as if his head were being pierced, his mind about to split. He cried out but found he could make no sound.

In an instant, the transfer was done. As Zhou Yi recalled it in his mind, a method called “Profound Clarity Qi” appeared, each word a marvel, promising access to the supreme Dao. Zhou Yi knew he had stumbled upon a treasure and bent to kneel in gratitude.

The statue’s left hand waved in the air, preventing him from kneeling. “I am a wandering cultivator and accept no obeisance.”

Zhou Yi hurriedly protested, “You have taught me a cultivation method—surely you are my master. How can it be wrong for a disciple to bow to his teacher?” In his haste, his words carried a hint of reproach.

The statue didn’t mind, smiling gently. “Your spirit has wandered for nearly an hour, and any longer would harm your essence. Depart now.” With that, the statue closed its eyes and spoke no further.

Zhou Yi hesitated, then asked, “At least tell me your Taoist name, so I may honor you day and night.” As he finished, the statue spoke once more. “Why cling to formality? Meeting is fate, parting is fate; our connection ends here. Go now.” With these words, Zhou Yi felt a force pulling him away from the temple.

In a blink, Zhou Yi awoke, finding himself still at the spot where he had collapsed.

When Zhou Yi came to, it was already the morning of the third day. His father, Zhou Dajiang, and his childhood friend Baozi watched over him, the campfire still burning. The two rested in a mountain cave, having kept vigil for a day and night. Exhausted, they had fallen asleep in the cramped shelter.

Zhou Yi’s father, Zhou Dajiang, had grown anxious when Zhou Yi failed to return home after the snowfall. Hearing gunfire from the mountain at midnight, he sensed trouble. Without waiting for the snow to stop, he roused a few close neighbors, leading the search for Zhou proper. When Zhou Dajiang found Zhou Yi unconscious but otherwise unharmed, his heart was finally at ease.

But when the group tried to lift Zhou Yi, a wall of energy formed around his body, preventing anyone from approaching.

Baozi, whose full name was Ni Yuanchao, was Zhou Yi’s peer and lifelong companion—their bond as inseparable as shadow and substance.