Before even the rooster stirred in its sleep, before the moon had fully surrendered to the approaching day, Guanglin opened his eyes to the profound stillness of pre-dawn. The first timid rays of sunlight had barely kissed the ground, casting long, sleepy shadows across the courtyard, while the silvered disk of the moon still lingered stubbornly in the paling sky. Silent as a ghost, Guanglin slipped from his bed, careful not to disturb the soft breathing of those still lost in slumber. He pulled on his tunic with practiced ease, the movements so ingrained that he scarcely had to think about them, like a ritual he had performed more times than he could count. Stepping outside, his bare footsteps kissed the cool stone path in near silence. The morning air met him, crisp and tender against his skin, carrying the faint dampness of dew. He paused for a heartbeat, letting his eyes take in the hush of the courtyard, the first shy rays of sunlight painting the stones in faint gold, while the moon still clung stubbornly to the paling heavens. With a careful glance back at the house, checking if any creak or breath of movement betrayed a waking soul, Guanglin moved on, weaving his way toward the old shade beside the workshop—where his finished carvings and half-formed ideas lay waiting, patient and untouched, for the full embrace of day.

  Guanglin stepped inside, pausing for a moment to let the familiar scent of sawdust and oils settle around him, breathing it in like a quiet comfort. Inside, there are shelves lined with wooden pieces, some polished and sealed, others still rough-hewn. His mother Meiyun and sister Xianglan had been sorting them yesterday, choosing which ones would be sold at the upcoming market. His feet traced slow, measured steps across the packed earth floor, brushing past old worktables and worn stools, soaking in the tranquility of the space that had seen countless hours of effort and quiet dreams.

  He ran his fingers over the surface of a few items, inspecting them with a careful eye, feeling the small imperfections and the cool, smooth grains. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest as he came across some of his earlier creations—a spatula too wide to flip anything properly, spoons that held more air than soup, and a lopsided toy cart with a single wheel that squeaked if pushed too hard. Memories of frustrated evenings and stubborn perseverance flickered through his mind.

  Moving with practiced ease, as though he had done it more times than he could count, Guanglin crouched down and carefully removed a few items that might raise eyebrows or invite scrutiny: a toy operated with a pull-string mechanism, and a crude foldable box with hidden compartments—early experiments sparked by tales of assassins and spies. These were kept hidden from prying eyes, tucked away so as not to raise difficult questions. After slipping them carefully away, he repacked the disturbed items and restored the shelf exactly as it had been, making sure that no sign of tampering could easily be found.

  He lingered a moment longer, his feet moving slow, measured steps through the shed, brushing past old worktables and worn stools, fingertips lightly grazing the scarred surfaces as though greeting old friends. The scent of sawdust and oil thickened in his nostrils—a quiet world of dust motes, memory, and invention.

  He pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth from beneath a loose board, tucked so carefully that even prying eyes might overlook it. Inside were a few of his more peculiar prototypes. He selected a compact pair of wooden knuckles—carved with interlocking curves, the slashing edges fashioned from sharpened animal teeth fixed snugly into grooves along the ridges. They were inspired by the old Bagh Nakh design, meant for concealed defense, mimicking the ferocity of tiger claws while remaining light enough to pass as simple tools. With the same practiced ease, Guanglin slipped the knuckles into his pocket. He then rewrapped the bundle, sliding it back into its hiding spot and meticulously repositioning the board, ensuring no trace was left behind.

  Only then, satisfied, did he allow himself a final lingering look around the workshop—a place of work, of mistakes, of learning—before slipping back into the morning's hush.

  He moved toward the cattle pens next, his steps slow and familiar, like a path he had walked countless times before. The pigs snorted softly in their pen, shifting lazily in the straw. The cows and sheep huddled together for warmth, their breath rising in faint plumes against the cold air. The bull lay sprawled in the far corner, breathing slow and steady, his heavy sides rising and falling with each contented breath. As Guanglin approached, the dogs stirred from their curled forms, tails thumping softly against the ground; one of them padded up, nudging his hand with a cold nose. Guanglin knelt briefly, ruffling its ears and murmuring soft, playful nonsense, a familiar comfort passed between them.

  The rooster blinked at him from its high perch, feathers puffed up against the lingering chill, its expression unmistakably sour, as if Guanglin's presence alone had dared to disturb its half-formed dreams. Guanglin grinned slightly at the sight, tipping an invisible hat in mock apology before rising again.

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  Everything was in place. As, it should be. At least for now.

  By the time the first rays of sunlight broke over the hills, Guanglin was already helping his mother Meiyun and sister Xianglan in the kitchen. He fetched water, ground spices, and stirred the pot while Xianglan cut vegetables with rhythmic precision. Mierong tugged at his sleeve occasionally, asking questions and giggling as he made exaggerated faces or spun kitchen tools in mock swordplay. The smell of boiling herbs and fried root vegetables soon filled the house.

  During breakfast, Guanglin blended into the casual conversation, laughter and morning chatter masking the sharper focus in his gaze. As his father Zhieqiang and elder brother Jiehao prepared to leave the table, Guanglin leaned in slightly, voice low enough to be caught only by ears familiar with his cautious nature.

  "Keep a lookout today," he murmured. "If anything feels off, stay near others. Better yet—stay close to the house. I’ve got a bad feeling this isn’t over yet."

  Zhieqiang, used to his younger son's careful instincts, nodded slowly, the motion thoughtful as he chewed another bite of food. Jiehao didn’t argue either—a rare show of deference—though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his unease. They knew Guanglin well enough to trust when he spoke like this: not with panic, but with the deliberate caution of someone who had seen far more than he said.

  Later that morning, Yan arrived, a quick knock at the gate announcing his presence. He looked as if he’d barely slept, though his voice was steady. Guanglin opened the door, and Yan, with a quick glance over his shoulder, peered around to ensure no one from Guanglin's family or the neighboring courtyards was nearby to overhear them. Only then did Guanglin step aside to let him in.

  "Nothing major’s come up," Yan said. "The hunters are keeping an eye on the riverbanks and the forest edges. Aside from the cattle going missing and that mess with Zhang, it’s been quiet."

  Guanglin raised an eyebrow. "Still nothing from the far paths?"

  "Not yet." Yan gave a half-smile. "Should we head out? Check the riverside?"

  Guanglin shook his head. "Too risky. Not until we know more. We’ll wait until Zhang wakes up. Let’s visit Xia first."

  At Xia’s home, the herbal scent of boiling leaves greeted them before the door even opened. Xia appeared with her sleeves rolled up and dark circles under her eyes.

  "He’s stable," she said before they could ask. "But he won’t wake until evening at the earliest. Possibly tomorrow morning."

  Yan leaned in, frowning. "He’s stable, right? Can’t we just shake him awake? Ask a few questions?"

  Xia’s glare could’ve shattered stone. "Absolutely not. You think he’s a sack of potatoes? If you force a patient out of natural recovery, you could cause a backlash. Fever, relapse, worse. You wait."

  Guanglin raised a hand to calm things. "She’s right. We wait. When will your father be back?"

  "Today," she said, her tone gentler. "Don’t worry. He’ll help us figure this out."

  After parting with Xia, Guanglin led Yan west, toward the pastures beyond the fields. The sun had climbed higher, casting dappled light through scattered trees. They moved quietly, eyes scanning the ground.

  "Look for tracks," Guanglin murmured. "Footprints, dragged fur, disturbed soil. Anything out of place."

  They took their time, combing through fallen leaves and soft patches of mud. Yan circled wide, checking around tree roots and underbrush. Occasionally, he crouched to inspect disturbed patches that turned out to be nothing more than scurrying from a rabbit or bird. Guanglin stayed low, eyes sharp, occasionally pressing a palm to the ground to feel for softened impressions.

  After nearly half an hour, Yan suddenly whistled low. "Here," he called softly.

  Guanglin came over. Yan pointed to a faint trail of overlapping hoofprints and lighter indentations—signs that the ground had been stepped on multiple times. "These tracks—they’ve been missed. Winding path, hidden by the way the trees bend. But they loop back... see? They circle and return to this point. Like something was pacing or... attracting others here."

  Guanglin examined the soil. The distance between tracks, the scuff marks—they all looked wrong. Not panicked running, but drawn movement. Like they were curious or compelled.

  Crouching again, Guanglin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, enhancing his senses. That strange, musky scent returned—earthy and metallic, like damp stone and burning resin. He followed the trace with slow steps, the smell clinging faintly to a trail that the wind barely disturbed.

  A sheep nearby gave a low, peculiar bleat. Its eyes were calm, its movements appearing completely normal to the casual eye. It chewed lazily, swished its tail, and turned slowly to wander—yet Guanglin noticed a slight hesitation in its steps, a barely perceptible pause before each movement. Though it behaved as if simply grazing, its path formed an unerring line, nose low to the ground, as though following a trail only it could sense. The others remained unaware, but to Guanglin’s enhanced senses, the scent clinging to it was unmistakable—the same one that lingered on Zhang.

  Guanglin stiffened. "There. That scent—it’s clinging to it."

  They watched. As the sheep moved, others began to stir, lifting their heads and slowly trailing after it. No herding bark, no frightened scampering. They just followed, as if entranced.

  "It’s attracting them," Yan whispered. "It’s... influencing some of them. Not all are affected—just a few, and even then, subtly."

  "Then we follow," Guanglin said. "Carefully."

  From tree to tree, they trailed the livestock, weaving deeper into the woods. The path meandered, doubling back at points, weaving like a snare. The scent grew stronger, sharper. By the time the sun was past its peak—well into the third hour of the afternoon—they reached the edge of a hollow shaded by trees.

  The sheep stopped. Grazing. Silent. Waiting.

  Whatever lay ahead had a pull.

  And they had to find out why.