Chapter 2: Visit to The Woods

  The early morning air carried the scent of damp earth and hay as Lin Guanglin wrestled with the large, fully-grown pig inside the pen. Around him, five farm dogs panted excitedly and barked in short bursts. Their tails wagged as they darted along the fence line, clearly enjoying the morning spectacle. The pig, affectionately named "Old Bo," was a stubborn beast, its weight and muscle making it the undisputed champion of the farm’s livestock. Yet Guanglin had already cowed the younger pigs earlier, who now lay sprawled lazily in the mud, grunting softly as if it were just another chapter in the daily routine. With practiced ease, Guanglin engaged Old Bo, having long since grown accustomed to overpowering even the strongest of creatures here.

  With one hand gripping the coarse bristles on its back and the other braced firmly against its flank, Guanglin dug his heels deep into the earth, his stance wide and grounded like a mountain. The pig, thick with stubborn muscle, thrashed violently, hooves kicking up clumps of dirt, its squeals echoing across the yard. Yet Guanglin’s frame barely budged. His arms flexed like steel cables, absorbing the animal’s momentum as he adjusted his weight with the precision of a seasoned man who had done it hundreds of times. Muscles coiling, he dropped his center of gravity, letting the pig's resistance guide his movement. Then, with a burst of raw power and practiced leverage, he twisted and rolled the beast sideways—its massive body thudding into the mud. Guanglin followed through, pinning it down with a knee to its shoulder and a firm hand behind its neck, panting calmly as the pig snorted in exhausted surrender. It was less a struggle and more a show of firm dominance—like a man who'd wrestled giants and made peace with them after.

  "Still think you can run wild, Old Bo?" he muttered with a grin. The pig snorted in protest but ultimately gave up struggling.

  Just as he was about to let the pig go, a familiar voice called out from outside the pen.

  "Still playing with pigs instead of doing real work, Guanglin?"

  Guanglin turned to see his childhood friend, Yan Shun, leaning against the wooden fence with an amused smirk. Yan Shun was the son of the village’s most skilled hunter, his lean frame built for speed and agility rather than brute force. His sharp eyes, trained for tracking prey, were already scanning the surroundings out of habit.

  "At least I’m winning," Guanglin shot back, releasing Old Bo, who bolted away. He dusted off his clothes as he climbed over the fence. "What brings you here this early?"

  Yan Shun adjusted the quiver of arrows slung over his back. "Me, the herbalist girl, and a few others are heading to the forest outskirts—just across the river, to the west of the village. Some of us need to gather herbs, and I want to improve my tracking. Thought you’d want to come along—especially since you need an excuse to show off that monstrous strength of yours."

  Guanglin crossed his arms. "You just want me there to carry your kills."

  "That too," Yan Shun admitted with a grin.

  Guanglin nodded. "Alright, give me a moment. I need to grab something first."

  After calling out to his father—who stood ankle-deep in soil with a hoe in hand and the easy rhythm of a man born to the land—Guanglin received only a sidelong glance and a faint grunt of acknowledgment. Zhieqiang didn’t pause in his tilling, his voice calm but firm as he offered his son a parting warning. "Just don’t let the Mountain Goddess find you returning after dark," he said, referring to Meiyun, Guanglin’s mother, with the mock-reverence of an old joke passed between father and son. His tone held no fear, only the quiet confidence of a man who trusted his son to wrestle down more than just pigs.

  Smiling at the familiar words, Guanglin made his way to the shaded shed beside their house. Inside, resting against the wooden beams, was one of his personal projects—a wooden armguard he had carefully crafted over the last month.

  The base was crafted from dense oak wood, a prized log his father had once bartered for in the market, claiming it had come from the high northern groves. Guanglin had spent many late evenings under lantern light, carving and shaping the piece so it would mold to his forearm like a second skin. The interior was padded with pig leather, softened with oil and time, offering a snug cushion that dulled impact without compromising movement. Along the outer edge, he had embedded a row of wolf teeth, polished until they gleamed like ivory talons, lending the guard the aspect of a predator’s limb—more fang than shield.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Strapping it to his left arm, Guanglin rolled his shoulder and flexed his fingers with casual ease. The weight pressed down with a familiar density—substantial but not unwieldy. "Heavy, but I’ve hefted worse," he muttered to himself, lips curving in a faint grin. As he examined his handiwork, a glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes—not for the craftsmanship alone, but for the quiet preparations it represented. Strength was a gift, but survival… survival was won through care, thought, and the willingness to admit that life only comes once—maybe twice.

  If not for some unfathomable turn of fate—like a Stranger strolling into town—offering you that elusive second chance, Guanglin thought.

  Stepping outside, he was greeted by Yan Shun, who let out a low whistle. "Damn, Guanglin. That thing makes you look even more fierce. You planning to fight a bear today?"

  Guanglin smirked. "Depends. You bringing one along?"

  They laughed, heading toward the village center.

  The others were waiting beneath the banyan tree, its massive roots curling into the earth like the fingers of an ancient giant. Among them was Xia Ling, the village’s herbalist apprentice. Petite, with sharp, intelligent eyes, she wore an earth-toned robe and carried a satchel ready to fill it with herbs.

  "Glad you two finally made it," she greeted. "We were about to leave without you."

  "You wouldn’t last an hour without us," Yan Shun shot back with a grin, nudging Guanglin lightly with his elbow.

  Their banter continued as they outlined their goals. Yan Shun was eager to refine his tracking skills by trailing deer through the forest underbrush. Xia Ling, ever the diligent herbalist, sought out Meadow’s Weed and Sunspore Mushrooms. Guanglin, with a half-shrug and wry grin, accepted his honorary title as "the muscle" of the group, though none missed the sharp glint of calculation in his eyes—he may be strong, but there was always someone stronger, after all he learned it from hundreds of Novels that he had binged.

  "What’s the best herb for pain relief?" Guanglin asked suddenly, voice casual.

  Xia Ling brightened immediately. "Firegrass Root is potent, but burns when used raw. Frost Petal is milder and excellent for swelling. It's best applied as a poultice—" She stopped, catching the mischief in his expression.

  "You just get really excited when you talk about herbs," he teased.

  "Not all of us think wrestling pigs is a wholesome hobby," she retorted, mock-indignant.

  Their laughter echoed among the trees as they crossed the stone-footed shallows of the river, the waters cool and chattering. Beyond lay the forest, stretching westward in towering swathes of green, dappled with early sunlight. As they moved beneath the thick canopy, the air shifted—cooler, richer with the scent of moss and old bark.

  Yan Shun crouched low, examining a set of prints embedded in the loam. "Looks fresh," he murmured, fingers tracing the edges of the hoofmarks. The others gathered briefly behind him, nodding in agreement after a short exchange.

  "Looks like it's heading westward," Guanglin said, squinting into the trees.

  "I'll follow it ahead. Stay close," Yan Shun added, already slipping into the underbrush with quiet urgency.

  His bow held loosely at his side, Yan moved with the focused energy of someone who’d hunted before—but not enough to forget the thrill. His eyes stayed low, fixed on the faint disturbances in the undergrowth: crushed grass, snapped twigs, the soft depressions in damp soil. He spotted the deer grazing quietly in a thicket and drew his bowstring smoothly.

  He loosed the arrow—swift and silent—and the deer collapsed into the ferns. The strike was clean, the motion instinctive.

  But in his focus, Yan had not noticed the silence around him—the birds had stopped singing. A low growl rumbled through the brush, primal and deliberate, like a warning. He’d been so focused on prey, he’d forgotten to check for predators—a mistake seasoned hunters rarely make, but amateurs often do.

  As they knelt over the fallen deer, the forest seemed to still. The wind paused. The leaves ceased their rustling. Then, a crunch—soft, of leaves being disturbed. Guanglin's senses twitched; a familiar musk was carried on the air, faint but undeniable. While the others remained unaware, focused on the task at hand, his eyes narrowed toward the dense brush beyond the thicket.

  Another step. Another crackle underfoot. Stillness fractured by intent.

  "Shit," Yan Shun breathed, just as Guanglin reached back, fingers brushing against the edge of his armguard.

  From behind a crooked elder tree, cloaked in bark and shadow, emerged a battle-scarred wolf. One ear torn, a jagged reminder of battles past, and golden eyes glinting not with madness—but focus. The kind of predator that had lived long enough to be dangerous.

  Its presence wasn’t rushed. It stalked forward slowly, like it knew there was no need to hurry.

  Guanglin stood up, calm but coiled, reading its body language with the same cold precision he'd used wrestling Old Bo. This was no charge—yet. But it was a statement.

  Xia's breath hitched. "That's... not good," she murmured again, quieter this time, the weight of it pressing into the air.