Night wind tugged at the tent flaps, making the fire outside dance like it was laughing at me.

  Inside, three people snored in perfect, drunken harmony.

  Mu, Lian, and Hua — the holy trinity of “men who drink too much and ruin my life” — had somehow ended up collapsed together under one blanket.

  Hua still had his teeth clamped on his fan, clutching a wine jar like a stuffed toy.

  Lian lay with a sword for a pillow, posture so correct he could’ve been posing for his own tomb statue.

  And Mu? Mu was on his back near the entrance, peaceful as ever, as if even in dreams he was calculating wind direction and ley lines.

  Me?

  I was in the corner.

  Wide awake. Eyes sharp as an owl’s.

  “Finally,” I whispered. “Showtime.”

  In five minutes flat, I’d packed my entire tragic existence into one bundle: two hard biscuits, half a jug of wine, a stick for self-defense, and my half-used bottle of bug repellent (arguably my most loyal companion).

  Escape route: planned.

  South for two, maybe three miles.

  Then east for one or two.

  Then south again until my legs fall off.

  That’d take me to the main road — away from cliffs, away from villages, and most importantly, away from them.

  I crept out of the tent on silent feet.

  The moon hung low, spilling silver over the mountain. The world was still — too still. I took a breath of cold, pine-scented air and started down the path.

  One mile passed, the forest thickened. The trail turned mean.

  Damp leaves clung to my boots. The stones underfoot slick as oil. Branches clawed my sleeves like old ghosts.

  The air was heavy with mist and rot. My every step echoed like a confession.

  Then—

  “Guuu—guuuu—”

  A cry split the dark. Shrill. Wet. Too human to be an owl, too animal to be human.

  I froze.

  Every hair on my body went on strike.

  I’d read about this. Back when I was still sneaking liquor behind the Nan Gong kitchens, I found a tattered ghost book — The Weeping Soul Records.

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  It said:

  A runaway scholar once heard a baby crying in the woods. Thought it was an abandoned child. Climbed up to save it. Turned out it wasn’t a baby — it was a spirit-bird, shaped like an infant, feathers black as pitch. It lured people by crying, then dropped from the trees to bite off half their soul. The scholar went mad, and his family erased his name from the ancestral tablets.

  I’d laughed back then.

  Now I wasn’t laughing.

  Cold sweat slicked my palms. My voice came out in a whisper:

  “System. Summon bodyguard. Summon any human.”

  No reply.

  Only the wind answering with a hiss through the branches.

  I swallowed, picked up the pace.

  Another half mile. The trees loomed taller. The air grew thicker. Grass brushed my waist.

  Every gust of wind whispered the same cursed refrain: “Blessed one… blessed one…”

  “Hallucinations,” I muttered. “Totally normal. You’re a man. A rational man. Not afraid of ghosts, not afraid of monsters, definitely not afraid of Lian suddenly appearing behind you and—”

  Flap!

  A night bird burst from the brush. I nearly lost my soul on the spot.

  I took one step back—

  And my foot slipped.

  “Ah—!!”

  Thunk.

  I went down hard. Into darkness.

  The world went black and soft and muddy.

  At least it wasn’t spiked.

  “Ugh…” I groaned. “I don’t want to be the Blessed Bride. I don’t want to be the Chosen Sacrifice. I don’t even want to be the first annual ‘Mountain Spirit Offering.’ I just want to live!”

  The pit walls were damp and sheer. No footholds. My bag had burst open, scattering my precious biscuits.

  “System…” I croaked up at the moonless sky. “Are you enjoying this?”

  That’s when a voice came from above. Deep, calm, male.

  “Who’s down there? Why leave the camp at this hour?”

  I froze.

  Instantly dropped to my knees.

  “Oh great immortal ancestor! Spare me! I didn’t dig your grave or steal your treasure! I’m just a poor soul trying to get down the mountain! I swear, I don’t want to be blessed, married, sacrificed, or even supervised!”

  My confession turned into a sob halfway through. I even recited my escape route like a last will — “South three miles, east two, then south again, don’t look back”—just in case my spirit needed directions later.

  Silence.

  Then, a head appeared above the pit.

  Not a ghost. Worse.

  Mu.

  He wasn’t drunk. Not even close. His face was sharp, awake, and — saints help me — smiling.

  “So you really were planning to run.”

  I turned to stone.

  He leaned down, eyes glinting. “When I toasted you earlier, I knew something was off. Your eyes kept circling the exits. And look at that—your timing’s perfect.”

  I managed a dry laugh. “You—weren’t drunk?”

  He smiled, bright and clear. “That little wine? I’ve drunk more potent ink. Now tell me—why run?”

  I thought fast. The man looked gentle, reasonable — maybe even… persuadable.

  Time to weaponize pity.

  I wiped at my face like a tragic opera lead.

  “My lord, it’s a long and miserable tale. I was orphaned young! Raised by lunatics! Lian looks graceful, but he’s a tyrant — locked me in a dungeon three days because I asked when dinner was! Hua treats me like his errand boy — I’ve been digging wells, carrying rocks, fetching water since dawn! I just wanted one night of peace!”

  I sniffled pathetically. “If you have a shred of mercy, please, let me go!”