Chapter Ninety-Three: When Owls Cry from the Crossbeam, Wolves and Jackals Bar the Road

When owls shriek at the gate and jackals and wolves bar the road.

Only when Han Moyi understood that the eerie green light was coming from a pair of wolf eyes did the hairs all over his body stand on end. He had heard plenty of stories about wolves in the desert; a single wolf was already hard enough to deal with, but by the look of those hundreds of glowing eyes, the pack circling him numbered at least a hundred.

Before Han Moyi could work out a way to cope with the wolves, the horse standing not far behind him let out a frantic whinny. Horses were especially sensitive, especially when it came to danger, and it was obvious that it had already sensed the threat from the pack.

The horse threw itself desperately against the reins, but the reins were twisted from cowhide mixed with hemp rope. No matter how hard it strained, it could not break free. In moments, the skin on its neck was torn raw by the fierce friction, and blood began to run. It was a pitiful sight.

Han Moyi had not failed to think of riding off, but by then the wolves had already surrounded him from every direction. No matter which way he broke out, the pack could close in again in the shortest time. On top of that, the sky was completely sealed by dark clouds; apart from the firelight, which could barely illuminate the desert grove, everything beyond it was as black as pitch. The only thing visible was the green glow of the wolves’ eyes.

When the horse found it could not break the reins, it gave up struggling altogether and cried out in misery. When Han Moyi rose and walked toward it, tears were already streaming from its large eyes.

He stroked the horse’s head and spoke softly, as though comforting it and himself at once. "Don’t be afraid. There’s a fire here. The wolves won’t dare come close."

Han Moyi was right. The pack merely drew a little nearer and did not immediately launch itself at him. Still, the situation was far from reassuring, for now he could see the wolves clearly in full: their dark, glossy fur, their powerful forelegs, and, on those closer ones, even their teeth, sharp and glinting with cold light.

Seeing no immediate danger, Han Moyi was no longer as panicked as before. He lowered the demon blade Minghong in his hand, while only the horse continued to tremble.

Seeing several dry branches scattered nearby, Han Moyi felt a little more at ease and took a swig of liquor. As long as the fire did not go out, the wolves would not dare charge in. Worst came to worst, he could drink himself through the night until dawn.

After two gulps, a bold thought suddenly occurred to him. After being cursed, it seemed he could not die. If the wolves tore the flesh from his body and ate it, would he still live as nothing more than a skeleton?

Of course, he quickly dismissed that terrible idea. It was true that after the evil saber immortal slaughtered his family, he had once wanted to follow them into death. But the sun would still rise over the desert the next day, and each day would still be a new day.

So he kept drinking his strong liquor, his mind wandering aimlessly, not noticing that the desert wind had risen again. At first it was weak, only brushing the hem of his clothes, but soon it began lifting the yellow sand into the air.

The wind-blown grains quickly stung Han Moyi’s eyes. By then, he had long since stopped drinking, and he fumbled through his pack for a gauze scarf to wrap around his head. Only then could he barely withstand the assault of the sand.

The strange wind was odd indeed, as though a whirlwind had risen from the ground and was blowing only through the desert grove. Han Moyi forced himself to glance outside the grove and could not help breaking into another cold sweat.

The pack had not dispersed. On the contrary, it seemed to have moved even closer to the grove. What chilled Han Moyi most was the cunning he seemed to detect in those wolf eyes, as though the pack were mocking him.

The sinister wind grew stronger and stronger. With no other choice, Han Moyi pressed his whole body against the horse and used it to keep himself from being blown down.

No one knew how long passed before the wind gradually weakened. Only then did Han Moyi dare remove the scarf from his head.

The surroundings seemed much brighter. Looking up, he realized that the wicked wind had blown away the dark clouds overhead, and the round moon had once again shown its face. Under the silver-white moonlight, the entire grove revealed itself: standing trunks, fallen trunks, bent trunks, but without exception, every one of them was a dead desert poplar.

He had no spare concern to think about why the grove had withered so completely. Han Moyi soon stepped out from behind the horse, and just then he felt a sudden chill sweep through his body, a coldness so piercing it shot straight to the crown of his head.

The fire that had been blazing fiercely a short while ago was now half-buried in sand, with not even a wisp of white smoke left.

The fire was out. The wolves would be coming.

Han Moyi hurriedly snatched up Minghong, the demon blade, from the ground where he had dropped it earlier. He gripped it with both hands, but his clothes were already soaked through with cold sweat. Then another gust of wind passed, and all he could feel was a cold so deep it made even his soul tremble.

Sure enough, with the threat of the fire gone, the wolves grew active at once. One by one, they advanced slowly into the grove.

Unlike before, when darkness had hidden them, this time Han Moyi could clearly make out their bristling black fur, their sharp foreclaws, and those terrible fangs.

The pack pressed closer and closer until it was less than twenty paces away. They glared viciously at Han Moyi, both forepaws planted on the ground, growling deep in their throats, baring their teeth as though they would pounce at any moment.

Then the wind from the desert rose again, blowing so cold through Han Moyi that every inch of him turned icy. Cold sweat streamed down his back without pause. His nerves were stretched taut, and his mind was in utter chaos.

Suddenly, Han Moyi heard a shrill wolf howl. Looking up, he saw that on a distant sand dune stood another wolf, a snow-white wolf from head to tail.

It was this white wolf that had howled. Seeing that the pack had already surrounded Han Moyi, it came down from the dune at an unhurried pace and walked toward him.

Compared with the black wolves, the white wolf’s body was much smaller. Under the moonlight, it was pure white all over, not stained with the blood and filth of prey as Han Moyi had imagined.

As the white wolf drew near, the pack quickly parted to let it pass.

Han Moyi could not help but shudder. He thought of something: wolves were social animals, and every pack had to have an alpha wolf, the leader who maintained order and guided the hunt.

Seeing the pack bow aside for the white wolf, it was obvious that this white wolf was the alpha.

Though it moved slowly, the white wolf still came to a stop before Han Moyi.

Han Moyi raised Minghong across his chest in guarded readiness, prepared to respond to an attack at any moment. Yet to his surprise, the white wolf merely stood there in front of him, showing no intention of striking.

As the white wolf studied him, Han Moyi naturally watched every movement it made.

So man and wolf stood beneath the moonlight in the grove, locked in a strange and silent stare.