The setting sun was a gigantic salted egg yolk, slumped lazily on the western ridge. It stretched the shadows of Yang Cong and the chicken at his feet until they were long and thin. At the end of those shadows lay Yangjia Village, its cooking smoke curling into the air. It should have been a warm homecoming, but now it felt like red-hot iron needles stabbing into his heart.
The culprit was the creature at his feet, rear end in the air as it furiously scratched at the dirt.
A rooster.
A rooster black as ink from head to toe, except for a thick, glossy tuft of feathers atop its head, stubbornly sticking straight up. It was combed to perfection, a dead-center part so precise it could drive any barber to despair.
Its claws kicked up clouds of dust as it proudly lifted its neck from time to time. “Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Its ringing cries echoed across the hillside, as if announcing to the whole world: Look, I found a bug! I'm so amazing!
This was the contracted spirit familiar Yang Cong had awakened the day before yesterday.
