They say any old stone in these mountains might suddenly sprout three eyes and turn into a rabbit, and a clump of wildflowers by the road might transform after dark and drag you off to dance in the square. In short, ordinary cultivators give this place a wide berth, afraid some thousand-year-old demon might snatch them up for a snack.
Yet in the deepest part of the mountains, in a forgotten nook where even demonic energy could not be bothered to linger, stood three lonely thatched huts. The straw on their roofs was yellowed and curled, looking more weather-beaten than a ninety-year-old village elder outside the mountains. When the wind blew, it rustled and rattled as if the huts might fall apart at any moment and take to the skies, off to be reborn as clouds.
At dawn that morning, while even the most diligent mountain rooster had yet to crow, a cry that shook the heavens suddenly burst from one of the huts.
It was nothing like the soft, delicate wail of an ordinary baby. Instead, it was hoarse as a cracked gong and carried astonishingly far. Several sparrows that had just settled on a branch outside were so frightened that they flapped away, tumbling and scrambling three miles down the road, terrified the demonic shriek would pierce their ears and turn them into minced bird meat.
Inside, an old man in a coarse cloth jacket covered in patches paced beside the earthen bed, rubbing his hands together. His hair and beard were completely white, yet he looked hale and hearty. A half-smoked tobacco pipe was tucked behind his ear, its ashes crumbling down, but he was too distracted to brush them off.
