The day Xiaocao came down from the mountain, she picked someone up.
More precisely, she picked up someone who was roasting a bird.
“Your roasted bird is delicious. From now on, you’re with me.” The little three-head-tall child patted the boy on the shoulder, as seriously as a bandit chief recruiting a new underling.
The boy looked down at the tiny thing with two leaves sprouting from its head and a scarecrow’s outfit made of straw.
No money, no identity, no common sense.
Its only possession was an invitation it had no idea where it had found: “Xiao Zhao, son of the Yao King.”
Fine. His own father had kicked him out, anyway.
One real son of the Yao King and one impostor, teaming up to mooch food and shelter.
Later, drought demons steered clear of her, cultists ran at the sight of her, and she sucked a Heavenly Demon egg dry for breakfast.
Someone knelt and called her the savior of the world, while she tugged at the boy’s sleeve. “A Hu, what did he say?”
The boy looked at the powerful figures all around them, their jaws dropped to the ground, and fell silent.
“He asked if you’re hungry.”
“I am.”
“Then let’s go get beggar’s chicken.”
She was just a blade of grass. Really.
She just didn’t know why trouble broke out wherever she went.
