The stone cave was pitch-dark, though a few steps away, there was daylight, yet it never managed to shine inside. Instead, thin wisps of gray-white mist drifted out from the cracks.
In a moment, as if finding just the right spot, the mist swirled and settled.
Slowly, a blob of milky-white fluff appeared, ephemeral at first, able to slip through stone and walls, drifting wherever it pleased along cracks and crevices, yet as it rolled around, it bounced upon the rock wall and was sent tumbling back.
After a while, a little, aggrieved pink-and-white tail poked out from the ball of fluff.
Then came small, spindly paws and bent, short hind legs.
Still lying belly-up, the fluffy ball kicked over with a swift thrust of its legs, flipping itself nimbly right-side up. Its pink-white, soft nose started sniffing left and right, little black-bean eyes darting about alertly, long whiskers twitching.
The spiritual energy was so rich here that not a blade of grass grew. The milk-ball explored the cave for a bit, rubbing its empty belly with tiny claws, then glanced cautiously outside.
Trembling with nervousness, it finally let curiosity and hunger draw it slowly toward the entrance.
—A breeze ruffled its soft fur, carrying the scent of distant grass and earth, and a faint hint of flowers.
So fragrant! Sweet, sweet fragrance.
A smell it had never known before; even its stomach began to rumble.
The milk-ball couldn’t help edging closer.
It didn’t dare go out, but just sniffing—surely that wasn’t too risky?
It closed its eyes in delight when suddenly, a pair of hands appeared in the entrance and scooped it out.
Caught off guard, the milk-ball struggled in panic, its squishy little body about to dissolve back into mist and vanish.
“Little rascal, you sure know how to hide!”
But the mist was forcibly kneaded back to solid form, leaving the milk-ball sitting in dumb confusion in Meng Qi’s palm, nowhere to run.
“No matter how well you guard against thieves, you can’t prevent a house thief—looks to me like you’re a little crook.” Meng Qi pinched the milk-ball, both exasperated and amused.
After all these years, the little dragon vein Meng Qi and Mo Li had hidden away on Longjiao Peak of Shangyun Mountain finally shaped up and awakened consciousness.
By human standards, this would be Meng Qi’s own-blooded younger brother, but raising it still took all the trouble and care of a son.
That wasn’t even the most troublesome part—the main problem was, last time the Taijing little dragon vein awakened, it met disaster. Now it was as jumpy as a startled bird, hiding all around Shangyun’s nineteen peaks, always on the run at the slightest disturbance, faster than even Feihe’s fat sparrow.
At least the sparrow had wings; this little thing…
Meng Qi couldn’t help but laugh. Not even a shadow to catch, barely even a single tuft of fur.
Shangyun Mountain was vast; tracking it down was nearly impossible.
Whatever notion had been planted in the milk-ball’s mind, as soon as it sensed Meng Qi, it ran like a freeloading fool trying to skip on rent—no catching it, no reasoning with it, Meng Qi was helpless. In the end, he let it roam wild.
This year, calculating that its form was finally stable enough to grab, Meng Qi came back.
—If he didn’t, this elusive thing might cause a stir popping up somewhere.
That wouldn’t do; this wasn’t hundreds of years ago, when even the wildest rumors couldn’t hurt.
Times were different now—no one believed in monsters or spirits. The milk-ball would be taken for a new species, sampled, tagged with a tracking device, and studied to find its kin.
A “native dragon vein population” with only two gerbils on the whole mountain? One minute on Longjiao Peak, the next vanished—it could even lose an implanted signal transmitter?
Shangyun Mountain already had an imperial tombs research institute and an ecology protection bureau; heaven forbid it became a mysterious lifeform observation base.
So Meng Qi resolved to bring the little dragon vein home to teach before it attracted the wrong notice.
All things have their patterns; the milk-ball was no exception. However many tricks it had, eventually it followed habits. Meng Qi weighed things up, timed it carefully, then lay in wait for his “prey.”
The bait was fresh-baked osmanthus cake from an old Taijing brand—an honest-to-goodness six-hundred-year heritage, and for some reason, this year it had gone viral online: endless queues that even the well-travelled Meng Qi was taken aback.
Men die for wealth, mice for cake.
Let’s see if a fragrant, sweet osmanthus cake won’t lure out the little dragon vein.
“Run again, will you.”
The milk-ball shrank in fear and didn’t make a sound.
Seeing it like this, Meng Qi remembered the past and couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry.
His fingers, gently stroking the little dragon vein, carried a trace of spiritual energy; the milk-ball, startled, instinctively snuggled closer.
It was at a stage where it needed lots of spiritual energy, and instinctively felt unease toward Meng Qi—like sneaking food from someone else’s granary, naturally guilty.
Watching the little thing lean drowsily in his hand, Meng Qi knew he should give it time.
Enlightenment was never easy.
Three centuries had passed, and even the tree on Silang Mountain had yet to wake up.
Millennia might pass for the world, but for an unshaped dragon vein, it was little change at all.
Shangyun’s little dragon vein at least had all conditions met, abundant spiritual energy, and had simmered for three whole centuries.
“Once you finish shaping, I’ll send you to school.”
Meng Qi pinched the milk-ball, thinking, if only you hadn’t run, and had joined him and A-Li, you’d have shaped up long ago.
Fine, run for years—see how many volumes of standardized test prep you owe.
***
Days and nights passed, spring after autumn.
Mud huts slowly turned to brick houses, people changed wave after wave, and even the name “Zhushan County” in Pingzhou morphed several times, until new buildings sprang up, ugly gray walls and blue cotton coats disappeared from the streets, as if someone had repainted the city with watercolours.
For hundreds—indeed, thousands—of years, such vivid colors had never been seen.
Walls could now be painted sky blue, and buildings topped with transparent glass domes.
When night fell, neon lights bathed the market stalls; lamb skewers were lined up, grasped tight and turned over hot coals, showered with cumin and chilli powder until golden as the fire glistened with rendered fat.
Next stall over, a panful of secret sauce hit the iron plate, white smoke rising as a heady scent of onion and squid rolled down the street.
“Achoo.”
The milk-ball was stunned, rolling right over and diving into Meng Qi’s pocket, butt in the air, refusing to come out.
—Worldly smoke and fire were just too much to take.
Even Meng Qi felt a bit embarrassed—what kind of dragon vein was scared of onions?
The car was parked near the entrance to the night market. Though it wasn’t fast, no one now practiced martial arts; running along rooftops was legend, climbing trees for fitness didn’t require ladders, but running faster than a car would make the news.
“Professor Meng, welcome back!”
Someone greeted him. Meng Qi looked like a nondescript man in his forties, in a plain gray jacket, wearing clear glasses—his looks drew too much attention, so he did his best to disguise it. If he could get away with it, he’d wear an old-fashioned tunic and straw hat.
No help for it; in these times, a person’s photo could be snapped anywhere.
He already tried so hard, yet someone still pressed a business card on him: interested in showbiz? Would they ever quit, so long as he didn’t grow a white beard?
Disgruntled, Meng Qi could no longer transform from eighteen to eighty overnight; he had to keep aging day by day under his “identity,” and couldn’t throw tantrums—such as leaping half a mile in joy or leaving deep thumbprints in coins.
A muscular professor of archaeology could be explained as often digging and protecting tombs outdoors, not caring about dress. Even driving from Shangyun Mountain back to Qimao, he had to take the highway and pass toll booths.
Otherwise, how to explain his phone pinging from four hundred li away overnight? Shutting it off wouldn’t do—if you didn’t fly or ride a train, and even driving posed speed-trap questions. If you had no car, how did you get back? It might not unravel unless someone checked, but if they did, it was full of holes.
Meng Qi had chosen his “professor” title wisely.
Not that his degree was fake—more that the “achievements” part had been played with.
Everyone knew his “encyclopedic” persona, a bookworm who avoided society (Meng Qi: it’s exhausting), just finding clues to tombs through old texts, leading digs and protections—especially around Shangyun, where he’d “discovered” more than a dozen emperors’ and ministers’ tombs (Meng Qi: finally got all those old ghosts to move out).
Qimao Mountain was now a famous white fox preserve—no one knew why they were so plentiful. Scientists swore, “Two or three hundred years ago, all the northern white foxes migrated here, forming a new group.”
Thanks to the fox legends, a film base and tourism zone developed nearby.
Qimao’s housing was still affordable, but near Shangyun, prices skyrocketed.
He could have just sold some old relics from his birth home and bought not just an apartment but a villa—but no, he’d gotten attached to this identity. Simpler not to complicate matters; being an archaeology professor or medical dean, the government still assigned housing, so he didn’t worry about finding a home in the old capital near Shangyun or affording a place in this small city.
Making his way through the bustling night market with its smoky aroma, Meng Qi strolled into a residential complex.
He took the elevator up, shoving the milk-ball back down as it peeped out—it was being filmed in there.
The moment he got inside, Meng Qi swung the door shut with his foot.
He took off his glasses and immediately changed.
—Still, home was best; age could be anything he wanted.
“This little rascal, still so much trouble.”
Meng Qi met Mo Li’s gaze—Mo Li having just stood up. Plopping the dazed milk-ball on the coffee table, Meng Qi dragged Mo Li right down onto the sofa.
Mo Li couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be forty at home, wearing a belted, long sleeping robe; with the curtains pulled, it looked like a scene out of three hundred years ago, though now, unlike back then, there weren’t any underclothes beneath the robe.
“The little dragon vein is watching.”
“If it can understand this, it’s ready to learn to read.”
Meng Qi had been after the milk-ball for a month and hadn’t seen Mo Li’s face once. Though they’d spent longer apart before, with time meaning little to dragon veins, he always had to get his fill of hugging and biting Mo Li whenever he was back.
The milk-ball nervously shuffled a couple of steps, then—whoosh!—on the slick coffee table, flipped right over onto its back.
Trying to get up and run, it slipped again, paws to the ceiling; third time, it crashed right into the remote, turning on the LCD screen with a flash, sending the milk-ball jumping in fright, its round belly and startled little eyes fully on display.
Yet no matter how high it jumped, it only fell back on the table, skidding like on an ice rink till it tumbled clear off, finally landing head-down beside Mo Li on the sofa.
Mo Li: “…”
Meng Qi: “…”
Clearly, the little dragon vein wasn’t smart.
Mo Li turned a slow, thoughtful gaze on Meng Qi, as if pondering whether Taijing’s first dragon vein was so clever that the second was under-endowed.
Meng Qi felt a twinge of unease—what if Mo Li found a rounder, smaller gerbil even cuter than him?
He snatched up the milk-ball and stuffed it in his pocket, solemnly announcing: “I’ll teach it properly.”
Author’s note:
One size up, the adult gerbil glares menacingly at the quivering milk-ball: You, you shame Shangyun Mountain!
