Chapter 24: Tenderness Also Bears Coldness

The monkey hurried toward Black Curtain City, his wide silk robe billowing behind him. A gentleman does not stand beneath a crumbling wall; a scoundrel flees as far as he can. The monkey was undoubtedly a scoundrel, inside and out, through and through. Seeking profit and avoiding harm, rushing toward light and prosperity—was that not human nature? Thus, he ran swiftly, driven as if whipped by some unseen force.

Boss Dao had become a madman, or perhaps he had always been one. What sane person locks himself away all day, never venturing outside, neither eating nor drinking? Occasionally, a trace of fresh red would slip from the corner of his mouth, unwittingly revealing a peculiar taste.

Boss Dao never demanded the monkey report on his work or mission progress, yet the monkey made the journey every month without fail.

“To serve one’s lord faithfully, to share his burdens—even if you cannot truly share them, you must at least prove your readiness to bear them.” Though the monkey did not know these words, he understood their meaning well.

Those without formal education often grasp life’s truths more deeply than the learned. The scholar reads of wisdom in books, but the unlettered learn from bitter experience. For them, if understanding does not come swiftly, it may never come at all. Not that the unlearned are superior—scholars may know a thousand truths, while the unlearned may grasp only one before their lives pass.

Many years ago, when the monkey was still a child, his childhood could be summed up in three words: cold, hunger, and beatings. His clearest memory of parents was that if he dared beat a child with parents, he would be punished severely. But if a child with parents beat him, he could only find a lonely corner to weep.

Small children harbor grand dreams. At times, he would hear the booming voice of a storyteller from afar and secretly imagine that someday, like the heroes in those tales, he might be taken as a disciple by a wandering sage and rise to become a revered cultivator. But perhaps such wandering sages were too few, or the realm of immortals too crowded—he was never noticed.

Years passed—how many, no one knew, not even the monkey himself. Perhaps he was in his twenties or thirties. Slowly, he came to understand three things.

First, cultivation was a dream he could not even dare imagine. Second, he had hoped that when he grew up, he could avenge the torment he suffered as a child—but he could not. Many who had bullied him had perished in some harsh winter or stormy night, while the rest had grown older, even larger than him.

Third, he was eating more and more. The first two truths could be swallowed and borne as distant hopes, but the third was unbearable. As an outer member of the Fierce Tiger Gang, hunger was common but death from starvation was not. Yet with the new boss, who fancied himself the sole thinker and relegated others to mere muscle, the clever tasks went to the stronger, leaving the weak monkey to starve on the fringes of the fringes.

The monkey did not want to die, so he went without hesitation, even if only a sliver of hope remained, even if that hope was the blood-drinking madman Boss Dao. He cherished this new life, and though every visit filled him with dread and haunted his dreams for days, he still went every month.

The place was a gathering spot, more than ten miles from Black Curtain City, scattered with a dozen or so houses. The owners were respectable freelancers from the city, but when Boss Dao arrived, he claimed sole ownership, and none dared oppose him. Yet due to his strange habits, few guests ever came.

The monkey adjusted his robe, glanced at the tattoo on his arm, and inhaled deeply. As he stepped into the courtyard, a chill crept from his feet to his head, as if the air itself had turned cold. Silence engulfed the surroundings.

Sure enough, the door was tightly shut. The monkey hadn’t seen Boss Dao leave in over six months. Inside, Boss Dao was either seated at the center of the room, back turned to the door, gesturing at empty air as if wielding invisible weapons, or he dwelled in the deepest darkness, where only two faint red dots—his eyes—flickered.

Such a man—was he not mad?

The monkey knocked thrice softly, then entered, as Boss Dao had permitted him to do since the monkey had presented him with a valuable treasure. Still, the monkey always knocked first out of habit. This time, no one was visible except the two glowing red eyes.

The monkey first reported that he had found nothing of value, but Boss Dao showed no surprise, no anger—silent as always, as if asking him to fish for needles in a vast sea by luck alone. Then the monkey recited the information he deemed important. Though Boss Dao never uttered a word in response, the monkey persisted, unwilling to be useless.

Usually, after the monkey finished, Boss Dao would grunt, signaling he could leave. But this time, the silence dragged on, and the red eyes vanished. Fear crept over the monkey’s heart.

After a long while, a harsh, raspy birdcall pierced the silence. Gritting his teeth, the monkey said, “What kind of bird is that? It’s awful to hear. Boss, I’ll go catch one for you to eat!” He tried to break the tense stillness.

No sooner had he spoken than a tremendous force struck his stomach, and he collapsed, helpless. Opening his eyes, he found Boss Dao standing before him, expressionless, eyes void of color. In that moment, the monkey felt death’s shadow loom.

“One red pill a day, one black pill every seven days. When you finish them, come find me.” Boss Dao said coldly, extending a handful of pills.

The hand was pale, almost ghostly. At once, the monkey knew this man was no ordinary mortal—he was a cultivator. Yet cultivation did not guarantee nobility; to ordinary folk, it inspired both envy and dread.

Shaking, the monkey took the pills. A metallic, bloody scent filled his nostrils.

“If you don’t take them, you die.” As if to prove this, the tattoo of a raven on the monkey’s arm grew icy cold. A piercing chill spread numbness through his body, while Boss Dao continued to watch. Long moments passed before the monkey slowly recovered.

He stood, bowed respectfully, and said, “I remember.” There was little resentment in his voice; on the contrary, he felt gratitude toward Boss Dao. He did not ask what the pills were, for he had no choice but to swallow them.

Stepping outside, he slowly closed the door. Just as the door was nearly shut, the monkey glimpsed Boss Dao’s face contort in agony. Layers of shadows flickered, forming the shape of a raven—terrifying beyond words. Then came that harsh, grating birdcall once more, echoing through the night.