1Yue
Hunting Log #142:
They bleed black. They have no soul.
Ilike watching them. Humans.It’s a cheeky little pastime of mine.
Most stand alone, individualistic. Selfish. But I’ve seen what they can do—what great feats they can achieve together—if they feel so inclined. They remind me of ants, though I mean that as neither slight nor compliment. Merely an observation.
I’ve watched them build taller than any mountain, how they nourish the land to nourish themselves in turn. Music, poetry, art… I’ve seen them accomplish a great many things. It’s such a shame they’re always so busy fighting among themselves. They could have achieved godliness ten times over in the years I’ve been observing them. But they won’t have my pity.
There’s no sense in feeling sorry for my food.
I slink through the narrow streets, mindful of the intricate network of canals that section the city into neat square blocks. Longhao, they call it. The capital city of the Southern Kingdom of Jian.
A mouthful, if you ask me.
I round the corner, alert. The balance between predator and prey can shift in an instant. I may be the one on the prowl, but there’s nothing more fatalistic than believing yourself untouchable. It’s one of the many reasons why I work under the cover of night. There’s no better way to sneak up on my next meal.
The moon sits low and heavy amidst a bed of stars, its silver glow reflecting off the water’s surface in a silky shimmer. Paper lanterns hang over the walkway barricades, floating like lightning bugs over the sleepless city. Even at this late hour, the water markets buzz with activity. Vendors sit upon gently rocking longboats, their hulls half full of all manner of spices and vegetables and imported trinkets, haggling wildly to earn themselves an extra bronze piece before the day’s end.
There’s an art to it, I’ve noticed. Too aggressive, and the customer walks away. Too accommodating, and you’re taken for a fool. What a fun little game.
The sour smell of decay lingers in the thick, humid air; the sound of seabirds screeching not too far off from their precariously balanced nests wedged into every available nook and cranny. I don’t understand how the humans put up with the lack of elbow room. I’d sooner suffocate in this dark, watery pit they call home.
At the center of it all—a palace made entirely of jade.
Tall pillars carved of deep green stone, white veins swirling through like clouds. Even the tiles upon its roof are made of the precious mineral, the sharp points of the gable and hip structure accented in gold. Where I have only ever known the shelter of the underbrush, those within have their pick of whichever pavilion they so choose. It’s a bit much, if you ask me, but there’s no denying its magnificence. Especially when surrounded by the sprawling city of smaller wood buildings, all looking upon their jade neighbor with a mixture of jealousy and awe.
Upon the water, a group of young maidens blow kisses at anight watchman as they float by on their canopied boat, giggling sweetly when the man’s face turns a sheepish pink. He could be a tasty treat, I think, but one glance at the sharp dao tied to his hip gives me pause. I don’t mind a good fight—but only if I know I’ll win—and he looks much too strong for my liking. To make matters more complicated, he’s not alone, walking alongside two of his compatriots who appear just as heavily armed.
I move on, allowing my eyes to wander. Not all are ripe for the picking. The haggard old man begging near the moon bridge looks easy enough, but I find that men past fifty leave a strange aftertaste. Stale, more often than not. He has little meat on his bones to begin with, and I’d prefer something with more sustenance. Nobody stops to help when a quick-handed thief steals his small cup of tarnished coins and makes off into the night.
There’s a group of young boys playing near the water, seated on the stone edge of the canal, sending paper boats coated in wax sailing down the murky current. It would be a simple enough task to lure one of those tasty rabbits away, but I don’t harm children as a rule. Not because I have a bleeding heart, but because it isn’t worth the trouble. Humans lose their minds when a child goes missing, battening down their doors and hatches. I’d much rather not make future hunts more difficult.
Smarter to let them grow into larger meals, besides.
What I need is someone who won’t be missed, with enough meat on their bones to satisfy my belly, and whom I can easily overpower in a pinch.
“Quit yer naggin’, bitch!” a man slurs.
My sensitive nose can parse him from here, reeking of alcohol and the acidic trace of vomit. Picking up my pace, I sneak around the corner and find myself in a narrow alleyway, the path cutting through the block on a diagonal. He stands at the end, swaying foolishly from side to side as he takes another hefty swig of his ricewine. With thin, greasy hair, pock scars marring his cheeks, and yellow, rotten teeth, it would be fair to say that he possesses a face even his mother couldn’t love.
Soft orange light spills from a nearby doorway. His shanty home. It seems his family lives in relative squalor, judging by the filth and detritus piled on their stoop. Even the den I’ve made up for myself in the neighboring jungle boasts more space than this hovel carved of rotten wood.
A woman clings to the frame, a wailing babe at her breast. The lamb’s cheeks are covered in red patches, terrible boils, and bumps covering his skin. Its breaths come labored. I can smell the sickness creeping through its veins. I turn my attention to the woman next. Even in the inky dark, I can see it, my sight sharper than most. Her bruised eye is fresh, a violent red that will only darken in the coming hours. Bruises mark her throat, too. One does not require an impressive intellect to imagine how she came to sustain them.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she hisses, tears streaking her puffy cheeks. Snot drips from her swollen nose. Not exactly appetizing.
The drunkard pulls his hand back and the woman flinches. “Piss off. I’ll spend my evening however I damn please.”
“Always drinking our money away. I’d be better off without you, you worthless pig!”
He scoffs. It’s a wet, ugly sound from deep down in his throat. At his hip dangles a leather purse pregnant with coin, bronze pieces jingling with his clumsy steps. “Leave me alone, woman.”
“If you leave, you’d better not come back.”
“Fine!”
