When the morning mist was dyed pale gold by the first rays of sunlight, Chen An startled awake beside the stone table.
The last handful of firewood in the hearth had burned away, leaving only pale gray ashes scattered across the floor. Yet beneath that thick layer of ash, a faint, stubborn warmth still lingered, like a tenderness deep within the earth that refused to disperse. Chen An's gaze passed over the remaining heat and instinctively—almost holding his breath—turned toward the old straw mat in the corner.
The large black dog still maintained the position he had carefully arranged for it the night before, curled up heavily like a mass of frozen darkness.
Its body was almost entirely wrapped in thick, softly tanned deerskin bandages. Its hind legs and abdomen were especially tightly bound, with only a little dark fur showing through the gaps.
Even so, the dark traces of herbal medicine could still be seen, giving off a faint, bitter yet refreshing medicinal scent.
What tightened Chen An's heartstrings the most was the rise and fall of its chest.
Last night, that movement had been as faint as a guttering candle in the wind, like a deep pool rippling almost imperceptibly after a stone was tossed into it.
It had seemed as though it would fall silent at any moment. But now, in the dim light mixed with dust motes that filtered through the cracks in the wooden window, he could clearly see it.
The bandaged chest rose and fell, its rhythm slow yet exceptionally steady and powerful, like the long, tireless breathing along the shore after the tide receded beneath the moon.
It carried the exhaustion of having survived a disaster, as well as the resilient recovery inherent to life itself.
He approached on tiptoe and crouched down to observe. A faint herbal scent seeped through the gaps in the bandages, mingling with the dry smell of wood ash.
Dark-red scabs had formed around the edges of the fatal puncture wound in its neck. The translucent layer of flesh covering the wound was slightly thicker than the night before, like moss quietly growing beneath a layer of ice.
"Self-healing is accelerating..." Chen An hurriedly wrote in the Hide Notebook, then paused and added another line: "Energy must be replenished to maintain the metabolic rate."
He turned and walked toward the kitchen.
The coarse earthenware pot had been firmly set over the rekindled hearth, filled with clear well water.
The flames licked at it until strings of tiny bubbles rose from the bottom, producing a gentle, lively gurgling sound as steam billowed upward.
Chen An turned and took a dark-red piece of dried smoked Green Mane Beast meat from the hide pouch hanging on the wall. Its grain was clearly visible.
The jerky was hard and dry, giving off a rich smoky aroma and the salty fragrance of time.
He placed it on a flat green stone, gripped the stone knife he had used for many years—its edge worn smooth and comfortable in his hand—and began cutting forcefully, stroke after stroke.
The blade scraped against the fibers of the jerky with solid, thudding sounds until he chopped it into evenly sized, fine pieces.
Next, he opened a small bundle carefully wrapped in broad leaves. Inside was the dried rhizome of Solomon's seal that he had prepared earlier and ground into pale-yellow powder.
He pinched up a small amount with his fingertips. The powder was dry and fine. Then he grabbed a handful of washed, water-dappled tender wild greens from the pottery bowl beside him. The leaves were a vivid green, exuding the fresh air of the mountains and wilderness.
He dropped the minced meat, Solomon's seal powder, and wild greens into the already boiling earthenware pot in turn.
The minced meat rolled in the boiling water, while the fragrance of oil and the sweetness of Solomon's seal mingled with the fresh scent of the greens and spread through the air.
When the meat broth thickened, Chen An scooped up half a spoonful, blew on it to cool it, and brought it close to the black dog's lips.
Just then, the mass of blackness on the straw mat moved ever so slightly.
That perpetually damp, cool black nose suddenly began twitching rapidly in its sleep.
Its small nostrils opened and closed quickly, as if the keenest of hunters were desperately trying to capture some invisible signal in the air. Each contraction carried an urgent yet feeble tremor.
Its brown-black pupils were unfocused, like dust-clouded glass, reflecting the rising steam.
Chen An carefully brought the wooden spoon filled with warm minced-meat porridge closer. When the cool rim of the spoon had just touched those dry lips, the silent black dog seemed to have been awakened by that familiar sensation, stirring some deeply buried instinct.
It did not open its eyes at once, keeping its eyelids wearily shut, but a pink tongue marked with fine cracks instinctively and sluggishly extended.
The tip of its tongue first touched the food in the spoon ever so lightly, probing through its grogginess, as if confirming whether this sudden warmth was an illusion or reality.
Once, twice. Then it began to lick slowly, in a weak yet stubborn rhythm.
The rice broth mixed with minced meat moistened its tongue. It paused for a moment, as if confirming that it was safe, then began swallowing in small mouthfuls. Each swallow tugged at the wound in its neck, making its body tremble faintly, but it did not stop.
Chen An continued scooping up the broth, moving extremely slowly.
He held the wooden spoon and maintained his feeding posture, but his gaze was suddenly drawn to the strange phenomenon drifting across the surface of the soup.
Within the swirling steam, countless minuscule pale-golden specks rose and sank, like dust steeped in the morning light, or fireflies awakening in a summer-night forest. They drifted languidly with every slight movement of the soup.
Under the nourishment of spiritual energy, the layer of flesh at the wound in its throat shimmered with extremely faint silver patterns, flickering like starlight.
When the last spoonful of warm broth had been carefully fed to it, the pottery bowl was finally empty.
Chen An gently set the bowl down, his softened gaze settling on the black dog's face.
He saw that some residue had dampened the dark fur at the corners of its mouth, leaving dark stains, while a few tiny bits of minced meat clung to its lips.
He reached over and took a piece of hide he had prepared earlier—exceptionally soft.
Pinching the edge of the cloth between his fingertips, he began wiping it, his movements as gentle as brushing across a morning spiderweb.
He first carefully pressed the hide against the corners of its mouth to absorb the excess broth. Then, with the lightest touch, he wiped back and forth along the outline of its lips, ensuring that no stains remained and never tugging at any pain it might be suffering.
Throughout the process, the black dog's throat produced an almost inaudible, satisfied hum. Its body remained relaxed against the straw mat, silently allowing and enjoying this considerate care.
The black dog's eyes drooped shut in exhaustion, but its breathing had grown longer and steadier than before. Just as he was preparing to stand, its bandage-wrapped forepaw suddenly lifted a few inches, its claws trembling faintly as they came to rest on the back of his hand.
A rough, warm sensation reached him, and Chen An froze where he was. The black dog did not open its eyes, but a long whine spilled from its throat, its final note trailing away like a sigh.
Immediately afterward, its moist, soft tongue gently licked the scrape on the knuckle of his index finger—the old wound he had gotten when dragging it yesterday, when a shard of stone had cut him. The warm, rough sensation was clumsy yet gentle, like the most primitive form of healing.
Morning light filtered through the cracks in the window and cast mottled patches of brightness across the straw mat. Chen An turned his hand over and gently covered the black dog's paw pad, feeling a faint yet resolute pulse beating against his palm.
"Stay alive," he murmured. "In the Primordial Wilderness, even a mouthful of hot broth is a spark of life."
(The End of This Chapter)
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