High on a remote mountain lay a small, hidden patch of level ground.
Black Snake was busy clearing the branches that stretched over the Medicine Field, biting down on them, snapping them off, and tossing them away. He cleared them one by one, neither hurried nor impatient. While battle raged elsewhere, he busied himself tending the Medicine Field.
Hunting and eating were necessary for survival. Any fighting beyond that was meaningless. Ending a fight covered in wounds and wasting strength was foolish. Between heaven and earth, only one thing deserved his utmost effort: longevity.
Every step on the road to longevity was difficult, every inch bought through desperate effort. Who had the leisure to fight?
Black Snake worked very carefully. After tidying another patch of the Medicine Field, he wondered whether he had missed any.
Though his brain was a little better than before, he still could not remember too much. Some things grew hazy as the years passed.
He had no choice but to return to the cave.
There were charcoal drawings on the cave wall, crooked and uneven, drawn by his own hand, stroke by stroke, all those years ago.
Sure enough, one patch remained. He slithered out of the cave, checked his bearings, and headed toward that part of the Medicine Field. His black body appeared and disappeared among the trees before quickly vanishing into the depths of the dense forest.
His enormous body rolled over the grass beside a woodland stream, pressing a crooked trail through it. Grass stems snapped, releasing a raw, pungent smell.
A small cluster of heat hung in the sky overhead. It was a hawk, wings spread as it slowly traced circles through the clear sky after the rain.
Black Snake paid it no mind and did not even lift his head.