Bored with Bores That are Hunting Boars

Chengyu's consciousness fluttered open like a moth in the dark, guided by the gentle shaking of Xiuqin standing at his bedside. The room was dimly lit by the lambent glow of dawn seeping through the paper windows, casting soft shadows on the wooden furniture.

"Chengyu," Xiuqin's voice was calm, yet it carried an urgency that roused him fully. "You must rise now. A hunting party awaits and you are to join them."

He sat up, a tangle of sleep and confusion. "Hunting party?" Chengyu, of all people? Chengyu, who many witnessed climb out of a well and be dragged through the streets toward the palace? They wanted that Chengyu to go hunting? Surely, the village had a plethora of other eager young men. This young man was barely wrapping his head around the situation he found himself in.

"Here," she said, handing him a bundle of clothes with brisk efficiency. "These should fit you well enough."

The fabric felt foreign as he slipped into the garments, which hugged his limbs a bit too snugly. While he wasn't tall by modern standards, by ancient ones, he was several centimeters above the average male height. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bronze mirror Xiuqin kept near a shelf. The attire transformed him, accentuating a frame more accustomed to school uniforms than the tight-fitted hunting gear. On anyone else in this world, it would've accentuated a body chiseled by the lifelong struggle for survival, but on Chengyu, it revealed his skinny wrists and long, lanky limbs.

Stepping out from behind the curtain, Chengyu cleared his throat and awkwardly presented.

Xiuqin appraised him with a tilt of her head. "You clean up quite handsome, Chengyu."

"Handsome…" he echoed, the word feeling out of place. In his mind's eye, he saw the smirking faces of girls from his school, their teasing words a sharp contrast to Xiuqin's earnestness.

Calling his attention back to the present, Xiuqin held out a worn satchel. "Keep this with you. It might prove useful," she advised with a knowing look.

"Thank you," he managed, still grappling with his new appearance, the way he looked so utterly out of place. "But why am I being sent on this hunt? Is this another of Lord Hongli's tests?"

"Master Hongli wishes to see what you're made of," Xiuqin answered. As if saving his daughter wasn't enough! Chengyu supposed a noble's intentions could never be gauged. "Head to the western trail when you're ready."

Briefly, he questioned her use of the title; she hadn't called him Lord like the others. What set her apart? It probably was of no relevance, so Chengyu quickly shook the thought away.

"Western trail," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, a thread of reluctance woven through.

With a nod, he stepped outside, the morning chill nipping at his exposed skin. His feet carried him through the city's darkened alleys, the ancient architecture looming over him like silent sentinels. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze, casting dancing lights upon the cobblestone pathway.

"Chengyu!" A cheerful voice cut through the quiet. Xiangcui emerged from the shadowed doorway of a nearby house, her smile as bright as the rising sun.

"Miss Xiangcui," he greeted, a small relief blooming within him.

"Just Xiangcui is fine." she said. "Those clothes—" she began, eyes widening slightly. "They belong to Lady Xiuqin's son, don't they?"

"Ah, I guess that's where they ought to have come from," he admitted, suddenly self-conscious. "They were all that was available."

"Strange times we live in," she mused, stepping closer. Her gaze held a mixture of surprise and warmth, making the corner of Chengyu's mouth twitch upwards involuntarily.

"Before you go, would you walk me to the western trail?" he asked, seeking the comfort of familiarity before facing the unknown. He didn't even know which way west was, but Xiangcui had a better chance of knowing.

"Of course," Xiangcui replied, falling into step beside him. Their shadows intertwined on the walls, companions in the half-light of the transitioning day.

As they walked, Chengyu pondered the path ahead, each step a silent question to the fates that had drawn him from one world to another. What lay hidden in the woods that required his presence? And what would this new test reveal about the man he was yet to become?

***

The edge of the village greeted Chengyu with a brusque caress of morning air, and the burly men assembled there seemed like ancient pines—stoic, unyielding, and imposing. Xiangcui's presence was a tender leaf against their bark as she offered him an encouraging nod before departing, but her presence, no matter how brief, did not remain unnoticed by the gang of burly men.

"Look at this one," guffawed a man with arms as thick as the trunks they leaned upon, pointing at Chengyu with a bow that seemed to mock him by its very existence. "Pretty enough for the maidens but can he loose an arrow straight?"

Chengyu's fingers grazed the unfamiliar fabric of his borrowed tunic; he felt the tug of seams too tight, constricting like the expectations around him. He reached for the bow, his grip uncertain—a fledgling's first awkward flap towards flight.

"Let's see you draw it, young master," another teased, the laughter in his voice blooming like a thorny bush.

The string resisted, a silent testament to Chengyu's struggle. He managed a half-drawn arc before releasing it into an anticlimactic twang, his cheeks warming not from exertion but embarrassment. Trying again, he repositioned the bow. This time, he pulled back with too much force and sent an arrow dangerously close to someone's fee. Sighing, he turned it over to its owner. There was a certain dichotomy of power and grace that he had yet to master. 

"Better stick to your plants, Little Apothecary," the first man chortled, and the others joined in hearty agreement as they turned toward the woods, their backs a moving wall of mockery as they trudged into the underbrush, pushing branches out of the way and letting them snap back, hitting Chengyu across the face.

Grumbling, Chengyu stomped along, soon growing out of breath. Back home, he had always been one for walking. Shanghai was practically made for such, and he'd spent most of his first month there wandering, futilely trying to imprint the map of the city into his senses, almost as if knowing all these places would have made him belong. However, he had never had to venture up steep inclines with even more obstacles. Even worse was the sense that those he was walking alongside would gladly leave him behind.

Within the embrace of the forest, Chengyu's senses awakened to the symphony of life around him. Leaves whispered secrets as the hunters moved with a purpose he could not mirror. His legs grew heavy, each step an anchor dragging through the underbrush.

"Watch and learn, boy," one hunter called out as he let an arrow fly, its flight a swift punctuation between the trees. A sparrow fell, and the men cheered, their camaraderie a language Chengyu could hear but not speak.

A rustle to his right, and the party shifted, bows rising in anticipation. There was a moment of suspense, a communal intake of breath before the release—and then a hog, large and indignant, crashed through the foliage. The dance of arrows and nature unfolded, leaving the creature still and the men triumphant.

Chengyu's hand found the satchel at his side, its weight a reminder of Xiuqin's faith in him—a faith he couldn't fathom. He withdrew his journal, its pages blank and inviting. As the men reveled in their conquest, Chengyu sought solace in the quiet company of paper and ink.

His sketches began as timid strokes, growing bolder with each line—an attempt to capture the chaotic beauty of the woods that had no need for his prowess as a hunter. A sparrow mid-flight, wings etched with hope; the curve of a fallen leaf, its edges telling of a life lived. With each drawing, he carved a space where he belonged, away from the jeers and the jibes, in a world that asked for nothing more than observation and reflection.

"Hey, what are you doing there?" one of the hunters called out, peering over Chengyu's shoulder with a blend of curiosity and disdain.

"Preserving a different kind of trophy," Chengyu replied, his voice steady as he met the man's gaze.

"Ha!" the hunter barked, turning back to his companions. "Our young master is an artist!"

And as they laughed, Chengyu sketched on, his heart finding rhythm in the scratch of pen against paper, a silent hunt for meaning amidst the wilds of a world not his own.

Suddenly, Chenyu shivered. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him as he sketched in his journal, the air thick with the musk of damp earth and the metallic tang of blood from the hunters' fresh kills.

The woods, once a sanctuary of verdant whispers and rustling leaves, now bore an unsettling silence.

"Watch out!" The urgent shout shattered the hush, followed by a cacophony of alarmed voices. Chengyu's hand jerked, a line streaking across the paper like a bolt of lightning. He snapped the book shut and looked up to find chaos unfurling among the trees.

"Lin Hu!" someone screamed. Chengyu's gaze darted toward the source—a burly man who moments ago had been boasting about his aim—now thrashing wildly as if gripped by invisible hands.

"Something's got him!" one hunter exclaimed, stumbling backwards, his bow clattering to the ground.

"Get back! Give him space!" another cried out, trying to maintain order amidst the panic.

Chengyu stood frozen, watching as Lin Hu's eyes rolled back to reveal whites veined with crimson. His limbs moved with a jerky, unnatural rhythm, as though he were a marionette dancing to the tune of some malevolent puppeteer.

"Woodland spirit," Chengyu whispered under his breath. He'd read about such entities in fairytales—spirits that guarded their sacred groves fiercely, possessing those who trespassed with their malevolence. What was it they desired? Respect? Offerings?

"Help me tie him down!" A pair of hunters attempted to subdue Lin Hu, their efforts futile against the strength that surged through his convulsing body.

"Use your satchel! Wind the straps around his hands!" one shouted at Chengyu, mistaking his bewilderment for hesitation.

"Right..." Chengyu muttered, clutching the satchel Xiuqin had given him earlier. But what could he possibly do with it?

As Lin Hu's cries morphed into guttural howls, Chengyu's mind raced. There was something... a ritual or a plea... something that could appease these spirits. He rifled through the memories of myths and legends, seeking a thread of wisdom that might unravel this curse.

"Stay away from the trees!" a hunter bellowed, his voice tinged with fear. "It's angry because we've taken too much!"

"Angry?" Chengyu echoed, his thoughts crystallizing. Yes, there was a way to communicate respect, to acknowledge the spirit's dominion over the forest.

"Young master!" It was yet another concerned voice calling through the tumult, using that ironic nickname.

Chengyu almost felt compelled to ignore him, but he had a duty now. But if he let more people get injured, Xiuqin would have more customers… Chengyu quickly shook the thought away.

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking," said Chengyu, his brows knitting together. The solution hovered just beyond his grasp, taunting him with its elusiveness.

"Thinking? Now's not the time for thinking!" the man retorted, his face pale as mottled light filtered through the branches.

"Or maybe it's exactly the time," Chengyu murmured. He remembered a tale where an offering was made, a pact sealed with the earth itself. But what offering could he give? His sketches? His presence?

The hunters formed a wide circle around Lin Hu, none daring to approach as the possessed man's motions grew increasingly frenetic, tearing at the very fabric of the peace they had so carelessly disrupted.

"Please," Chengyu found himself whispering, not sure to whom he spoke—the hunters, the spirit, or perhaps to the part of himself still tethered to a modern world where spirits and possessions belonged to the realm of fiction.

Lin Hu's flailing suddenly ceased, his body dropping to the forest floor with a thud that resonated within Chengyu's chest. Silence reclaimed the woods once more, a hush that felt like the calm before a storm.

A flicker of insight sparked within Chengyu's mind as he recalled the old stories. Yes, there was an idea forming—one that could bridge the gap between man and spirit, an act of humility that might restore harmony to the forest. But was he ready to take that step? To put faith in the mythologies of a world he was still learning to navigate?

"Chengyu, do something!" the man pleaded again, his eyes searching Chengyu's for an answer he wasn't certain he had.