24 Wild Tiger

Amidst the chaos of war, bandits swept through like combs, soldiers like razors, and refugees suffered immeasurably. Just one day after leaving the fortress, scouts from a bandit gang began trailing their group.

Mo Wen and Litte Hong were the first to notice one such scout. If not for the horse he rode, the scout—dressed in ragged clothes—would have been indistinguishable from the refugees.

"Be careful. We've been marked by the bandits!" Litte Hong anxiously glanced back, his legs instinctively steering him toward the underbrush, trying to escape the watchful eyes of the scouts.

Mo Wen also noticed the figure trailing far behind. A sense of dread welled up in his chest—it was like spotting a cockroach, knowing full well there must be a nest nearby. However, the two of them were too weak to resist. Continuing with the refugee group would surely lead to disaster.

So, they veered away from their destination, retreating into the desolate mountains. The wilderness was rife with poisonous insects and wild beasts, and most who ventured into the mountains became prey. But the two young men pressed on resolutely. What more did they have to lose?

"What could these bandits possibly gain from the refugees, who have nothing left?" Litte Hong asked in frustration. "Do they even need to snatch away their last sliver of hope?"

"These bandits were refugees just days ago," Mo Wen explained. "When they couldn't survive, they turned to banditry. Perhaps they need others to join them, so their own fear and unease feel smaller by comparison."

"Ugh, it's all this cursed era's fault!"

"Yes, in times like these, no one can escape unscathed," Mo Wen replied with a sigh.

Litte Hong didn't quite grasp Mo Wen's sentiment and instead focused on finding a path. Their clothes soon became tattered, and their feet bloodied from the arduous trek. Two days after their departure, plumes of thick smoke rose from the direction of the refugee group they had left behind.

In the mountains, getting lost was the greatest danger. Wandering aimlessly, they soon lost their way. As night fell, they found a hollow tree to take shelter in, gathering dry branches and leaves to start a fire.

"Do you know how to start a fire?"

"I'm the king of the wilderness! Watch me make fire by friction!" Mo Wen, having watched countless survival videos, confidently began rubbing sticks together. Hours later, his hands were sore, and all he had achieved were faint wisps of smoke. Litte Hong shook his head, pulled out two white stones from his pouch, and struck them together over dry grass. Sparks flew, and a fire was quickly ignited.

Mo Wen stared at him in disbelief, then angrily exclaimed, "You had fire-starting tools all along and still made me struggle like that?!"

Litte Hong shrugged. "I just wanted you to know who the real king of the wilderness is."

Mo Wen gritted his teeth, seething.

Though warmed by the fire, they now faced a new problem—food. Litte Hong tried nibbling on leaves, spat them out, then roasted grass roots over the fire. He even sampled a mushroom, which caused him to dance wildly around the fire for half the night.

Mo Wen sighed, crafting a makeshift stove with stones and a flat rock, roasting anything edible they could find. Over time, they grew bolder—raiding ant nests for larvae, savoring the crunchy texture of ants with swollen abdomens, and even roasting palm-sized spiders. The aroma of the roasted spiders wafted through the air, and after much hesitation, Mo Wen took the first bite, prompting Litte Hong to finally muster the courage to try one too.

Litte Hong rarely spoke but was always steadfast, silently taking the lead in dangerous situations. His actions revealed his unspoken camaraderie, and Mo Wen deeply admired the stubborn yet reliable youth.

The unfamiliar forest was full of unforeseen dangers. One morning, Mo Wen woke to find Litte Hong looking pale and weak. When Litte Hong stepped out of the tree hollow, Mo Wen noticed tiny slug-like creatures scattered on the leaves where he had slept. Assuming they were just forest pests, he swept them away without much thought.

The next day, Litte Hong developed a high fever, and when Mo Wen examined him, he discovered the creatures from before—now winged—crawling in dense clusters across Litte Hong's legs. The sight made Mo Wen's scalp tingle.

He dragged Litte Hong to a nearby stream and scrubbed him clean with tree branches. Though he managed to remove the insects, the damage was done—Litte Hong's legs were covered in red sores. With no knowledge of medicine, Mo Wen could only clean the wounds daily. Litte Hong fought through the illness for a week, emerging frailer than ever.

Resuming their journey, the duo avoided dense forests, following a stream deeper into the mountains. One day, Litte Hong suddenly pulled Mo Wen down, his expression grave as he gestured ahead.

"What is it?" Mo Wen whispered, trying to hide his unease.

Litte Hong pointed silently. Following his gaze, Mo Wen froze—a tiger, its body striped and imposing, stood thirty meters away, its cold eyes fixed on them.

"Tiger…" Mo Wen murmured, his voice trembling.

"Shh!" Litte Hong silenced him with a sharp look, his own expression colder than the tiger's. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. It's watching us."

"What do we do?" Mo Wen whispered, his legs trembling.

"Back away slowly. Face it at all times. No sudden movements," Litte Hong instructed.

Step by step, they retreated, the tension palpable. After what felt like an eternity, the tiger lost interest, turning and striding into the forest.

Just as they breathed a sigh of relief, a landslide suddenly blocked the path ahead. Rocks and debris tumbled violently, leaving the duo stunned.

If not for the tiger delaying them, they would have been crushed under the landslide. Mo Wen's mind raced. Was this pure coincidence? Or was the tiger some sort of guardian in disguise?

Far away, he glimpsed the tiger's figure once more, its gaze lingering briefly before disappearing into the forest depths.