In the depths of the quiet bamboo forest, amidst the secluded Zen rooms, Tao Qian was witnessing a very peculiar eating scene.
Despite his bizarre appearance, the green-haired youth Shan Jiu, who was cute by some standards, was now smiling broadly with shimmering saliva streaming down his cheeks.
Between the narrow slits of his eyes, a dismal green light spilled out, casting the Zen room in an eerie glow akin to a haunted house.
Then, from beneath his emerald Daoist robe, there came a rustling sound as tender, fresh, snow-white whiskers, emitting the fragrance of soil and grass, wriggled and surged forth. They were densely packed, exuding a formidable vital essence that made Tao Qian envious.
These fine whiskers split into three groups, and the first to suffer was the big cow thigh. The devil meat, tough enough that only a Magical Treasure could harm it, was pierced as easily as tofu when the tender whiskers stabbed into it.