Jun sensed something was wrong.


    “Father?” He tapped Zhen’s forehead, but there was no response. “Father? Father!”


    His voice grew louder, more desperate.


    Zhen didn’t move.


    Jun’s small hands trembled as he grabbed Zhen’s face, shaking him slightly. He pulled at his father’s hair, trying to get a reaction.


    But Nothing.


    Then, his eyes flicked to the bucket of fish.


    They had stopped moving. The birds had gone silent. The ever-present hum of insects had vanished.


    The world had stopped.


    A creeping, suffocating realization settled over him. Even though he was barely ten and didn’t fully understand time, he instinctively knew—this wasn’t natural.


    His body turned cold.


    He tapped Zhen’s forehead again, harder this time. His fingers felt numb. “Father… wake up.”


    No response.


    Jun’s chest tightened.


    What if something had happened to Father? What if… he never moves again?


    The moment stretched, strange and heavy.


    Then Jun shook his head. No—he had to get help.


    But there was a problem.


    He was still on Zhen’s shoulders—too high for a safe jump. His gaze dropped to the ground, his mind racing through the pain and bruises he would surely suffer.


    But there was no other way.


    He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and jumped.


    Except—


    There was no impact.


    No pain.


    No ground beneath his feet.


    He opened his eyes.


    He was floating.


    His arms flailed, legs kicked, but there was nothing to grab onto. He was weightless, suspended midair. It was the same helplessness he had felt when he fell into the river, unable to do anything. But unlike the water that had threatened to drown him, this was different. There was no struggle, no suffocation—only silence and the unsettling sensation of being unanchored.


    And then—


    Clap. Clap.


    A slow, deliberate applause echoed through the air.


    Jun’s head snapped toward the sound.


    The bamboo forest had changed. The warm summer air had vanished, replaced by thick fog that swallowed the trees. The green canopy darkened, and a crisp chill clung to the air.


    Then—


    Crunch.


    Footsteps.


    The sound of something stepping on dry leaves.


    The season had shifted. The ground, once full of lush summer grass, was now littered with brittle, fallen leaves.


    Through the shifting fog, a figure emerged.


    He wore a black changshan embroidered with intricate gold and red patterns. His hair was long and dark, but his face… his face wasn’t clear. It was blurred, as if covered in shifting black smoke. Only his sharp chin and teeth, as sharp as fangs, were visible.


    His presence felt unnatural.


    “Yes,” the man murmured. His deep voice didn’t just echo—it reverberated, as if the air itself carried his words.


    Jun’s breath caught.


    The man wasn’t looking at Zhen. He wasn’t looking at the frozen world around them.


    He was looking only at Jun.


    Jun wanted to call for his father. His throat tightened, his voice stuck somewhere between his chest and his mouth. The words were there, but they wouldn’t come out properly.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    His body, which had been able to move freely in the frozen world moments ago, was now as paralyzed as everything else. He was still floating in midair, trapped in this unnatural moment. Only his mind remained untouched, his thoughts racing in silent panic.


    The man took another step forward.


    Jun felt an uneasy tension spread through his body.


    The man reached out and tilted Jun’s chin up with a long, claw-like fingernail.


    “Yes,” he repeated, lips curling into a smile that revealed his sharp, fang-like teeth. “You look just like I envisioned.”


    Jun’s body shivered involuntarily, his wide eyes locked onto the man’s blurred face. He wanted to back away, to swat the man’s hand aside, but his limbs were frozen. His heart pounded, his stomach twisted.


    “Let me give you a parting gift for our first—”


    The man paused. Withdrew his hand. Tapped his own chin, as if reconsidering.


    “I suppose this would be our second meeting,” he mused to himself. Then he waved it off. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter.”


    His smile deepened. The sharp points of his teeth made the expression more ominous.


    He leaned in slightly, whispering near Jun’s ear.


    “Let’s meet again in ten years.”


    And then—


    He vanished.


    The next moment—


    Jun dropped.


    He hit the ground, the impact softened as if something had cushioned his fall.


    Time resumed.


    The birds chirped. The insects buzzed. The fish flopped in the bucket.


    And Zhen moved.


    Zhen stumbled slightly, his body jolting as if he had missed a step. His arms twitched, reacting to the sudden absence of weight on his shoulders. He blinked, disoriented, before glancing down.


    His son was sitting on the ground.


    “Jun?” His brows furrowed. “When did you fall down?”


    He quickly put the bucket down and knelt beside Jun, his hands moving over his arms, his head, his legs—checking for bruises, cuts, anything. His touch was rough, urgent, his mind still processing why he hadn’t felt his son slip from his shoulders.


    Jun just sat there, staring at the ground.


    “I… I''m fine.”


    Strangely, Jun decided to keep it a secret.


    Zhen exhaled, his shoulders loosening as relief set in. He looked at Jun for a moment, as if making sure everything was truly fine, then simply sighed and ruffled his hair.


    “Come on, hop back on. Let’s go home.”


    Jun hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. He climbed onto his father’s shoulders again, but this time, during their way back, he was quieter than ever.


    By the time they returned home, the sky had deepened into a warm evening hue, streaks of orange fading into the cool blue of approaching night.


    Zhen handed the bucket of fish to Hui. She had already chopped firewood, and as soon as she took the fish, she set to work. The fire crackled to life, sending flickering shadows dancing against the walls. She cleaned and gutted the fish with practiced ease, removing the skeleton while Zhen helped by skewering the meat onto sticks and setting them over the fire.


    Soon, the rich, smoky aroma of grilled fish filled the small hut.


    Jun sat quietly, eating his portion without a word, pausing every now and then as if lost in thought.


    Hui noticed. She nudged Zhen lightly with her elbow. “Did something happen with Jun’er?”


    Zhen, who had been savoring his meal after a long day, let out a tired sigh. “No, everything was fine… except when he fell off—”


    Hui’s chopsticks halted. “Fell off? what?” Her voice was sharper than before.


    Jun, hearing this, glanced up from his wooden bowl.


    Zhen looked at his son, then waved a hand. “Jun’er, it’s nothing. Keep eating.”


    Jun nodded and returned to his food, but Hui wasn’t convinced. Lowering her voice, she pressed Zhen again. “What do you mean he fell off?”


    Zhen exhaled, rubbing his temple. “He didn’t get hurt. It’s just… strange,” he said flatly. “One moment, he was on my shoulders, and the next, he was on the ground. I didn’t even notice when it happened.”


    Hui frowned. “And he didn’t cry out?”


    Zhen shook his head. “No. He was just sitting there, quiet as ever.”


    Hui glanced at Jun, who was focused on his food, seemingly unaffected. A strange tension settled between them.


    They finished their meal in silence.


    Jun, having finished his dinner, sat staring at his bowl with unusual focus.


    Hui frowned at her son’s strange behavior, concern creeping into her expression.


    Zhen, noticing her worry, exhaled and stood, stretching his sore muscles. “Kids his age imagine all sorts of things. Stop worrying.”


    Hui smiled faintly and nodded, but the unease lingered.


    By the time dinner was done, the sun had fully set. Darkness wrapped around the village, broken only by the dim glow of oil lamps flickering in windows. Their home was no exception—inside, the single lamp cast a warm, golden light, swaying slightly whenever the breeze crept through the wooden gaps.


    Zhen sat by the fire, sharpening his fishing knife.


    Jun sat near the doorway, away from the lamp’s glow, staring at the sky.


    The full moon hung bright and heavy, casting silver light over the village. The bamboo leaves rustled in the distance, blending with the occasional chirp of crickets.


    Zhen glanced toward Hui, who was washing the dishes. “Hui?”


    She hummed in response, a quiet acknowledgment to continue.


    “Do you have clothes for the harvest tomorrow night?”


    Hui paused, turning slightly. “I—”


    But Zhen cut in before she could finish. “And don’t say yes if you’re talking about that worn-out tunic. That thing’s falling apart.”


    Hui smiled slightly, tilting her head. “It’s still wearable.”


    Zhen gave her a flat look. “Let’s go to the marketplace tomorrow. They’re selling clothes cheap for the festival.”


    Hui hesitated, her smile turning a little forced. “No, it’s fine. We don’t have many taels right now.”


    Zhen scraped the knife against the whetstone, his tone casual. “Might be nice for Jun’er if we went.”


    Hui blinked, then murmured, “I do have some taels saved up.”


    Zhen’s lips curved into a small smile. He didn’t say anything else, just returned to his task.


    "Hui also returned to washing the dishes, her worries about Jun easing slightly.