The horse-faced chief froze, his mind buzzing, unable to react.
Hiss!
A pain in his crotch!
...
The old Daoist led the ox up the hill, turning back to glance one last time from afar.
Under the shade of the trees, the officers were in a rush, while the horse-faced chief lay on the ground, curled like a shrimp, emitting painful whimpers.
The old Daoist snickered.
The rats scurried wildly, biting people, then licked up the splattered blood as if ravenously devouring it.
It was as if what flowed out was not blood,
but golden fragrant oil.
"Blessings of Infinite Heavenly Venerable."
The old Daoist chanted, turned the ox around, and slowly walked out of the small town.
...
The old Daoist led the green ox, carrying bundles, retracing the path he came from.
Along the path were wildflowers, weeds, and trees growing everywhere, shrouded in twilight, merging into a gloomy color, identical to the scene on his way in.
Yet, his aged brow furrowed unknowingly.
