The morning mist clung stubbornly to the jagged peaks surrounding Willow Hollow. Sunlight trickled through the clouds, spilling over the grass like molten gold. Somewhere deep in the valley, a young man was whistling off-tune.
Ashan strolled barefoot through the dew, his tattered straw hat tipped forward to block the sun. In his right hand dangled a coiled whip, its handle wrapped in worn red cloth. In his left, he carried a bundle of fresh herbs tied together with thin vine.
A flock of horned sheep — each one the size of a wild boar — grazed lazily behind him. Their twisted ivory horns glinted faintly, and from time to time, their eyes flashed with a strange, golden light.
"Keep eating, keep eating… we've got all day," Ashan muttered, kicking a small pebble out of his path.
To any outsider, the sight was odd. The horned sheep weren't sheep at all. They were Stonehorn Beasts, known to crush boulders for fun and ram through steel gates like paper. Even seasoned cultivators avoided herds like this. Yet here they were, following a lazy shepherd as if he was their leader.
Ashan wasn't a cultivator. Not yet. Not even close.
In Willow Hollow, martial arts and cultivation were everything. People trained their bodies and spirits to hunt beasts, defend the village, or earn riches in the outside world. Ashan… well, Ashan preferred naps.
"Why learn swordplay when you can herd beasts and nap under the sun?" he would often say.
Still, there was something different about him. No one in the village could explain why the beasts of the Forbidden Valley never harmed him. Some said he smelled like grass and rain. Others whispered he might have been blessed — or cursed — at birth.
The truth was simpler: Ashan had the Whip.
It wasn't an ordinary tool. The handle was carved from a tree that no longer existed in the mortal world. The braided cord shimmered faintly when touched by moonlight. His late grandfather had called it The Heavenly Whip, but had never explained its origins.
Ashan didn't care much about its history. As far as he was concerned, it was perfect for keeping stubborn beasts in line and swatting mosquitoes.
He walked to the edge of a stream, watching the water swirl around smooth stones. The beasts crowded in to drink, their heavy hooves sinking into the mud. Everything was peaceful — until the wind shifted.
It was subtle, like the valley had inhaled.
Ashan's brow furrowed. The air felt heavier, pressing against his skin. From somewhere deep in the forest came a sound — low, guttural, and sharp, like stone grinding against stone.
The Stonehorn Beasts froze. Their ears twitched, nostrils flaring. Then, in perfect unison, they turned their heads toward the trees.
Ashan sighed. "Oh no… not again."
Last time the beasts had reacted like this, a mountain cat had wandered too close and lost half its tail. But this… this didn't feel like a cat.
The bushes ahead trembled. A shadow slid between the trees — tall, thin, and moving unnaturally fast.
Ashan raised his whip. "Alright, whoever you are, this is private grazing land. You don't belong here."
The shadow didn't slow down.
Branches snapped. Leaves scattered. And then it emerged.
A Nightfang Wolf, its fur black as midnight, eyes burning with crimson light. Drool dripped from its jagged teeth. Even among spiritual beasts, Nightfangs were feared hunters — silent, cunning, and fast enough to outpace arrows.
Ashan's grip tightened. He'd seen wolves before, but never one like this. The air around it shimmered faintly with killing intent.
The wolf's gaze wasn't on him. It was locked on the smallest Stonehorn in the herd — a calf barely up to Ashan's chest.
"Figures," Ashan muttered. "You bullies always pick the smallest one."
The calf bleated in panic, stumbling backward into the stream.
The wolf lunged.
Ashan moved without thinking. The whip cracked like thunder, the sound echoing through the valley. The cord wrapped around the wolf's midsection mid-air, glowing faintly.
For a moment, the wolf twisted and snarled, its claws slashing at empty air. Then something strange happened. The glow from the whip spread, weaving strange patterns across the wolf's fur. The crimson in its eyes flickered.
And then —
A pulse of light burst outward, washing over both man and beast.
Ashan's vision blurred. He felt something tug at his chest, like invisible threads winding between his heart and the wolf's.
When his sight cleared, the Nightfang Wolf was… sitting. Not snarling, not struggling — just staring at him with an expression that could almost be called puzzled.
"What… the hell just happened?" Ashan whispered.
The wolf blinked once, then — to his utter shock — spoke.
"Master."
Ashan's jaw dropped. The calf bleated again, as if equally confused.
Somewhere deep within his mind, a voice — not his own — whispered:
Soul Contract established.
Ashan stared at the whip in his hand, then at the wolf, then back at the whip.
His quiet life as a shepherd had just shattered.