Dao of the World Walker (Xianxia) Book 2

Yang burst through the undergrowth and froze at what he saw.

A young child lay on the ground. Four or five years old at most. A wild cat was mauling him. The beast was massive. Easily large enough to hunt a grown man. Its claws raked across the child’s chest. While its jaws sought the boy’s throat.

The child screamed. High and desperate.

Four older boys stood nearby. Eight or nine years old. They were throwing small stones at the cat from a distance. Screaming for help. Too afraid to get closer. Too young to do anything useful.

Yang didn’t think. He moved.

His enhanced speed carried him across the clearing in seconds. He grabbed the wild cat by its scruff and yanked. The beast came off the child easily. It twisted in his grip, snarling and clawing. Trying to reach him with teeth and claws.

The cat was wild and troublesome. Large enough to be dangerous. But it was no competition for Yang’s beyond natural strength.

Yang threw it. Hard. The cat flew through the air and crashed into a tree trunk with a sickening thud. It fell to the ground, stunned. Then scrambled to its feet and scurried off into the deeper forest. Running for its life.

Yang rushed to the young boy. Knelt beside him. The child was crying. Bleeding from multiple wounds. The worst was a long gash across his chest. Deep. Bleeding heavily.

Yang tore a piece of the boy’s tunic without hesitation. Pressed the cloth against the largest cut to staunch the bleeding. The child whimpered in pain but didn’t pull away.

Yang heard the older boys talking behind him. Their voices rapid and frightened. Two of them came closer. Knelt beside Yang. They touched the injured child gently. Spoke in soothing tones. Trying to console him.

One of the boys looked at Yang and said something. His tone was grateful. Questioning.

Yang shook his head and said “I don’t speak your language”. Pointed to his ear. Then his mouth. Shook his head again.

The universal gesture for not understanding. Not speaking the language.

The boy’s eyes widened slightly. But he nodded. Understanding the message even if they couldn’t share words.

Yang heard more people coming through the forest. Crashing through undergrowth. Moving fast.

Several men burst from the right side of the clearing. Four of them. All adults. All armed with farming tools and hunting spears.

Yang kept his hands visible on the child. Kept pressure on the wound. He watched the men carefully. Making sure they didn’t attack him assuming he was the one who’d hurt the child.

But the older boys standing behind him started talking immediately. Explaining rapidly. Gesturing at Yang. At the forest where the cat had fled. At the injured child.

The men’s expressions changed from alarm to understanding. They didn’t make any threatening gestures toward Yang.

Two of the men came forward quickly. Knelt beside Yang near the child. They gently pushed back the two young boys who’d been consoling their injured friend.

One of the men took over staunching the blood from Yang. His hands were steady. Experienced. The other man helped lift the child carefully while the first man kept pressure on the worst wound.

Yang stood with them. Ready to help however he could.

The men ran with the child toward the village. Moving as fast as they could while keeping the boy stable. The other children followed quickly behind. Their faces scared and tearful.

Yang saw the two remaining men who’d come with the rescue party. They approached him slowly. Hands raised and empty. Palms out.

The universal gesture of peace.

Yang raised his own hands. Showed his empty palms. Showed he meant no harm.

One of the men tried to say something to him. The words were incomprehensible. Foreign sounds that meant nothing to Yang’s ears.

”I don’t understand,” Yang said again.

The man’s expression shifted. Recognition that they didn’t speak a common language. He nodded slowly.

Then he gestured. Pointed at Yang. Pointed toward the village. Made an inviting motion with his hand.

Yang understood that well enough. They were inviting him to the village. Probably to explain what had happened and to thank him or question him or both.

Yang nodded and followed.

The village men looked rough. Like laborers or farmers. Strong bodies built from years of physical work and tanned skin from long days in the sun with beards and calloused hands. They moved with purpose and confidence.

Yang followed them through the forest. Back along paths he’d observed from hiding. Out into the open areas he’d only seen from a distance.

They left the forest and came out into the village proper.

Villagers were already gathering. Apparently word had spread fast about the child’s injury. Or about the presence of a stranger in their midst. Maybe both.

Yang saw them looking at him. Talking rapidly among themselves. Pointing. Their expressions were varied. Curiosity. Wariness. Some gratitude mixed with uncertainty.

Some of the men and women came forward. Said things to him. Questions, probably. Or greetings.

Yang bowed his head slightly. A gesture of respect that he hoped translated across languages. ”I don’t understand,” he said again. Slowly and clearly. Making it obvious he didn’t speak their language.

The villagers turned to the men who’d been with Yang in the forest. Started asking them questions. Yang watched the exchange. Saw the men gesture and explain. Pointing back toward the forest.

The villagers’ expressions changed as they listened. The wariness faded somewhat. Gratitude and curiosity increased.

They invited Yang forward. Guided him toward a slightly larger wooden house near the center of the village. It stood out from the others. Better constructed. More space around it.

Yang believed this was where the oldest person or the leader of the village lived. He’d seen people being respectful to a particular older man during his observations. Bowing slightly when they spoke to him. Asking his opinion on matters.

The large house likely belonged to that man.

They entered through a wide doorway into the main room. A long table dominated the space. Simple wooden chairs surrounded it, though not enough for everyone present.

The villagers settled in. Most people stood around the table. There weren’t many seats available. But they offered Yang a chair.

Yang took it carefully. He considered this a good sign. Things were going well for him so far.

An old man entered from an inner room. The same man Yang had identified as the village leader during his observations. He was perhaps sixty years old. Grey hair pulled back. A long beard. Weathered face with kind eyes. He moved with dignity despite his age.

The villagers showed him clear respect. Bowing their heads as he passed.

The old man sat at the head of the table. He looked at Yang with curiosity and assessment. Not hostile. But not exactly friendly either. Just evaluating.

They started talking then. The men from the forest explained what had happened. The old man listened carefully. Asked questions. Looked at Yang frequently during the telling.

Yang sat quietly. Waiting. Trying to appear non-threatening.

The old man spoke to him directly. His tone was questioning. Polite.

Yang shook his head. ”I am sorry, I don’t understand you,” he said again.

The old man nodded. Seeming to expect this. He pointed to himself and spoke slowly. ”Han Qingshan.”

Yang understood immediately. The man was giving his name. Yang pointed to himself. ”Yang.”

”Yang,” the old man repeated. He smiled slightly. Pointed to Yang. ”Yang.” Then to himself. ”Han Qingshan.”

The other men around the table followed the example. Introducing themselves one by one. Pointing to themselves and speaking their names clearly.

Yang repeated each name as best he could. The sounds were foreign and the pronunciation difficult. But he tried. The villagers seemed pleased by the effort.

Someone brought out food then. A large pot of vegetable stew. Steamed buns to eat with it. The smell hit Yang and his mouth watered immediately.

They offered for him to take the first bowl. A gesture of honor.

Yang accepted the bowl they offered him. Took two pieces of bun as well. The villagers served themselves after. Taking their portions and settling in to eat.

Han Qingshan, the village chief, began eating first. He looked at Yang while he did. The message was clear. The food is safe. You can eat.

Yang’s mouth watered. It took him great effort to eat slowly. To take measured bites instead of devouring the food like a starving animal.

He had been living on his own cooking in the forest for years. Roasted meat over open fires. Nuts and berries. Nothing with seasoning or care. He’d forgotten what tasty food tasted like.

The stew was incredible. Vegetables cooked until tender. Broth rich with flavor. Salt and herbs he couldn’t identify but tasted wonderful. The buns were soft and warm. Perfect for soaking up the stew.

Yang must not have been successful at hiding his hunger. He saw the chief smile and reach for his bowl. Han Qingshan filled it again for him without being asked.

Yang looked up, surprised and grateful.

The old man nodded. Gestured for Yang to eat more.

Yang smiled. Actually smiled. A real expression of genuine gratitude and relief.

He didn’t know how things would go forward from here. Didn’t know if the villagers would let him stay. Didn’t know if he’d be able to learn their language or find a place among them.

But for now, for the first time in years, Yang felt relaxed.

Eating a bowl full of tasty food. Surrounded by people. Not alone in the forest fighting to survive every single day.

It felt like being human again.

Yang took another bite of the stew and let himself enjoy this moment of peace. Whatever came next, he’d face it. But right now, he was warm and fed and safe.

It was more than he’d had in a very long time.