Master Wu, the village fortune teller, claimed I was born under a cursed fate—destined to bring calamity and misfortune. He said I could not be raised by my own family; if I stayed, I wouldn't survive. The only hope was to become his disciple and learn the mystic arts of the Xuan Sect. That, he said, was my slim chance at life.
He also warned that even under his tutelage, my path would not be smooth. I would face three deadly tribulations, the first of which would strike when I turned nine. If I could survive that, my destiny might turn for the better. If not, it would be the end of me.
After much hesitation, my father and grandfather agreed. Better a thread of hope than certain doom. So Master Wu took me away. He moved quickly, as if afraid my family might change their minds. But not long after we left the village, someone discovered his corpse on the side of the road.
He had died horrifically—eyes wide in terror, blood seeping from every orifice. It looked as though he had been frightened to death.
And yet there I was, lying quietly beside his body—unharmed, not crying, not fussing.
My parents, horrified by the news, had no choice but to take me back. Master Wu's family, outraged and grieving, came to our home and caused a great scene. Though his death couldn't really be blamed on us, we ended up paying them a sum of money in compensation. For a family already poor, it was a crushing burden.
Years later, my true master told me that Master Wu had died because his intentions had been impure. He hadn't taken me in to save me—he had coveted something within me and had intended to take my life. That, however, is a story for another time.
After I was brought home, my family was at a loss. Was Wu's prophecy real? His sudden, terrifying death cast a dark shadow over our house. Even the villagers began to fear me, calling me a cursed star—one that had killed an innocent man at birth.
Worse still, I wouldn't drink milk. I refused all food—only blood could sate my hunger. From the day I was born, I had eaten nothing. I cried constantly from hunger, my wails filling our home with dread.
My grandfather and father were beside themselves. My mother wept silently, day after day.
Then, one night, my father stepped out to the latrine and heard a strange rustling in the courtyard. He followed the sound and was startled to find a group of white-furred foxes lurking in the shadows. Among them were several yellow weasels.
Their eyes glowed in the dark. One large white fox had climbed onto the windowsill, peering curiously into our home.
At first, fear gripped my father's heart. But soon, fear turned to anger. His thoughts turned bitter—wasn't it enough to have a cursed child at home? Now even wild beasts came to torment us?
He grabbed a brick from the ground and hurled it at the foxes. It struck the one on the windowsill squarely, and the creature let out a sharp, chilling cry that pierced the silence of the night.
It turned and bared its fangs at my father, its eyes glowing with fury. My father froze, paralyzed by fear.
Just then, the door burst open and my grandfather emerged, wielding a gleaming machete. Despite his age, he was still strong—he had once been a soldier, a captain of a sabre unit who had fought against invaders. His eyes blazed with ferocity.
At the sight of him, the animals scattered and fled into the night.
"What happened?" he asked my father.
"There were foxes and weasels in the courtyard. One of them was looking through the window," my father replied, still shaken.
"Misfortune never comes alone," my grandfather muttered. "I, Old Wu, have lived a life of honor, served my country, never harmed the innocent—how did we end up cursed like this?"
He paused. Then something on the ground near the door caught his eye. A black mass. It was moving.
He knelt to inspect it. "Where did these come from?" he murmured.
My father leaned in and was stunned to see a small pile of plump wild hares, barely clinging to life.
Their necks bore fresh, bloody puncture wounds—bite marks, as if they'd been preyed upon by wild beasts.
"Could those foxes and weasels have brought these here?" my father asked, incredulous.
Grandfather nodded solemnly. "Very likely. Remember the other day? Hundreds of those creatures knelt facing our home. Who knows what bond our child has with them? But if they've brought offerings, we'll accept them. Drain the blood for the child—we'll eat the meat."
That night, with the blood of the hares, I was finally fed. I fell asleep soundly. The rest of the family, at long last, had meat to eat.
But that was only the beginning.
From that day forward, the foxes and weasels returned every night. Sometimes they left wild hares or pheasants. Other times, they brought fish. One day, they even brought two meals in a single night.
Our household, once impoverished, now feasted daily. In those hard years, meat was a luxury most only tasted during holidays. But in our home, it was a daily staple. Sometimes, there was so much that my father sold the excess at the market. Other villagers grew envious.
Eventually, when my father saw the animals in the courtyard again, he no longer tried to chase them away. They would strut in boldly, drop their offerings, and vanish without a backward glance.
And so three years passed.
Each night, the creatures delivered fresh game. My family ate meat, and I drank blood. We all grew plump—especially my parents.
I grew as well. Aside from my refusal to eat solid food, I was just like any other child. At birth, I had patches of white fur and a fox-like face, but as time went on, the fur disappeared and my features became more human—delicate, even handsome.
But when I turned three, my grandfather and father grew anxious again.
They remembered Master Wu's warning: every three years, a new tribulation.
And sure enough, on my third birthday, disaster struck again.
Someone in the village died—and once again, they said it was because of me.