“A tribe that forgets its roots will one day be uprooted.”
– Ancient saying of the Poison Tribe
Once every year…
When the first moon of autumn rose above the Black Marsh…
The Poison Tribe laid aside its weapons.
For one night.
There would be no hunting.
No training.
No lessons.
Only remembrance.
…
As darkness settled over the village…
Hundreds of lanterns were hung from the ancient trees.
Children painted black serpents upon smooth stones.
Women prepared fragrant stews from fish, herbs, and wild mushrooms.
Old songs echoed through the marsh.
For the first time in many days…
Laughter returned.
…
Zhao Long wandered through the festival.
He watched old hunters telling stories to the younger children.
Some tales spoke of giant serpents.
Others of brave scouts who vanished into the mist and never returned.
He listened quietly.
Even if some stories were exaggerated…
Every legend carried a lesson.
…
Near the center of the village…
Grandmother Wu sat beside the sacred fire. The source of this chapter is g.com.
The children gathered around her.
One curious boy asked,
“Grandmother…”
“Why do we celebrate if our ancestors suffered so much?”
She smiled gently.
“Because they survived.”
“The dead leave us memories.”
“The living decide whether those memories have meaning.”
The children fell silent.
Even the crackling fire seemed to listen.
…
An old musician began to play a bamboo flute.
Soon…
The villagers formed a circle around the fire.
One after another…
They danced.
Not with elegance.
But with pride.
It was the dance of people who had endured hardship together.
…
Zhao Long noticed something unusual.
Every elder wore a small wooden pendant carved in the shape of a serpent.
Even Grandmother Wu.
He walked over.
“What does it mean?”
She removed the pendant from her neck.
“This?”
“It is carved by one’s own hands.”
She placed it in Zhao Long’s palm.
“When a child believes they understand what it means to protect others…”
“They carve their own.”
Zhao Long studied the worn wood.
Years of use had smoothed its edges.
He handed it back with both hands.
“I don’t think I’ve earned one yet.”
Grandmother Wu’s eyes softened.
“No…”
“Not yet.”
…
The celebration continued late into the night.
Above…
The stars shone brighter than anyone could remember.
Beyond the ring of lantern light…
The Black Marsh remained dark.
Silent.
Watching.
Far from the music…
Hidden among tangled reeds…
A pair of unseen eyes reflected the glow of the festival fire.
They lingered only for a moment.
Then disappeared into the mist.
The celebration went on.
No one noticed.