Though Du Yi still kept his human habits at mealtimes, as a snake he nonetheless had to do certain things that a snake simply must do.
Shedding his skin, for one.
How an ordinary snake molts, Du Yi wasn't quite sure, but in his case the molting seemed bound up with hibernation — every shedding meant a long sleep, and heaven only knew when he'd wake from it.
So once he'd eaten and drunk his fill, he made his way deep into the mountains and dug himself an enormous pit.
True, at his present bulk there was no such thing as a natural predator to speak of, but he was still in the habit of finding a secluded spot to sleep in, and of covering himself over with something while he was at it.
So, with a great mass of earth heaped over him, Du Yi left only his two nostrils exposed, for breathing.
"Feels like I'm forgetting something? Never mind — if I can't remember it, it can't be important."
A few thousand days and nights of tireless waking soon turned into a heavy, muddy drowsiness. And so, not long after lying down, Du Yi had already slipped off into dreamland.
Yet not long after Du Yi sank into that deep sleep, the distant hillside was once again heaped high with offerings.
***
The Harvest Festival was, each year, the most important holiday of Ignis City.
The festival had been set by the Nineteenth Ignivas chieftain, the great Sage King Lightbringer: on the coldest day of every year, the great Sage King would carry a great mass of offerings into the sacred mountain to sacrifice to the Snake God of the mountains — and the Snake God of the mountains would, in turn, drive the dangerous beasts out from the deep mountains.
Decades ago, so they said, such a thing would have been called a beast tide, and had once destroyed their old homeland — but now it had become the hour for the mages to show off their skills. The beasts that once had to be sought deep in the mountains now came running out onto the plains to fight them face to face, and the mages need only hurl their fireballs to reap a great haul of game.
This was why this festival, originally meant for sacrifice, had come to be called the Harvest Festival.
Every Harvest Festival meant a bountiful harvest.
Only, this year's Harvest Festival was a little different from those past. The Nineteenth chieftain had, after all, departed the world at last, and the one presiding over the festival now was the heir the Nineteenth chieftain had left in his late years — the Twentieth chieftain, the one called Flamebearer.
About Flamebearer's succession the people of the city had no misgivings. He had plainly shown himself as strong and as clever as Lightbringer of old, even cleverer; everyone believed Flamebearer could carry on Lightbringer's brilliance and lead the people toward a still finer future.
Flamebearer thought so himself, too.
"I will surely inherit everything of my father's, surely lead the people to glory!"
Thinking this, Flamebearer followed in his father's old footsteps, carrying a great mass of offerings alone into the deep mountains.
"Only one person may enter the sacred mountain" — this was a custom handed down from Lightbringer onward. However strong a single man might be, what he could carry was limited; yet Lightbringer had insisted on going in alone all the same.
Of course, Lightbringer had given his reasons. For one, too many people entering the mountain was always something of a disturbance to the Snake God; for another, it was also for the people's own good.
After all, Lightbringer's own father had been frightened to death, literally — not everyone could withstand the sheer impact of the Snake God's vast bulk.
As Lightbringer's successor, Flamebearer naturally observed the same rule. Before coming, he had already learned the god's language until it was second nature, and committed to memory just how to face the Snake God — his father, too, had instructed him on this point: never worship the Snake God as a god, for that would displease Him; better to treat the Snake God as an elder from the neighboring household, for only so could one converse with the Snake God smoothly.
It will all go well, Flamebearer thought.
And so, just as Lightbringer had once done, Flamebearer lit the bonfire.
The kindled bonfire sent up smoke that shot straight to the heavens — the signal agreed upon with the Snake God. Once the smoke rose, it was the hour of sacrifice.
When the Snake God descended, he would present the offerings, and the tidings the distant explorers had brought back besides — especially the latter; he remembered his father saying that those reports from afar, those observations and understandings of the world, were what the Snake God truly needed.
But this time, the Snake God did not come.
At first Flamebearer assumed the Snake God was simply far away, and after the better part of a day he still believed the Snake God must be busy with other matters. But after a full day and night with no Snake God, Flamebearer finally sensed something was wrong.
"This can't be...... didn't Father say that the moment the smoke-pillar rose, the Snake God would surely appear?"
When the sun rose on the third day, Flamebearer was struck dumb.
Three days and nights had turned, and still the Snake God had not appeared — while the little jerky he'd brought had instead been eaten clean down to nothing. The ceremony was never meant to last three days, after all; well-prepared as he was, he simply hadn't been able to carry much food.
The scene could not help but bring his father to Flamebearer's mind.
He had heard, too, the old stories his father told — back then, his father had gone hungry for a very, very long time before he ever laid eyes on that Snake God.
So, after a moment's thought, Flamebearer decisively cut himself a piece of the mammoth meat meant to be an offering.
His father — that Sage King Lightbringer — had told him that every sacrifice was met with the Snake God's hospitality: the Snake God would take these offerings as raw materials and cook them into all manner of delicious dishes to host the one who'd made the offering. Which surely meant that even if he cooked and ate some of the offerings ahead of time now, it ought to be no problem?
"It's only a little ahead of schedule, anyway...... the Snake God won't hold it against me."
So Flamebearer thought.
A portion that to the Snake God could count only as trimmings was, to Flamebearer, a downright feast; a single piece of mammoth meat alone left the three-days-starved Flamebearer full and content.
And once he was full, Flamebearer at last had the spare strength to begin thinking about how to handle his present situation.
"The Snake God very likely won't be coming...... and even if He does, the Harvest Festival is already overdue."
Full and content, the clever Flamebearer at once read the situation for what it was.
His eating a few bites of the offerings, the Snake God would in all likelihood not hold against him — these offerings would, in the end, be cooked into a grand meal to host him anyway.
But if the Harvest Festival yielded no game, the people of the city would surely be displeased. The Harvest Festival was called the Harvest Festival precisely because every household came away with a haul of game — and with that haul cut short now, how could he possibly escape a scolding?
"If I'm to make up for that missing haul......"
To make up for it was all but impossible. He was no Snake God; he hadn't the power to drive ten thousand beasts.
"But what the people need is the haul, not the act of hunting itself."
The clever Flamebearer hit, almost on instinct, on the crux of the matter.
And then his gaze shifted to the offerings beside him.
The instant he saw them, Flamebearer had thought of a solution that wasn't quite a solution.
"The Snake God surely won't hold it against me — these offerings, after all, are of no consequence to the Snake God."
Recalling the maxim his father had left him, Flamebearer drew a deep breath.
And then he carried all the remaining offerings back down the sacred mountain.