The Hundred Thousand Mountains stretched endlessly, a treacherous realm of venomous creatures, fierce beasts, poisonous miasmas, and deadly waters—a place so harsh that few dared to venture in. Yet within this unforgiving landscape thrived countless rare creatures and precious spiritual herbs.
Where spiritual energy gathered, extraordinary plants would grow, infused with the essence of heaven and earth. Such treasures often drew wild beasts eager to devour them.
One day, as the white serpent slithered through the forest in search of prey, it had no idea that its life was about to change…
Animals and birds possessed an innate ability—instinct. Without learning or experience, they could discern the value of things, as if guided by some unseen force.
The white serpent raised its head, flicking its tongue to sample the air.
Suddenly, an intoxicating scent struck its senses—a fragrance it had never encountered before. The faint, soothing aroma seemed to whisper in its mind, urging it to seek out the source. Deep within its soul, ancestral memory confirmed this was no trap. After a brief hesitation, the serpent twisted its body and followed the trail.
It crossed a small stream, its tongue flickering rapidly as it tracked the scent. The source wasn’t far. Climbing a slope, it reached a depression in the mountainside, where a small pool of water lay. Beside it grew a tender green plant, its leaves translucent like glass.
Digestive fluids dripped from the serpent’s jaws. Without hesitation, it unhinged its mouth and swallowed the plant whole—roots, dirt, and all.
Then, a searing heat erupted in its belly.
Darkness swallowed its vision as it collapsed, unconscious.
The plant wasn’t some legendary spiritual herb, just an ordinary medicinal herb that had grown for years in a place rich with spiritual energy. The serpent didn’t know this, of course—it only sensed that consuming it would be beneficial. Besides, if it didn’t eat it now, another beast surely would.
Falling unconscious in the wild was dangerous. Fortunately, the pool was hidden deep in the mountain crevices.
The sun set, the moon rose.
A full day passed before the serpent’s tail twitched, signaling its return to consciousness.
Groggily, it cursed its recklessness. At least it wasn’t poison. But its body felt tight, constricted—a familiar sensation. Having shed its skin several times before, the serpent knew it was growing again.
It slithered down the mountain, returning to its rocky den.
Wedging itself between jagged stones, it rubbed against rough edges to loosen its old skin.
A snake’s scales were its outermost layer—a tough, keratinized shield that prevented moisture loss. But they didn’t grow with the body. To expand, the serpent had to shed.
Why so soon? It had only molted a month ago.
Starting from the head, it scraped and wriggled, peeling the old skin down its body inch by inch. Finally, the tail slipped free.
With human-like intelligence, the serpent coiled its tail around the discarded skin and tucked it into a crevice—hiding it from the keen eyes of eagles.
Molting was perilous. Predators lurked, and failure to shed completely could be fatal. The process also drained energy, leaving the serpent sluggish. Many snake hunters took advantage of this vulnerability.
Exhausted, the serpent curled up and slept.
The next day.
Its scales gleamed whiter, more lustrous. Its body had stretched to a full five meters—a true behemoth in these woods.
Bigger size meant greater strength. The serpent didn’t know its limits, but bigger was always better.
The weather was fair. It ventured out to hunt.
The Hundred Thousand Mountains were unfit for farming, uninhabitable for humans. Yet precisely because of this, they became a haven for desperate herbalists—poor souls who braved the dangers in search of rare plants, selling them for meager coin to feed their families. Many never returned.
In a valley lay a small, deep pool. Along its mossy cliffs, a man in his thirties clung to vines, a basket strapped to his back.
His left hand gripped the vine while his right carefully pried a herb from a crevice—a precious Dendrobium officinale.
(This will fetch a good price Enough to buy some clothes for my wife)
Smiling, he reached for another cluster—
Snap.
The worn vine gave way.
The herbalist plummeted.
This is it.
Splash!
Water swallowed him.
Most mountain folk knew how to swim, but his arm had been injured in the fall. He floundered, barely keeping afloat.
“H-help…!”
His cries echoed through the valley, though he knew no one would hear.
Nearby, the white serpent raised its head.
Strange noise.
Detecting nothing unusual, it lowered its head and continued hunting.
Snakes didn’t rely on hearing—they sensed vibrations through their bellies. Only when it reached the pool’s edge did its heat-sensitive pits detect the thrashing figure in the water.
Humans
In twenty years, the serpent had never seen a human. It had assumed this world was devoid of them.
The drowning man stirred something deep within its soul.
By the time the serpent processed this, the herbalist’s struggles were weakening. His body sank.
In his fading consciousness, he saw a massive white serpent swimming toward him.
First drowning, now a snake?
My family…
Underwater, the serpent coiled its tail around the man’s shoulder and dragged him toward shore.
“Cough—! Cough—!”
The herbalist vomited water, gasping for air. He remembered the serpent pulling him under—yet here he was, alive.
Where was the snake?
He looked up.
A serpent’s head, thick as a bowl, loomed before him.
“Aah—!”
Scrambling back in terror, he hit the cliff behind him. The white snake didn’t move.
Instead, it looked at him with… disdain?
Yes, disdain. The herbalist was certain of it.
The serpent studied him – his coarse clothing, his hairstyle. Ancient attire. Qin or Han dynasty style? So this is an ancient world.
After a long moment, the serpent turned and left.
The herbalist could’ve sworn it sighed.
The serpent felt nothing.
Twenty years had eroded its human sentiments. Saving the man had been a whim—a flicker of lingering humanity.
Just a passing curiosity.
As dusk fell, the herbalist tended to his injured arm, foraging for medicinal herbs. His basket was lost, along with his provisions. Hunger gnawed at him.
Then, the white serpent returned.
It dropped a strangled pheasant at his feet and slithered away.
The herbalist gaped at the offering, then at the retreating serpent.
Falling to his knees, he kowtowed fervently, muttering prayers of gratitude…