At first, the white serpent thought the matter of saving the herbalist was over. But a few days later, it encountered the man again.
Raising its head high, the serpent fixed its cold reptilian gaze on the chattering human. The herbalist placed several boiled eggs on the ground, then clasped his hands and bowed three times.
He rambled on—something about gratitude for saving his life, how his wife and children would starve if he died, and how he hoped the serpent would “bless” his herb-gathering in these mountains.
If you die, another man will just raise your kids and sleep with your wife, the serpent thought dryly, though it and couldn’t speak.
Ignoring the eggs, it turned and left.
I am a snake. He is a human.
No matter the kindness, trust was dangerous. What if the eggs were poisoned? To humans, snakes were resources—gallbladders for medicine, flesh for soup, skins for decoration. A five-meter serpent was a tempting target. Blind trust was a luxury it couldn’t afford.
Seeing the serpent refuse the eggs, the herbalist assumed it only ate live prey. Sighing, he picked them up and continued his search for herbs.
But he was clever. Knowing the white serpent wouldn’t harm him, he foraged nearby—a hunting ground free of other venomous snakes thanks to its presence.
In a way, he had been blessed. Just not in the way he imagined.
From then on, the herbalist became a frequent visitor…
Coiled on an ancient cliffside tree, the serpent watched curiously as the bold human gathered herbs, even deliberately scattering seeds to cultivate new growth. Occasionally, when they crossed paths, the man would sit and chatter—about how his harvests had improved his family’s life, how grateful he was, and so on.
His prattle was annoying.
As if I care about his trivial human dramas.
But in this era devoid of entertainment, gossip was a rare diversion.
This man forgets whose territory he’s in, the serpent mused.
Half a year passed in a blur.
The once-green fruits on the trees ripened. The Hundred Thousand Mountains never saw snow, but winter still brought cooler temperatures, making the serpent sluggish. It had already stockpiled fat for its lazy season.
But there was something as vital as eating: cultivation.
Lately, the serpent had developed a new habit—ascending the cliffs at dawn, when mist filled the valleys, to breathe in the clouds.
At daybreak, the first rays of sunlight carried the purest spiritual energy. Legends said beasts could absorb this energy to refine themselves. The serpent didn’t know the specifics; it simply followed instinct, coiling on a boulder and raising its head to inhale the mist.
This was an ability unlocked after consuming that spiritual herb.
Swallowing clouds was beyond it, but mist was easy.
As the sun rose, the mountain fog swirled with condensed spiritual essence.
If snakes could cultivate, “swallowing clouds and exhaling mist” was likely their first skill. Some said serpents carried traces of dragon blood in their veins. There were tales of giant snakes perched on peaks, breathing in the morning haze—observers mistaking it for summoning rain, a power only flood dragons possessed.
There were even stranger legends—like snakes sucking prey into their mouths from a distance.
One story told of a villager who saw a young man bouncing midair near a cliff, as if on a trampoline. The man cheerfully invited others to join, unaware that a giant serpent above was inhaling him, its strength insufficient to fully pull him in. Each attempt ended with the victim dropping back down, caught in a macabre loop…
The white serpent raised its head, breathing rhythmically.
Within half a meter, mist swirled into its maw before being exhaled as turbid air.
Diligently, steadily, it amassed spiritual energy.
Amidst the sea of clouds lies the secret of immortality.
The white serpent lifts its head, swallowing the breath of heaven.
On the cliff, the massive white serpent arched its body, drawing in the rising mist.
Hours later, as the fog dispersed and the sun climbed, it ceased its practice and slithered down.
Direct sunlight would overheat its body, and staying exposed risked attracting the ever-watchful eagle.
These white scales are too conspicuous.
At the mountain’s base, it spotted the herbalist, his clothes damp with dew.
The man’s daily ramblings were exhausting. Through his prattle, the serpent learned this place was called the Hundred Thousand Mountains. Over time, his topics expanded from family matters to neighborhood gossip.
Maybe I should bite him just for peace and quiet.
Sure enough, the moment they met, the chatter began. The serpent ignored him and left.
For six months, it had never accepted his food.
Undeterred, the herbalist bowed to its retreating form and headed to his private herb garden—a thriving plot where seedlings had matured into valuable plants. Two alone were worth ten taels of silver.
“When the weather cools, I’ll sell them… Buy fabric for the children’s clothes… A goat for milk…”
Kneeling among the herbs, the scruffy-faced man mumbled happily, envisioning a better life.
He never imagined his success would draw unwanted attention.
Other herb gatherers struggled in these mountains. When everyone suffered equally, resentment stayed buried. But when one man suddenly prospered—envy festered.
For half a year, he had ventured deep into the deadly mountains and returned with riches. Whispers spread: He must have found a treasure trove of herbs.
In ancient times, murder for profit was no rarity.
One morning, as the herbalist bid his family farewell and entered the mountains, three shadows followed silently…
At dawn, the serpent practiced its mist-breathing as usual.
Descending afterward, it was 300 meters from the garden when its heat-sensing pits detected three extra human figures among the plants.
Fury surged.
I allowed him to forage here, and he brings intruders?
As if the Hundred Thousand Mountains were some backyard hill!
Snake-like malice flared. It sped down the slope, intent on driving them out—with venom if necessary.
I hope they brought antidotes.
The enraged serpent charged toward the unsuspecting humans…