Vegetable plots in the residence were robbed in the middle of the night.
On the first night, two rows of cucumber vines were gnawed down to the trellises.
On the second, newly‑sprouted winter‑melon shoots were trampled flat.
On the third midnight, Lai Fu got up to relieve himself and witnessed a dark shape darting across the vegetable patch: huge‑bodied, four hooves, eyes glowing green in the moonlight.
“Young Master!
A monster!” Lai Fu banged frantically on Shen Xian’s door, rolling about in panic.
“Green eyes!
This tall!
Howling!”
By next day rumours had spread through Willow‑Branch Lane: the Shen residence was haunted.
Green light blazed at midnight, ghost‑like howls echoed in the dark.
Shen Xian squatted beside the vegetable patch, picked up a clump of dung and sniffed it.
“Wild boar.” He clapped dust off his hands.
“At most two hundred jin, male, separated from its herd.”
“Wild boar?” Lai Fu refused to believe.
“How could its eyes shine so bright?”
“Pupils dilate in darkness and reflect light, basic natural‑science…” Shen Xian paused and rephrased.
“Experience‑based knowledge.
Besides, Qinghe County is no deep mountain wilderness.
Where would monsters come from?
If real monsters existed, those so‑called immortal priests in town would have captured them long ago.”
That night Shen Xian set a trap.
In the centre of the vegetable patch he used the remaining half‑side of pork as bait (Lai Fu winced in heartache).
Four shallow pits were dug around it, lined with sharp upward‑pointing bamboo stakes and covered with loose soil and grass.
Trip‑ropes strung between pits, each rope hung with small copper bells.
At the third watch of night, bells jingled ding‑ling.
“Move!”
Liu San and Wangcai charged out of the firewood‑sheds holding torches.
A black‑haired wild boar was trapped in a pit squealing in rage.
The bamboo stakes had not pierced vital organs — they had merely wounded its pride.
“Magnificent!” Liu San’s eyes lit up.
“Young Master, a New‑Year pig delivered straight to our door!”
“Take it alive.” Shen Xian squatted at pit‑level, locking gazes with the boar.
“It ruined my vegetable plots for three nights.
I must pass sentence face‑to‑face.”
“Sentence?”
“Precisely.” Shen Xian stood and waved his hand.
“Sentence: slow execution — cut into braised pork, spareribs, pork hock and pig‑head meat.
Execute immediately.”
Lai Fu carried bowls of stewed pork to neighbouring households, and everywhere he went he recounted the tale of Young Master Shen capturing the “green‑eyed monster”.
In his telling, the boar’s weight swelled steadily from two hundred jin all the way up to five hundred jin.
While everyone else revelled in meat‑scented joy, Shen Xian squatted beside the cooking‑pot staring at the bubbling broth, thinking of something else.
“Liu San,” he suddenly spoke.
“Earlier you said livestock have gone missing not only at our home?”
“Aye.” Liu‑San scratched his head.
“Old Sun from East Street lost two chickens.
The tofu‑shop donkey on West Gate has been skittish for three days.
And… yes, old Wang at the city‑gate: his watchdog died in terror.
No blood from seven orifices, just dead.”
Shen Xian’s stirring spoon halted.
“A dog scared to death, a mad donkey, plus our so‑called green‑eyed monster.” He muttered.
“This is more chaos than one single wild boar could create.”
Flames flickered in the s
“Lai Fu,” Shen Xian said.
“Stop delivering meat tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Go make enquiries.” He stoked the stove brighter.
“Find out what other strange incidents have been happening in and around town lately.”