Yang had been sneaking around the edge of the forest near the village. He'd observed for days now, taking careful note of Liu Wei and the Zhao brothers' locations and routines.
His plan was simple: kill them before getting out of the village, making sure no one got a look at him.
He'd also realized something during his surveillance. His fur and plant fiber clothing made him look like a wild man. Which he was, but he needed actual clothes and shoes to fit in wherever he ended up going. Looking like this would only make things difficult in any human town or city.
The villagers were extremely poor. Yang would feel bad stealing from anyone here. But killing and stealing from Grandpa's murderers? He wouldn't feel bad at all.
He took no joy or pride in being here to kill these men. But it felt like something he must do. They'd killed a great man. More importantly, a good man. All because he'd dared to help strangers instead of allowing them to take advantage.
Yang recognized the mud hut. The one where he was born. Where Grandpa had lived for decades before Yang arrived. Where Grandpa had spent eight years protecting him, loving him, caring for him.
It had been his home. His safe place. And they'd destroyed it.
Liu Wei lived in a wooden house. But the mud hut was occupied by one of the Zhao brothers. Apparently leaving it empty would have been wasteful. After killing the owner, they'd decided to take over.
This, more than anything, made Yang furious. Seeing one of the conspirators who'd aided Grandpa's killer living in the walls where Grandpa had stayed. Grandpa had created this hut with his own two hands. Yang would rather see it razed to the ground than let one of these scum occupy it.
The past few days had given him enough understanding of their routines. He was confident in killing them and getting away without anyone finding out about him. Better if they didn't see him. The superstitious villagers would be terrified otherwise.
As the sun set and night came, Yang snuck toward his and Grandpa's hut. Currently occupied by one of the Zhao brothers. He knew the other would come with drinks soon to spend the night drinking together.
Yang waited for both to be inside before starting.
He felt anticipation mixed with a queasy feeling. He'd never done something like this. Planning to take a life for the first time. Yang was nervous and conflicted. But he was determined to finish this.
He saw the older Zhao brother leaving his own home and coming toward the hut and entering. Yang decided to wait until they were more drunk before he moved.
Lost in thought, memories of Grandpa overwhelmed him. That corner where he used to play while Grandpa watched from his seat on a stone. The nearby well where they'd gotten water. The bushes near the edge of the forest where he'd often picked berries with Grandpa.
Every path was somehow associated with Grandpa. Each thing reminding him of happier times.
This was his personal hell and heaven. Good memories overwhelming him while the grief of knowing that time was gone forever crushed down. No weathered hands to pull him up if he fell. No weak eyes keeping watch to make sure he was safe.
His emotions were unstable. The happiness of good memories. The sadness of loss. The anger at seeing his killers living in their home and living well. The uncertainty of taking a life.
It created a maelstrom inside him.
Yang stood. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Thinking of Grandpa's smile. His love and care. Then his death as he'd told Yang to run. The thud of his body.
"Forgive me, Grandpa, for what I'm about to do," Yang said to himself. "But they must pay for what they did to you and me. And if not that, at least it ensures they won't be able to harm anyone else again."
Yang ran quickly toward the mud hut. He peeked through the straw door and saw both Zhao brothers sitting on the ground drinking wine. Several empty pots already lay around them. Their faces were flushed. Their movements uncoordinated. Their voices loud and slurred as they laughed about something.
Yang took a slow breath. This was it.
He pushed through the straw door and entered quietly. His enhanced senses picked up the smell of cheap wine and unwashed bodies. The younger brother was closer to the door. The older one sat further back against the wall.
"Who... who are you?" the older brother asked, squinting in Yang's direction. His words came slow and thick. It took moments for them to notice him properly in their drunken state.
Yang didn't bother speaking. He moved forward with speed that neither drunk man could track. His hand shot out and seized the younger brother by the neck. The man's eyes widened in shock and fear. His mouth opened to scream.
Yang twisted. Hard and fast.
The snap was loud in the small space. Like a branch breaking. Yang felt the bones give way beneath his fingers. Felt the exact moment life left the body.
He released his grip. The younger Zhao brother crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. His head lolled at an unnatural angle. Eyes still open. Still shocked.
Yang stared at the body. His first deliberate kill of a human. The corpse looked smaller somehow. Less threatening than the man who'd helped murder Grandpa.
"What... what did..." The older brother tried to stand. His legs wouldn't cooperate. He fell back against the wall, staring at his brother's body. "No. No, that's not..."
Reality slowly penetrated his drunken haze. Yang watched the exact moment understanding hit. The older Zhao brother's face went from confusion to horror to rage in quick succession.
"You killed him!" The older brother's voice cracked with fury and grief. "You killed my brother!"
He lunged forward. Tried to grab Yang. His movements were clumsy. Uncoordinated. Yang sidestepped easily.
The older brother stumbled past him and fell to his knees beside the corpse. He grabbed his brother's shoulders and shook them. "Wake up! Wake up!"
The body flopped limply. Head rolling on the broken neck.
"No, no, no..." The older brother's voice dissolved into sobs. He looked up at Yang with tears streaming down his face. "Why? What did we do? We never..."
"You know what you did," Yang said quietly.
The older brother's face twisted. Recognition dawned. "You're... you're that brat. Chen's brat. But you're supposed to be dead. You should have died years ago."
"I didn't."
The older brother tried to stand again. This time he managed it, though he swayed dangerously. "We didn't kill the old man. That was Liu Wei. We just... we just helped him dispose of..."
"You helped," Yang interrupted. "That's enough."
The older brother's face contorted with rage. He grabbed an empty wine pot and hurled it at Yang. Yang caught it easily and crushed it in his hand. The ceramic shattered. Pieces fell to the floor.
The older brother stared at Yang's hand. At the impossible strength. Fear replaced his anger.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, I have a family. Children. A wife. They need me."
Yang thought of Grandpa. Of the eight years of love and care. Of the sacrifice made so Yang could live.
"Grandpa had a family too," Yang said. "Me."
He moved forward. The older brother tried to run. Yang was faster. His hand found the man's neck. The older brother struggled. Clawed at Yang's arm. His nails dug in his arm but couldn't make Yang release his grip.
Yang twisted.
Another snap.
The second body fell beside the first.
Yang stood there for a long moment. Looking at both corpses. Brothers who'd died together in the home they'd stolen. His hands were steady. His breathing calm. But his chest felt hollow.
He'd done it. Killed two men. It should have felt like justice. Like righteousness.
Instead he just felt empty.
Yang shook himself from his thoughts. No time to dwell. He needed to move.
He ransacked the room quickly and efficiently. Taking any clothes that looked useful. He found several sets of rough cotton shirts and trousers. Not quality, but better than his current attire. He also found a large dagger with a worn leather sheath and a pair of shoes that looked about his size.
The village was poor and used a barter system with no currency, so there was nothing precious in terms of money or jewels.
Then Yang found the blanket Grandpa had made. The one they'd used to sleep under during cold nights. It sat in a corner with scraps and spare things. Threadbare and old. Ignored.
Yang hugged it to his chest. The fabric was rough against his skin. It smelled of dust and neglect now. But he remembered how it had smelled when Grandpa was alive. Like herbs and woodsmoke and safety.
Tears pricked his eyes. Yang blinked them back.
He took everything useful and portable. Bundled it all together and carried it to the forest. He hid it where he'd been spending nights near the edge while keeping watch on the village.
When he returned to the hut, the bodies were still there. Still dead. Yang looked at them one last time.
"I'm sorry your families will grieve," Yang said quietly to the corpses. "But you made your choice when you helped kill Grandpa."
He didn't touch the bodies. He intended to leave them here and destroy the mud house.
Yang made a torch from dried grass and wood. He lit it using friction. Then he touched the flame to the thatched roof. The dry straw caught immediately. Fire spread quickly across the roof and down the walls.
Yang retreated to the forest edge. Hiding behind trees, he watched the panic begin in the village.
"Fire!" someone screamed. "Fire at the old Chen place!"
People rushed out of their homes. Some brought pots of water from the well. They formed a line, passing containers hand to hand in a desperate attempt to extinguish the flames.
Yang felt a pang of guilt. Most villagers were just people trying to survive. Not evil. They didn't deserve the disruption and fear he'd brought.
But it was necessary.
Liu Wei came out to look. He was accompanied by his three sons. All of them older than Yang had been when he'd fled. The sons were grown men now. Strong. Capable of supporting their mother and sisters.
Yang watched them join in helping fight the fire. At least killing Liu Wei wouldn't destroy his family. The sons could provide. The wife and daughters wouldn't starve.
That thought brought Yang a small measure of comfort.
The villagers worked together. After considerable effort, the fire was finally controlled and put out. The mud walls had mostly survived, but the roof was completely gone. The interior was charred and smoking.
Men entered to search for survivors or salvage. Moments later, shouts erupted.
"Bodies! There are bodies inside!"
"It's the Zhao brothers!"
"They're dead! Both of them!"
Wailing began. High and piercing. The Zhao family rushed forward. Women screamed and sobbed. Children cried. The older brother's wife collapsed to her knees, pulling at her hair.
Yang heard the gut-wrenching sobs echo through the night. Each cry felt like a knife in his chest. He wondered if he'd sounded like that when he'd sobbed himself to sleep in the forest years ago. Alone and grieving.
The pain he'd caused tonight would ripple through families. Through the whole small village.
But Yang forced himself to watch. To witness what his actions had wrought. He wouldn't look away from the consequences of his choices.
The crowd gathered around the burned hut. Speculating about what happened. Some suggested accident. Others murder. Arguments broke out.
Yang waited. Patient. Watching one man in particular.
Liu Wei stood at the edge of the crowd. His expression was troubled. Worried. He spoke quietly to his eldest son, who nodded and headed back toward their home.
Good. The son was leaving. Yang needed Liu Wei alone.