chsdbacks Chapter 1 Bald Ridge 1981: The Wolf King Approaches
Chapter 1 Bald Ridge 1981: The Wolf King Approaches
1981 years,
Laotuling, on the western slope of the Lesser Khingan Mountains.
The mountains were cleared bare, the rivers froze to death, and wild animals disappeared. For eighty consecutive days, there was not a single grain of food to eat. Only nine households remained in Kaoshantun at the foot of the mountain, a total of seventeen people including the old, weak, sick, and disabled. Those who could walk had already escaped by hitching a ride on a train, and those who remained were waiting to die.
People have no food.
There were no wolves either.
The pack of seven wolves, once the rulers of this mountain, is now so thin their skeletons seem about to pierce their fur. They stagger with every step, too weak from hunger to even bite each other. The original alpha wolf was a shriveled old wolf, fierce as it was, but utterly brainless. When the snowstorm struck, it led the pack blindly into traps, frequently stumbling into hunters' snares and nearly wiping out the entire pack.
Until it appears.
It was as if something had awakened all at once in this snowy night.
It was the youngest and strongest male wolf in the pack, its shoulders reaching the waist of an adult man. Its fur was a deep, dark black, and a scar on its left shoulder blade was a mark left from a life-or-death struggle with a wild boar in its younger days. It didn't fight, didn't bar its teeth at the old wolf king; it simply stood quietly in front of the old wolf king's feeding spot on a snowy night.
It didn't roar, pounce, or move its claws.
One glance was enough to pierce through the instinctive intimidation of any creature. The old wolf king's fur stood on end, his legs went weak, and he tucked his tail between his legs and retreated to the very back of the pack, not even daring to raise his head.
There was no fighting, no bloodshed.
From that moment on, it was the wolf king.
He is the true king, the king who reigns supreme by his aura, the highest-ranking king in the laws of wilderness survival.
The wind and snow throughout the entire Bald Ridge began to follow its rhythm.
It never wastes its energy; when it moves, it does so only to survive. It doesn't squander a single ounce of strength, nor does it gamble on a risky situation. When starving, other wolves might go mad, panic, or rush towards populated areas to their deaths, but it won't.
It understands people.
They understand human weakness, greed, fear, and bottom line in desperate situations better than humans do.
The people of Kaoshantun have begun gnawing on tree bark, boiling grass roots, and some have even ground the bones of dead livestock into powder and swallowed. Hunger can turn people into beasts more ferocious than wolves. The village's only three hunting rifles are carried around the mountainside every day, not for hunting, but to protect against wolves and also from their own kind.
It knew that humans were the wolf's only way to survive, and also its only mortal enemy.
It doesn't lead a pack of wolves to storm the village—that's what foolish wolves do. If a shot is fired, the wolves will be killed or wounded, and the people will fight desperately, ultimately resulting in mutual destruction. What it wants is not slaughter, but control of resources, a game that penetrates the human heart, a way to make people retreat willingly, yield willingly, and dare not provoke it.
On the first day, it chose the most arrogant man in the village.
The man was named Wang Ergang, in his thirties, with a nearly crippled leg, but he was naturally reckless and ruthless. He always carried a sharpened wood-chopping knife and would curse and swear at the village entrance every day, saying he would kill and skin any wolf he saw. He was the last able-bodied man in the village and the only "support" in everyone's hearts.
It crept up to the outside of Wang Ergang's courtyard wall late at night.
It didn't yell, it didn't scratch at the door, it just used its paws to slowly and heavily dig at the snow.
The sound of shoveling snow was like a hammer pounding into the bones in the dead of night.
Wang Ergang was so frightened inside that he dared not breathe. His hands, gripping the woodcutter's knife, were covered in sweat. He looked out through the crack in the window and saw only a pair of wolf eyes as deep as an icy pool. There was no madness in them, only a chillingly calm scrutiny—it was not a beast looking at its prey, but a strong person looking at the weak, a controller looking at a caged creature.
It is calculating:
Does this person dare to come out?
Does this person have the courage to fight to the death?
Where is this person's bottom line?
Three minutes later, Wang Ergang collapsed to the ground, feeling an urge to urinate rushing to his head.
He had seen wolves before, but he had never seen a wolf that could scheme, exert pressure, or drive a person to their breaking point.
It left just before dawn.
Not a single blade of grass or tree was harmed, and not an inch of the courtyard wall was entered.
From that day on, Wang Ergang never dared to curse the wolves at the village entrance again. He would bolt the door shut as soon as it got dark and wouldn't even dare to turn on the lights. With minimal cost, he pierced the courage of the toughest man in the village.
To subdue the enemy without fighting, and to determine the course of life and death.
The second step was to cut off people's means of survival.
The village's only remaining food was hidden in the cellar of the old Party Secretary's house at the village entrance. It consisted of half a bag of cornmeal and a dozen kilograms of frozen potatoes, which was the life-saving food for seventeen people. The old Party Secretary assigned two old men to guard the cellar entrance day and night, holding sickles in their hands, never leaving it for a moment.
It didn't try to steal it.
It led its pack of wolves and stood in a row on the hill directly opposite the cellar.
It does not rush, it does not cry out, it does not move.
They just squatted there quietly, like seven black stone statues, watching from sunrise to sunset.
The old man guarding the cellar trembled all over, afraid to close his eyes, afraid to drink water, afraid to eat. Their spirits were being drained away bit by bit, and fear buried their necks like snow—they knew this was no ordinary wolf; this wolf was waiting, waiting for them to give up, waiting for them to collapse, waiting for them to give up on their own.
On the third day, the two old men collapsed to the ground, crawled back home, and refused to guard the cellar any longer.
The old Party Secretary stood at the entrance of the cellar, gazing at the wolf king on the hill, tears streaming down his face.
He lived for seventy years and understood one thing:
This is not a wolf; it is a master that has become a spirit.
It doesn't steal because it knows that people can't defend themselves; it doesn't kill because it doesn't need to kill. Just by watching, people will admit defeat on their own.
It still didn't touch the grain in the cellar.
It doesn't want those potatoes and cornmeal; it wants everyone to understand that it defines the boundaries of this mountain, this village, and all of life.
Humans can live because it allows it;
A person is able to eat a bite of food because it makes way for them;
People dare to go out because it's not watching them.
A true wolf king does not live by stealing food.
The most dangerous struggle occurred on the seventh day after the blizzard blocked the mountain pass.
Someone in the village starved to death.
The remaining men went completely mad. The old Party Secretary gritted his teeth, pulled out all three hunting rifles, gathered four men who could still stand, and decided to go into the mountains to fight the wolves—either kill the wolves and eat them, or be eaten by them; either way, they would die.
Four men, three guns, and a machete, walked shakily into the black pine forest.
The snow was up to my knees, and the wind felt like knives cutting my face.
They saw it as soon as they reached the entrance of the forest.
It stood alone in the middle of the road, without any wolf pack for cover, just one wolf, blocking everyone's way.
The gun was instantly pointed at it.
With a finger on the trigger, a single pull would send the gunshot ripping through the mountains and forests.
But no one dared to drive it.
Because its eyes were so calm, so calm that there wasn't a trace of fear, so calm that it seemed as if it had planned everything in advance—
If you dare to fire, the sound will collapse the snow slope and we will all be buried together;
If you dare to hit me, my wolf pack will charge out from both sides, and none of you will survive.
If you go back now, you can live for three more days.
It took a small step forward.
Just one step.
The four men with guns all took a step back in unison.
It takes another step.
Take another step back.
There was no sound, no fighting, only a supreme mental battle fought in a desperate situation.
People who are starving to the extreme may seem to be willing to fight, but they are actually most afraid of dying; they may seem to be sticking together, but they each have their own ulterior motives; they may seem to be armed, but their spirits have already collapsed.
Three minutes later, the first person threw down his gun, squatted on the ground, and cried.
Then came the second, the third, and the fourth.
No one dared to mess with the wolves anymore. Everyone turned around and scrambled back to the village, never mentioning the words "killing wolves" again.
It won.
Using methods most in line with the laws of wilderness survival, they won against people, against the desperate situation, and against the life and death of the entire Kaoshantun village.
It won, not by being ferocious, not by biting.
The snow was still falling, and the people of Kaoshantun huddled indoors, afraid to go out, afraid to light lamps, and afraid to make a sound. They knew that a wolf lurked outside, controlling all the rules of this deadly place.
It stood atop the highest snow-covered hill outside the village, gazing at the dark village.
It has no shortage of food—frozen animal carcasses that people dare not use, river fish that people dare not pick up, and food-gathering places that people dare not set foot in are all its own.
It doesn't kill a single person or cause any loss of life, yet it allows all the living to live within its order.
The wind and snow swept across its black fur, yet its eyes remained calm.