Heaven's Dimensional Descendance: Black Snow Wolf King

On the eighth day of the blizzard, the entire Kaoshantun village was devoid of any signs of human life.

Those who starved to death were hastily buried under the snow at the village entrance, without even a handful of soil, just a few frozen stones. The sixteen survivors had no strength left to even cry; the earthen beds in the houses were as cold as ice, the water vats were cracked from freezing, and the grain cellars were so empty they reflected light. Fear was no longer screaming, but deathly silence—a deathly silence of knowing one was doomed, yet being unable to even struggle.

The wolf king stood on the south ridge, overlooking the entire village.

It doesn't need to smell or hear to know that people's bottom line has collapsed to the last inch. It doesn't rely on its sense of smell, but on its perception, on its precise calculation of the state of life: human energy consumption, hunger limits, thresholds for mental breakdown, the critical point of the collapse of a group—everything is under its control.

It did not order an attack.

Only a mad wolf would pounce on someone when they are most desperate, forcing them to raise their gun and die together.

What it will do is win without fighting, crush the rules, and force people to voluntarily relinquish their right to survival.

That afternoon, the wind and snow suddenly tore open a small hole, revealing the pale sun.

The three able-bodied people in the village were finally forced to leave their homes.

Leading the group was the old Party Secretary, over sixty years old, his back bent like a shrimp, clutching a rusty single-barreled shotgun with a worn-out stock. Behind him followed two middle-aged men, one carrying a wood-chopping axe and the other a sharpened steel pitchfork. The three of them, combined, were nearly two hundred years old, swaying and staggering through the snow like three withered trees that might break at any moment.

They didn't come to kill wolves.

They came looking for a way to survive.

Behind the mountain lies a secluded snow valley where, in previous springs, fallen dead trees, frozen beasts, and wild fruits would drift down – the last lifeline the older generation held dear. They gambled – gambled that they might find something to eat there.

The wolf king watched them leave from the mountain ridge.

It didn't move, only uttering a very low guttural sound that only the wolf pack could hear.

The six wolves immediately dispersed, stealthily moving along the snow ditch, neither chasing, forcing, nor revealing themselves, but simply following the three people like shadows, maintaining a distance of three hundred paces.

This is not a hunt.

This is a takeover.

The snow valley was more secluded and more desolate than I had imagined.

There were no wild animals, no plants, only thick snow and frozen pebbles. The three of them searched for half an hour when the old Party Secretary suddenly froze—he had kicked out half a rotting roe deer leg from under the snow, already frozen to stone, yet still carrying a faint smell of blood.

This is the only thing in the entire valley that can be entered.

The three of them instantly turned red in the eyes.

The people who had just been huddled together for survival instantly changed their expressions. The old man with the axe reached out to snatch it, the old man with the pitchfork shoved him, and the old village secretary raised his gun, letting out a hoarse growl. Hunger had torn humanity to shreds; kinship, community ties, and seniority were all worthless in the face of a bite to eat.

Just as they were about to tear each other apart, a dark figure appeared at the entrance of the snow valley.

The wolf king has arrived.

It walked into the valley alone, without a pack of wolves, and stood between the three people and the half-deer leg.

The gun was instantly pointed at it.

The old Party Secretary's hands trembled, his knuckles turned white, and his breathing was like a broken bellows. He knew that whether he fired or not, it was certain death. If he fired, the wolves would pounce; if he didn't, the wolves would steal his only food.

But the wolf king did not move.

It simply lowered its head, gently touched the half-frozen roe deer leg with the tip of its nose, and then took a step back.

They gave up their food.

The three old men were stunned.

They couldn't believe their eyes.

This wolf king, who ruled the entire mountain forest and kept the whole village from leaving their homes, actually gave up his food to humans?

The wolf king remained standing in place, his gaze calmly sweeping over the three of them.

That is not kindness.

That's the price.

With this bite of food, it signed a snow valley contract:

I'm giving you the last bit of nourishment to keep you alive.

You are handing over the right to exist on this mountain entirely to me.

Humans don't understand wolf language, but they can read the wolf's eyes.

The old Party Secretary slowly put down his hunting rifle, and with a thud, knelt down in the snow.

The other two old men also knelt down, bowing their heads to the wolf king—heads they had never bowed to before.

It's not surrendering, it's admitting defeat.

It's an admission: on this dead mountain, you are the rule.

The wolf king remained standing, accepting this silent submission.

It turned around, walked out of the snow valley, and stood on the high ground at the valley entrance, keeping watch.

Three old men stood behind it, trembling as they cut off half of the roe deer's leg, scraping off the frozen meat bit by bit, not daring to waste even the smallest bone fragment. They ate slowly and quietly, not daring to make a sound, as if stealing a king's gift.

This is its calculation:

Instead of annihilating people, it allows them to live within the limits it permits.

Don't steal the last bite of food; just let people remember who the giver was.

By not revealing the strength of the wolf pack, we allow people to live in perpetual awe.

Half an hour later, the three of them, having eaten their last bit of strength, prepared to return to the village.

The wolf king stepped forward again and blocked the road.

It looked up and gazed into the depths of the snow valley at a more treacherous and steeper ravine that hunters never ventured into.

That's the way it points people in.

A road that only humans can walk on, that wolves won't steal from, but from which one can never escape.

The old Party Secretary understood.

He led the other two men into the snow gully, walking respectfully and obediently, step by step.

The wolf king followed behind them, not escorting them, but protecting them—protecting his own rules, back to the village.

By the time we got back to Kaoshantun, it was already getting dark.

The remaining villagers crowded at the doorway, watching the three old men return alive, and seeing the silent black wolf king behind them. Everyone held their breath; no one dared to look up, no one dared to move.

It did not enter the village.

I simply stood under the withered old elm tree at the village entrance and glanced at the entire village.

One by one, the windows were closed, the door latches were tightened, and the lights were turned off.

Before nightfall, the entire Kaoshantun village automatically entered into martial law.

The wolf king turned and disappeared into the snowstorm.

It needs no nest, no guards, and no need to flaunt its throne.

It only needs to make everyone remember one thing:

Humans can live because it allows it.

Humans can eat it; that's a gift from it.

—Anyone who dares to resist will die.

Snow and wind once again enveloped Old Bald Ridge.

The wolf pack quietly and orderly gnawed on the frozen beasts found by their alpha wolf deep in the mountains, without fighting or scrambling.

The wolf king lay alone on the highest snow-covered hill, gazing at the pitch-black world.

Life lies dormant in our bones and blood, and our will rises ever higher amidst wind and snow.

The profound Daoist principles have been quietly etched into its very soul.

It is not afraid of hunger, not afraid of the cold, and not afraid of the hunter's gun.

Its only warning is about one thing:

In this utterly ruined wilderness, its rules must be maintained—

Wolves do not kill indiscriminately, and people do not act rashly; survival is governed by the only rule.

And that is the rule itself.