Heaven's Dimensional Descendance: Black Snow Wolf King

Chapter Six: Snow Falls and Returns to the Gods

Seven years have passed in the blink of an eye.

In 1988, the wind from the deep mountains of Northeast China blew away the hunger and cold, blew away the isolation, and also brought about earth-shaking changes outside the mountains.

Kaoshantun is no longer the desperate village with only a dozen or so people left to die. Young people have returned one after another, built brick houses, installed electricity, and broadcast a message. There are even two motorcycles parked at the village entrance. The days when corpses of the starving were everywhere and snow blocked the doors are now memories that the old folks dare not speak of aloud.

The younger generation, when they hear their grandparents tell the legend of the black wolf, simply think it's a story the old folks made up to scare children.

Only the old Party Secretary, who is over seventy years old, and those survivors who survived the 1981 blizzard, would still secretly place a handful of grains, a piece of salt, and a piece of dried meat under the old elm tree on the first and fifteenth of each lunar month.

They never kneel or pray; they simply put down their prayers, stand quietly for a while, and then leave silently.

That was a reverence etched into their bones, the silent offering of the survivors to the true god of the desolate mountains.

The mountains and forests have changed.

The indiscriminate logging has been stopped, the ecology is slowly recovering, there are more wild animals, the river fish are fatter, and the black pine forest is denser, more vigorous, and more vibrant than it was seven years ago.

The original seven wolves have now grown into a large herd of nearly twenty, with their offspring scattered throughout the mountains.

The Black Snow Wolf King has grown old.

It is no longer the robust male wolf with broad shoulders and the ability to leap up trees.

The old scar on his left scapula has faded, his fur is no longer shiny, a few strands of gray have appeared around his mouth, and his hind legs feel slightly heavy when he walks. These are old wounds left from years of battling in the wind and snow and enduring desperate situations.

But its gaze remained unchanged.

As deep as a cold pool, as still as a distant mountain, it carries with it its innate divine will, order and majesty, and the aura of mountains and rivers. A single glance from it can still make an entire pack of wolves bow their heads and the entire forest hold its breath.

It still doesn't rule by roaring, nor establish its authority by biting.

Simply lying on the hillside, it becomes the backbone of the entire wolf pack, the anchor of the entire Old Bald Ridge.

In recent years, no hunters have dared to enter the mountains, no exploration teams have dared to cut down trees, and no outsiders have dared to cross the border.

It's not because of guns, it's not because of people, it's because the Black Snow Wolf King's influence has become an ironclad rule of this land—

Humans guard the boundaries, wolves guard the mountains; all living things coexist without infringing on each other's territory.

That autumn, the first snow fell earlier than usual.

The old Party Secretary lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), his life nearing its end.

He called his children and grandchildren to his side, but without mentioning his estate or his funeral arrangements, he repeatedly gave them one piece of advice:

"No matter how good life gets in the future, you are not allowed to go into the mountains to hurt wolves, you are not allowed to disturb the black pine forest, and you are not allowed to forget... who saved the lives of the whole village in 1981."

The children and grandchildren nodded emphatically.

The old man passed away peacefully, his face showing no pain, only a calm that had settled.

The news wasn't deliberately spread into the mountains, but the wolf king seemed to have known about it beforehand.

That morning, it left the wolf pack alone and slowly walked down the hillside, step by step, until it reached the old elm tree at the entrance of Kaoshantun Village.

It did not approach the mourning hall, nor did it disturb the crowd; it simply lay quietly beside the tree roots, in the place where people had kept food for it for the past seven years.

The whole village saw it.

There was no panic, no shouting; even the children were covered by adults and gently carried back into the house.

Everyone stood at a distance, silently watching the old black wolf.

It was sending off the old man who had made a pact with it in the snow valley on his final journey.

This is the tacit understanding between two survivors in dire straits, the farewell between two law-abiding citizens. There are no words, yet they speak louder than a thousand.

At sunset, the funeral procession set off.

The wolf king slowly stood up and followed at the back of the group, neither too close nor too far, stepping silently through the snow.

It didn't go into the cemetery; it just stood by the edge of the woods, watching the yellow earth bury the coffin.

Once the crowd had dispersed, it faced the setting sun and let out a very soft, deep, and long howl.

Without sadness, without pain, without anger, without sighing.

It's as if it's saying:

You guard your people, I'll guard my mountain.

Your life has ended, but my prelude continues.

When the howling subsided, the wolf king turned and returned to the mountains and forests.

It walked very slowly, its shadow stretching long in the snow.

The young wolf cubs and offspring waited at the mountain pass, all bowing their heads and prostrating themselves, as if welcoming a king or bidding farewell to a bygone era.

It returned to Eagle's Beak Rock and lay on the highest, hardest, and coldest rock.

The wind swept up the first snowflakes, which landed on its aged fur.

It gazes at the mountains, forests, villages, rivers, and snowfields below, at this land where it has spent its entire life guarding order.

Its vitality will burn in its blood until the very last moment;

Its will has long been etched into the wind, snow, and pine waves of the entire mountain range;

Its majesty has not faded with time; instead, it has become a rule, a belief, and a soul passed down from generation to generation.

It is no longer young, no longer strong, but it is more like a king than ever before.

It is inherently fearless of life and death.

Since that snowy night, from the day it took up its post to guard this mountain, life and death have no longer been on its mind.

Its only concern was never how long it lived, but rather—

Has its order been preserved?

Does the spirit of the wolf have a legacy?

Will this desolate mountain range it protects remain peaceful forever?

Snowflakes fall softly.

The Black Snow Wolf King closed its eyes.

His breathing was steady, as tranquil as the beginning of time.

It did not fall; it still maintains its kingly posture, lying on the mountaintop, blending into the white mountains and black waters.

From then on, no one ever saw it again at Old Bald Ridge.

But with every heavy snowfall, every rustling of the pines, and every late night, the villagers could still faintly hear a deep, majestic, and never-fading wolf howl coming from the mountaintop.

That's not a wolf.

It is the soul.

It is etched on this land, forever indelible—the spirit of the Black Snow Wolf.