Volume One, Chapter 17: Hoofbeats at Night

After the founding of the nation, fewer people came to the tavern. The regulars there only learned years later that the regime outside had changed. With no visitors, the tavern gradually fell into disuse.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that a group known as the Dogskin Hat troupe, oppressed by society and with nowhere to turn, found their way to the tavern through a chance introduction. From then on, they lived by the rhythm of the sun, working from dawn until dusk, enjoying the simple pleasures of sowing in spring and hibernating through snowy winters.

They sustained themselves with corn and vegetables, supplemented by mushrooms and black fungus. Game like pheasants and hares, though not everywhere, were plentiful enough that every time they set traps, they brought back enough food to last half a month.

As for this Dogskin Hat group—put politely, they were itinerant performers belonging to the minor schools of the martial world, specifically the Liu School, known for their operatic singing. Less politely, they were a troupe of disabled individuals eking out a living by busking on the streets.

In the northeastern region, only the “Errenzhuan” folk performance resonated loudly enough to be heard. This troupe performed Errenzhuan, a form familiar to all—it was once considered a sort of risqué entertainment, laced with vulgar jokes and irreverent insults, often involving bawdy humor at the expense of parents.

Yet, such was the preference of the common folk. If one recited poetry or classical texts, no one came to listen; but mention risqué jokes, and the crowd gathered. Their livelihood depended on this crude charm—if no one watched, begging would have been more practical.

Thus, during the tumultuous decade-long catastrophe, these performers became the fifth nuisance after flies, mosquitoes, rats, and sparrows.

As an example, during that campaign, sparrows capable of flight were nearly wiped out; the ones now seen were imported from the Russians. If even sparrows could be almost exterminated, let alone two-legged humans.

So this troupe sought refuge in the tavern, turning a blind eye to worldly affairs. Frankly, with no burdens outside, they cared little about whether the world changed as long as they themselves lived comfortably.

The place known as the Miso Vat had been haunted since the late Qing dynasty. At night, even the frogs croaked uneasily. Tales of water demons, restless spirits, and hanged ghosts had circulated for over a century, claiming many lives.

In recent decades, the hauntings had subsided, with no strange occurrences—until about half a month ago, when the ghostly disturbances resumed.

It was a summer evening about a month prior. The troupe, having just eaten, sat outside the tavern enjoying the cool air and chatting jovially.

Suddenly, seven or eight dogs kept in the tavern burst out, howling wildly toward the direction of the miso vat.

The crowd immediately grew alert, fearing a large beast had arrived, and hurried inside to fetch their hunting rifles.

Strangely, after scanning the surroundings, nothing unusual was found. Yet the dogs kept barking fiercely in one direction, some biting so hard their jaws bled.

Not only did they bark, but they also backed up while growling, then advanced again, as if confronting an invisible adversary.

These were no ordinary mutts but black wolf dogs. Their lineage traced back to the northeastern hunting dogs—a hybrid of dog and wolf—that gradually evolved into the black wolf dog breed.

Black wolf dogs were confident and fierce, the top choice for hunters in the old forests, and highly intelligent.

Without exaggeration, the combat prowess of a hunting dog approached that of a wolf. Hunters venturing into the mountains always brought at least three black wolf dogs; when facing a lone wolf, these dogs could kill it outright. Against a wolf pack, however, the dogs served mainly as deterrents—the real power lay in the hunters’ rifles.

Encounters with wolf packs were rare, as wolves were cunning and knew to avoid places where black wolf dogs roamed.

Yet on that day, for reasons unknown, the black wolf dogs seemed to bark at thin air, their howls unceasing.

Having lived there for decades, the tavern’s residents, seeing no large beast nearby, concluded it must be ghosts at work. They hurried inside to prepare protective charms: peachwood stakes to seal doors, vermilion powder sprinkled to mark boundaries, and even, for the first time, the inexperienced smeared children’s urine at the entrance—using every known method to ward off evil.

The dogs barked relentlessly until past midnight, never pausing. The tavern’s occupants kept a fearful vigil through the night, only daring to rest in shifts as dawn approached.

The Dogskin Hat troupe made special note that hauntings traditionally only happened at night—ghosts during the day were unheard of. So they wondered if a real beast had come down from the mountains.

Oddly, that was the only night such strange events occurred. Over the following days, the dogs remained silent and no further eerie happenings took place.

The old forests were often haunted, especially around the miso vat, but the tavern folk had grown accustomed to it, since no one ever died.

After several days of tension, peace returned. Life resumed its usual course, and the tavern’s residents relaxed their guard.

But a few days later, one morning, a member of the troupe stepped outside to relieve himself and immediately sensed something was wrong. The surroundings were deathly silent—not even a bird chirped.

Every morning, no matter who went out, the seven or eight dogs would come up and rub against their legs. That day, not a single dog appeared, nor was there a single bark.

Alarmed, he called everyone to search around the house.

After circling halfway, they found the dogs’ bodies piled behind the tavern.

Strangely, the corpses were dried out, their skin like parchment paper—touching them caused them to crumble.

What had been seventy to eighty-pound dogs were now reduced to mere five or six pounds. Their bones were brittle; lifting a leg caused it to shatter, squeezing them turned the remains to dust.

The tavern’s folk were thrown into panic; they had never seen dogs die like this. It seemed as if something had sucked all the blood out.

Another unsettling fact: these dogs, long accustomed to life at the tavern, never slept so soundly. Yet no barks, no whimpers were heard.

The mountains were home to many beasts, but no creature was known to kill seven or eight black wolf dogs instantly. Even a tiger would provoke desperate yelps.

What was more baffling was that after killing the dogs, their bodies were stacked neatly together, none taken away.

This ruled out scavengers searching for food. If not animals, then what?

The series of eerie signs forced the tavern’s residents to suspect spirits or demons, and they resumed their nightly watches.

One night, during a watch shift shared by the Dogskin Hat leader and another called Sitting Cannon, a sudden sound startled them at midnight.

Horse hooves clattered abruptly right outside the tavern—not approaching gradually, but appearing as if out of nowhere.

Clack, clack...

Amid the hoofbeats came heavy breathing from the horse, faint sounds of armor scraping—a phantom general riding around the tavern.

The hooves circled the tavern continuously. Though the two wanted to investigate, fear kept them frozen. Sitting Cannon was so terrified he lost control of himself and dared not move.

Though others inside the tavern were awake, none dared stir. The hoofbeats lasted until dawn, endlessly encircling the tavern.

What exactly it was, no one knew. But it was as if some ancient warrior’s spirit rode vigilantly around their refuge.