Chapter 43: An Old Yellow Ox

Everything remains unknown. Only that receding figure stubbornly presses forward through the dark night. Under the moonlight, the silhouette appears somewhat slender, yet it radiates an air of solitary courage.

It seems to be the only entity in this endless darkness unwilling to surrender, walking unhesitatingly toward the unknown danger, gradually dissolving into the dark void, leaving behind only the sound of light footsteps.

These footsteps echo in the silent night, as if recounting a story, or perhaps issuing a silent challenge to this forbidden zone.

Su Hao moves like a solitary wolf prowling in the dark night, cautiously navigating this perilous human-forbidden zone.

The surroundings are as quiet as a dead, profound abyss. The silence possesses a tangible weight, pressing heavily upon the heart and stirring an inexplicable sense of panic.

The surrounding darkness acts like an invisible wall, tightly enclosing him and creating a suffocating sense of oppression.

Only his footsteps—so faint as to be nearly imperceptible—intertwine and echo in the ink-thick, silent night with his slightly hurried, tense breathing, sounding like the last remaining breath of vitality in this zone of death.

To his own ears, his breathing sounds exceptionally loud. Every inhalation and exhalation feels like a silent contest against the dead environment.

Amidst this suffocating, quiet atmosphere, Su Hao's eagle-sharp gaze is suddenly drawn by an enigmatic force, instantly locking onto the ground a short distance ahead.

In an instant, a complex flash of vigilance and excitement crosses his eyes. Like a shooting star streaking across the dark night, though brief, it is dazzlingly bright, laying bare the emotions churning within his heart.

His heartbeat suddenly accelerates, the heavy thumping echoing violently within his chest.

It feels as though it might burst through his ribs, yet he strives to rein in his emotions and maintain his composure.

"This is demonic wolf dung," Su Hao whispers to himself, his voice kept extremely low, as light and soft as a drifting feather, as if he fears that a slightly louder sound might disturb the ghost-like dangers lurking in the vicinity.

He hurriedly halts his steps. The movement is clean and decisive yet exudes the utmost caution, his feet seemingly nailed to the ground without the slightest tremor.

A few fallen leaves are startled by his motion, swirling in the air before slowly drifting down, emitting an extremely faint rustling sound. Yet in this profound silence, it is as ear-splitting as a thunderclap, instantly tightening his nerves.

Following this, he leans his upper body slightly forward, assuming the posture of a coiled leopard ready to spring. His gaze, razor-sharp as a true hawk's, fixes intently on the excrement upon the ground. His eyes are filled with focus and scrutiny, missing not the slightest detail, as if he intends to decipher all information regarding the demonic wolves from this small heap of waste.

From the surrounding grass, the intermittent chirping of insects sounds particularly abrupt in this tense atmosphere, yet it only serves to heighten the silence and peril of the environment.

The excrement still faintly radiates a trace of warmth, wisps of heat rising into the cold night air. This residual warmth is akin to the dying embers of a recently extinguished fire, clearly indicating it was left behind very recently and is remarkably fresh.

Around the excrement, some undigested remnants are scattered, emitting a pungent odor that, mingling with the nocturnal dampness, is nearly sickening.

Tracing his gaze alongside the excrement, a clear trail of footprints suddenly appears on the ground. These prints are randomly imprinted into the earth, yet they vaguely follow a certain pattern, resembling a mysterious code awaiting a perceptive mind to crack.

Some of the footprints are deeper while others are slightly shallower, suggesting that the demonic wolves walked with varying degrees of pressure, or perhaps they left different states of impressions while chasing prey.

Upon seeing this, Su Hao cannot help but frown. His brows knit together tightly enough to crush a fly, while his mind races like an abacus, and he involuntarily murmurs to himself:

"Judging by these tracks, there are as many as five or six of them."

His words carry both astonishment at the number of targets and a trace of hard-to-detect apprehension; after all, facing a pack of demonic wolves is no light matter.

His gaze extends along the direction of the tracks, attempting to discern the path the demonic wolves took and their potential range of activity. His eyes convey solemnity and deep thought, as though he is engaged in a silent game of chess with an unseen opponent.

Then, he slowly crouches down. His movements are as slow and fluid as a slow-motion playback in a film, every subtle action exuding caution and care, as though he is treating not a pile of repulsive excrement, but an immensely precious and perilous supreme treasure.

The surrounding air seems to freeze because of his movement, and the silence grows even thicker, creating the illusion that time itself has stopped.

First, he slowly and gently extends his hand. The hand hovers in mid-air for a moment, as if giving himself one last chance at hesitation, before descending slowly to lightly touch the excrement.

The very instant his fingers make contact, his brow twitches, and a shallow crease instantly forms between his eyebrows. The texture carries a trace of warmth and moisture—a warmth that seems to bear the wild aura of the demonic wolves.

While the moisture is somewhat unsettling, it further confirms the freshness of the excrement, informing him that the demonic wolves departed not long ago.

His fingers tremble slightly as an instinctive reaction to the unpleasant texture, but he quickly steadies himself and refocuses on his assessment.

Immediately afterward, as if arriving at a certain resolution, he extends two fingers. The movement of those two fingers is cautious to the absolute extreme, as though applying the slightest extra pressure might trigger some horrifying consequence.

He meticulously pinches a tiny bit of the excrement, brings it to his fingertips, and gently rubs it. The action is practiced and focused, resembling an experienced veteran hunter who has spent the greater part of his life wandering through mountain forests.

Identifying the crucial traces left behind by his long-pursued prey, every subtle movement is imbued with professionalism and seasoned skill, prompting involuntary admiration for his caution and expertise.

As he rubs the excrement, the pungent odor intensifies. He consciously holds his breath to prevent the stench from invading his nasal passages too deeply, yet a few wisps slip through, churning his stomach and nearly inducing retching. Nevertheless, he suppresses it, his gaze remaining fixed on the action at his fingertips.

Having finished this, Su Hao closes his eyes slightly, his thick eyelashes fluttering gently like a pair of startled butterflies.

He brings the finger that touched the excrement extremely slowly and cautiously toward the tip of his nose, looking as if a bomb capable of detonating at any second were hidden beneath his nostrils, with a nail-biting level of care.

The sound of the surrounding wind seems to cease at this moment, and the entire world appears to be reduced solely to him and the movement at his fingertips. Everything turns utterly quiet, terrifyingly quiet.

Then, he sniffs lightly, his nostrils flaring just a fraction. The motion is as delicate as a gentle breeze skimming across the surface of a lake, leaving behind tiny ripples, out of fear of inhaling an excessive amount of that pungent odor—a stench akin to the rot of the netherworld, which alone is enough to churn the stomach.

At that instant, his frown deepens further, a look of discomfort crossing his features, but he swiftly regains his composure and refocuses on extracting information from the scent.

A moment later, Su Hao snaps his eyes open. Within those eyes, two flames appear to be burning fiercely, flashing with a resolute light as if he has already pierced through the veil of the excrement and comprehended every move of the demonic wolves.

Lowering his voice, he speaks in a low, faintly excited tone:

"Those demonic wolves passed by less than the time it takes to brew a cup of tea. Well, well, five demonic wolves. If I can take them all down, the beast cores I harvest this time will be more than enough."

As he speaks, a mixture of tension and anticipation blooms across his face. The tension spreads like a fine spiderweb across his features, while the anticipation glimmers like specks of light dancing upon that web, sparkling in the depths of his eyes.

His hands involuntarily clenching and loosening, his knuckles turning slightly pale from the exertion, as if drawing strength from the motion or making the fullest psychological preparations for the fierce battle ahead.

His body leans forward slightly, as though ready to lunge toward the location of the demonic wolves at any moment. His posture conveys an indomitable determination coupled with wariness toward the unknown danger.

At this moment, his already strained nerves are like a fully drawn bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest touch. Every nerve fiber is like an arrow waiting to fly, brimming with power and tension.

His entire being seems completely transformed into a leopard of the dark night—athletic and explosive, poised to pounce upon its prey. That eager stance seems to reveal the dawn of victory beckoning not far ahead.

The surrounding night remains deep, as if quietly awaiting this impending struggle between life and death. The danger hidden within the darkness, like a blade lurking in the shadows, could deal Su Hao a fatal blow at any second; whether he can use his own skills to turn peril into safety remains entirely unknown.

Only his resolute gaze and tenacious silhouette continue to radiate the light of a brave warrior amidst the endless darkness.

Su Hao stands quietly in place, closing his eyes slightly to steady his breath and focus his mind, before slowly releasing his perception.

That perceptive energy unfurls like wisps of light smoke, initially drifting silently from around his body.

Immediately afterward, it spreads outward rapidly and methodically from him as the center, like an invisible yet intricately connected net.

Within the range touched by this perception, all subtle movements in the surroundings are brought into focus as if under a magnifying glass, presenting themselves clearly within Su Hao's mind.

At the very edge of his perception, off to the left, a tense standoff enters his "perceptual field."

Five demonic wolves, mostly clad in grayish-black fur—some appearing a dull, murky gray as if stained by storm clouds, exuding a gloomy aura.

Others are pitch-black, their dark coats oily, smooth, and gleaming with a cold luster under the light, resembling fine silk yet inducing an involuntary shudder.

Their figures are agile and lithe, and every slight shift reveals the explosive power concealed beneath their muscles.

Their sturdy limbs step firmly upon the ground, their sharp claws occasionally gouging deep trenches into the earth as if warming up for the impending combat.

Their pairs of ghostly green eyes, flickering like will-o'-the-wisps in the dark night, burn with the flames of greed and ferocity as they lock fixedly upon their prey—an old yellow ox.