Lam Ngu stepped closer, squatting down with her eyes fixed on the chick. It was shivering, its feathers still wet, but it already knew how to wobble around the nest. She reached out, gently stroking its back. The chick didn't flee; instead, it nuzzled its head into her palm, cheeping as if recognizing a kindred soul.
"Thai Ke!" she chirped, her eyes shining. "That name suits you!"
Lam Pham heard this and was slightly surprised. "Why Thai Ke?"
"Because it was born in your 'Thai' space!" she laughed, scooping the chick into her arms like a precious treasure.
At that moment, Lam Pham noticed something: from the very second the egg hatched, he felt a connection—a thread as thin as invisible silk—linking the bracelet on his wrist to this tiny life.
He tried to focus.
A thought flashed—"Stop"—and the chick immediately froze, even though its legs were still shaky.
He thought again—"Come here"—and it turned its head, walking toward him, despite having been following Lam Ngu just a moment before.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
He understood: with a single intent, he possessed absolute control over it. He could even... make it stop breathing.
But he didn't test that. Not out of fear, but because he knew deep down: this power was not for dominance, but for protection. He watched Thai Ke nuzzling his sister's hand and made a silent vow: I will never use that power on you... unless it is to save you.
Lam Pham let the name "Thai Ke" go. To him, it was just another of his sister's whimsical names—like the time she called their dog "The Admiral" or the cat "The Lady."
Lam Ngu, however, cheered every time Thai Ke followed her. "Thai Ke! Come here! Look at me!" The chick waddled along, its gait clumsy but its devotion clear. It showed no fear of humans, constantly seeking the warmth of Lam Ngu's palm.
Lam Pham stood by, his mind still lingering on that invisible tether. But Thai Ke was too small—it couldn't fly, couldn't forage, and hadn't even fully opened its eyes. It was too early to tell if it differed from a common chicken.
"Let's go back, brother," she said, glancing one last time at the chick yawning in its straw nest.
The siblings quietly exited the space. The invisible door closed behind them, leaving the lush greenery and the tiny soul breathing steadily in the silence.
The Night the Gates Opened
That evening was the Full Moon of the Seventh Month, the Day of Wandering Souls. Ngu Minh Village was unusually restless.
Every household set out small offerings in their front yards: white rice, thin porridge, sesame salt, a few green bananas... The villagers called it "Feeding the Hungry Ghosts," but in Ngu Minh, it had a local name: "The Day the Underworld Gate Opens."
Lam Pham followed his parents to the village communal house. Oil lamps flickered, and incense smoke coiled into hazy ribbons under the pale moon. The adults prayed and chanted; the children huddled around fires, whispering ghost stories—yet none dared mention the "White Shadow" or the "Midnight Knocking," though everyone knew those tales weren't mere fiction.
Amidst the crowd, Lam Pham noticed three strangers.
Two men and one woman. They wore coarse linen, went barefoot, and had their hair tied neatly behind their heads. They didn't light incense or bow. They simply stood near the ancient banyan tree, their eyes slowly scanning the village as if counting every roof and every plot of soil.
A village boy ran up to offer them some rice cakes. The woman shook her head slightly and smiled. "Thank you, child. But we... do not eat offerings."
Then they vanished silently into the darkness, heading toward the stream behind the mountain—the very place Lam Pham frequented.
Lam Ngu tugged his sleeve, whispering, "Are they cultivators?"
Lam Pham didn't answer. He only squeezed her hand and pulled her away from the trio. In Ngu Minh, people respected cultivators, but they feared them more. Everyone knew: Cultivators do not descend the mountain for trivial matters. When they appear, a "strange object" or a "deviant person" is sure to follow.
The night grew colder. Lam Pham glanced toward the stream where the three had disappeared, a sense of dread pooling in his stomach.
Nearby, Uncle Tu—a man who often traveled to the district market—clapped Lam Pham on the shoulder. "Hey, Pham! You look radiant lately. Eating well? Is there good news in the family?"
Lam Pham forced a smile. "Just getting enough sleep, Uncle."
Beside him, Lam Ngu was cornered by her peers. Buoi, the village head's daughter, whispered, "I heard they're from the district capital! Are they real cultivators? I saw them looking at you, Ngu!"
Lam Ngu feigned ignorance. "Looking at me? Must be a mistake. I've got nothing worth looking at!"
She glanced at her brother, her eyes filled with fleeting alarm. Lam Pham gave a sharp nod, signaling her to stay quiet.
At that moment, one of the male cultivators glanced over. It wasn't a stare, just a seemingly casual brush of the eyes before he turned back to his companions.
But Lam Pham felt it clearly: That look was not accidental.
He gripped his sister's hand. "Let's go home."
As the family hurried back through the misty trail by the stream, the moon was dim and the shadows of the trees swayed like reaching hands. They were in such a rush that no one noticed the figure trailing them since they left the communal house.
Only when they reached the mouth of their alley did the hair on Lam Pham's neck stand up.
He turned his head.
Under the banyan tree at the end of the hamlet, where the oil lamps couldn't reach, stood a dark shadow. It was taller than a man, with no discernible head or arms, standing as still as if it were rooted into the earth. It didn't move. It didn't breathe. But its invisible gaze was pinned—deadly and fixed—on his family.
They thought they were returning to safety. But in truth, they had just walked straight into the wolf's mouth.