Chapter One: Gray Fox （four）

The fox cautiously emerged from the open cage, squatting a little distance away from him, its gray eyes timidly gazing at his face. A dry leaf fell from above, landing gently on its nose, and it curiously examined the leaf, mistaking it for a foe.

He flashed a rare smile and said, "Let's go, don't come back here again. If you get caught again, I might not be able to save you."

The fox tilted its head, using its paw to brush away the leaf, then ran a few steps before stopping, turning back to look at him.

He waved his hand at it. "Go on!"

The fox blinked, then dashed into the depths of the forest like a streak of lightning.

He sighed in relief, stretched his muscles, and turned back towards the camp.

He thought that from that day on, he wouldn't have any good days in the military camp, although there weren't many good days before either. But unexpectedly, Ironhead didn't do anything to him. The more severe retaliation he had imagined never happened. That guy, just like before, didn't show him any favor and still made him fetch water, chop wood, feed the horses, and clean the stables. It was as if the events of that day had never occurred. Ironhead didn't mention it himself, nor did he allow anyone else to bring it up.

Perhaps he felt too embarrassed. The mighty Ironhead couldn't even defeat a little kid, and in the end, he had to rely on him to prevent falling into the deep valley. Since that day, anyone who witnessed the match no longer troubled him. Some people even gave him half a loaf of bread when they saw he didn't have time to eat.

Although they were used to life and death on the battlefield, most people still held some reverence for someone who wasn't afraid of death.

Not long after, Ironhead was transferred to the vanguard camp. On the day of his departure, Ironhead was using a slingshot to shoot birds in the camp, but his luck was bad that day, and he didn't catch anything. He was passing by with a bucket of water when Ironhead called out to him.

"Do you know why I dislike you?" Ironhead asked.

He stood opposite Ironhead, putting down the water bucket, shaking his head.

Ironhead looked up at the sky. "Because our lives are no different from these birds and beasts, but you aren't."

He suddenly smiled, a smile that belied his age, filled with depth. "All for the sake of being butchered, just on different chopping boards."

Ironhead, the rough man, seemed unable to understand what he was saying. Walking up to him, Ironhead looked coldly at the teenager who was a head shorter than him. "When I come back, we'll have another match. Last time, you only won by using a little trickery."

He smiled again, picking up the water bucket. "Until we meet again."

Until we meet again... on the battlefield, that was the biggest luxury.

Soon after, he saw Ironhead again, the man who had bullied him countless times, lying coldly on a cart with a dozen corpses, his body riddled with wounds. Ironhead was relatively intact, with all limbs intact, but covered in countless cuts and arrow wounds. He must have fought desperately, his right hand still holding onto a dagger.

The new leader lazily told him, "You're responsible for these."

"Understood," he nodded.

He couldn't remember how many mass graves he had found by now because every time he found an empty spot, it quickly filled up.

This time, they brought back five bodies in total. The people who were supposed to work with him made excuses about stomachaches and ran off, leaving him alone standing in the sparse snowfall, especially cold today.

After digging the grave, it was already dusk, and the sky had long since darkened. He tied a torch to the windward side and, by its faint light, placed the bodies into the pit one by one.

The lifeless corpses seemed much lighter, and he didn't feel much strain when moving them.

Ironhead was the last one to be placed in the grave. Standing next to him, he looked at Ironhead's blood-stained face and said, "When I was at home, my father often made me spar with the household servants blindfolded. He said my physique was inadequate, brute force alone wouldn't make me a match for others, and only by relying on agility could I have a chance of winning. So you're right, I won against you by using a little trickery. If we were to fight again, I wouldn't stand a chance of winning. Although we may never have the chance to fight again, I suppose you and I are even now."

With that, he covered Ironhead's face with a white cloth, climbed out of the grave, and slowly began to fill it with soil using an iron shovel.

As the soil fell down, it made a brushing sound, becoming clearer as the night grew deeper.

Suddenly, a small creature jumped out from the nearby bushes, hopping onto a rock by the edge of the grave and squatting down to watch him busy himself.

"It's you again?" He paused with the shovel, wiping the sweat from his forehead and looking at the half-white, half-black fox. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from here?"

Of course, the fox didn't respond to his words. It stretched its neck curiously, looking into the pit.

He suddenly felt a bit tired, putting down the shovel and sitting down, also looking into the pit. "They're all dead. Not long ago, they were all still alive and kicking. Ever since they joined this war, it's been like you being locked in a cage; life and death are no longer in our hands."

The fox blinked, looking into the pit and then at him.

"Ironhead said my fate was different from theirs." He turned his head towards the direction of the military camp. "But between him and me, we're just fish on different chopping boards."

With a self-deprecating smile, he stood up again, picked up the iron shovel, and muttered to himself, "I must be going mad, talking to you, this silly fox."

The fox raised its paw to scratch its ear.

He shook his head, burying himself back into his work of filling the grave. Only about half of it was filled. It must be well past midnight by the time he finished, but he didn't feel hungry, although his stomach ached with emptiness, and the cold air, with each breath, felt more unbearable.

Shovel after shovel, the soil fell into the pit with his mechanical movements, accompanied by a rhythmic sound.

Brush, brush, brush, brush... Suddenly, amidst the regular sounds, he heard an irregular noise.

He stopped and turned his head, seeing the fox standing by the edge of the pit. It had somehow climbed onto the rock and was using its hind legs to kick dirt into the pit.

He blinked, wondering if the fox was indeed as intelligent as they said. After a moment of thought, he shook his head and chuckled, saying to the fox, "Alright, alright. With your short legs, you'll never finish kicking dirt even until dawn. I'll do it myself."

The fox ignored him, still kicking dirt into the pit.

He finished a little earlier than he had expected. Exhausted, he sat down on the ground, and the fox also sat down, panting heavily.

"Thanks," he said, looking at the fox.

The fox glanced at him, then turned and ran into the woods.

Dragging the empty cart, he walked back to the camp along the rugged mountain road amidst the increasingly heavy snowfall.

Because of a fox, tonight wasn't so bad after all, he thought to himself.