Chapter Five: I Am the True Master of Hidden Dragon Ridge!

Before his eyes, the Qianlong Ridge was utterly unlike the desolate wilderness he’d seen before his crossing. Centered on the ancestral home of the Li family, more than three hundred households clustered nearby. Houses of great stone blocks, courtyards walled with rammed yellow earth, pebble-paved footpaths, stone mills, wells, little donkeys—everywhere exuded a bucolic charm.

Some of the elderly, women, and children lounged on the great stones by the roadside, basking contentedly in the sun as they chatted about the humdrum affairs of daily life.

Li Zhao was just about to greet the villagers when, from a narrow alley, several figures suddenly darted forth—

“Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!”

It turned out to be several large hunting dogs, their fangs and claws flashing as they barked fiercely and incessantly! Qianlong Ridge lay beside Mount Zhongnan, and wild beasts often prowled the mountains, sometimes even straying into the village. Thus, nearly every household kept hunting dogs—some two or three, others as many as eight. They watched over the homes, and when it came to hunting in the hills, they were indispensable companions.

These hunting dogs were no ordinary beasts; they were a specialty of southern Guanzhong—large, swift as the wind, fierce of temper, and bold enough to take on wild beasts. Their tawny coats were marked with black stripes, strikingly like those of a tiger, earning them the name: Tiger-striped Hounds.

“Master, be careful! These dogs are savage and will bite strangers without hesitation!”

“It’s all right. Step aside.”

White Bun spread his arms, afraid these fierce dogs would leap up and injure the young master. Yet, to his astonishment, he was gently pushed aside.

Li Zhao’s gaze, sharp as lightning, met the wild eyes of the hounds. For a moment, they stared at each other. Then, with a confident smile, Li Zhao stepped forward and reached out to stroke the head of the most formidable of the tiger-striped hounds.

Unexpectedly, the tiger-striped hound did not bite his hand but allowed him to stroke its head, even appearing to relish the attention. The other hounds crouched low to the ground, wagging their tails as though welcoming their own master.

There are those in this world born with a certain magnetism—one that draws others to them, making people want to befriend them; this is called charm. Some have a gift for attracting the opposite sex with but a few words; people call this “womanly charm” or “manly charm.”

Li Zhao, truth be told, was never particularly blessed with the former, but he had an innate bond with animals. No matter the creature, he got along with them splendidly. Not even the fiercest watchdog would bite him; the great white geese that chased others through the streets never so much as nipped at his heels.

He had even considered working as a zookeeper after university—a fine career, he thought.

After crossing into this world, that affinity for animals came with him, stronger than ever.

“What fine hounds, truly splendid—powerful frames, excellent coats. Who’d have thought such a superb breed could be found in these mountains?” Beyond his passion for extreme sports, Li Zhao’s other hobby was raising dogs, especially large, formidable breeds. German Shepherds, Tibetan Mastiffs, Kunming Dogs, Rottweilers—he had trained them all, and with no small skill.

With his discerning eye, he recognized the remarkable quality of these tiger-striped hounds at a glance. He resolved to find an opportunity to take home the best of the pups and raise it into the finest of hunting dogs.

No—into the best of military dogs!

…

“White Bun, who is this young master? Is he a stranger to Qianlong Ridge?”

“He’s no stranger. This is our Young Master Zhao!”

“Young Master Zhao? But aren’t the only young masters in the Li family Young Master Chong and Young Master Fei?”

The barking of the hounds had drawn the villagers’ attention. A group of children ran over, their eyes brimming with curiosity. Clearly, they did not recognize Li Zhao, perhaps unaware of his existence, and assumed he was some outsider.

Just then, a group of elders arrived. They scrutinized Li Zhao’s features and, their faces lighting with realization, gave the troublesome children a sharp kick before pulling them down to bow deeply. “We greet you, Young Master Zhao. These children are ignorant and rude; we beg your forgiveness.”

Years ago, Li Zhao’s grandfather had resigned from office and retired here. The Emperor Ruizong himself could not persuade him to stay in service and, as compensation for his cousin, granted him a fief of three hundred households, with hereditary rights for his descendants.

In other words, all of Qianlong Ridge was the Li family’s domain, and all the villagers were tenant farmers under their lordship.

When his grandfather and father were alive, they were generous landlords—collecting only a fifth of the harvest as rent, exempting the people from all other taxes and levies, and providing feasts and gifts at every festival. The villagers remembered their kindness with deep gratitude to this day.

Li Zhao, as a child, had suffered from autism and did not step beyond the family shrine for eight years. Over time, the villagers nearly forgot his existence. Now that he was out among them, memories of old began to stir.

“Elders, there’s no need for such formality. Please, rise.”

“Thank you, Young Master Zhao.”

“How do the villagers fare these days?”

“Alas, men, women, and children toil day and night, yet barely manage half a bellyful. It’s nothing like the old days. When the old master was alive, life was comfortable—we had surplus grain in every household, and could eat meat and drink wine at every festival…”

Li Zhao sat by the roadside, listening to the elders lament.

Since Li De took power, he had raised the land rent to seventy percent. At every festival—and for his own birthday, his wife’s birthday, his son’s birthday—he extorted gifts from the villagers. He bullied and oppressed them, seizing what he wished, without restraint—a veritable vampire draining them dry!

The people of Qianlong Ridge ground their teeth in hatred for that family, but as tenant farmers, they were powerless to resist. Li Zhao’s sudden appearance rekindled a glimmer of hope.

After some conversation, Li Zhao took his leave and wandered on, while the villagers remained, whispering among themselves—

“Remember this, children: this is Young Master Zhao, the true lord of Qianlong Ridge. Pay him proper respect, and never slight him.”

“Yes, Grandfather. Young Master Zhao is so handsome and friendly. Aren’t he, Young Master Chong, and Young Master Fei brothers? Why are they so different?”

“You know nothing. Young Master Zhao is a descendant of the Tang imperial clan—a true dragon among men, naturally different from ordinary folk. As for those two fatties, they’re like wild weeds growing on a rooftop—bastards! How could they compare to Young Master Zhao?”

“Heavens bless us—may Young Master Zhao grow quickly and take charge, so that our good days may return.”

…

Not far away, Li Zhao listened to their words with satisfaction. To put it plainly, his wandering through the streets was meant to remind the villagers who the true heir of the Li family was, who the real master here should be.

But as he walked, he noticed the village was filled only with the elderly, women, and children; nowhere could he see any able-bodied men, nor anyone working the fields. Where had they all gone?

Had they gone hunting, perhaps? But it was early spring—the wild animals, after a long winter, were little more than skin and bones, their pelts poor. It was hardly the season for hunting.

“White Bun, where have all the able-bodied men gone?”

“In reply, Young Master: they’ve all gone into the mountains to catch dogs.”

“Catch dogs?” Li Zhao was bewildered. The village had so many hunting dogs—why go into the mountains to catch more?

White Bun said nothing, but led Li Zhao to the village entrance. There stood a great stone stele, over ten feet tall and six feet wide, with three bold characters carved upon it: Qianlong Ridge.

On the reverse side was pasted an official notice, bearing the image of a dog—its coat as white as snow, save for a golden stripe running down its forehead. It was powerfully built and carried itself with a noble air—clearly no ordinary creature. Below the image, a lengthy explanation was written. Li Zhao read it carefully and finally understood.

Two months prior, envoys from Tuyuhun had come to pay tribute to the emperor of the Tang, bringing with them fine horses, fat cattle, hunting falcons, jade, furs, and many other gifts. The most precious among them was a White Spirit Hound.

The White Spirit Hound was not a domesticated breed but a mutant wild dog, gifted with a spiritual bone, preternaturally sharp and courageous, able to hunt and kill leopards and Tibetan brown bears single-handedly. It was, without exaggeration, “the king of ten thousand hounds.”

During the Han and Wei-Jin dynasties, in the northwest, a branch of the Qiang people—the White Dog Tribe—unlike other nomads who revered the wolf, worshipped a white dog as their tribal totem, referring precisely to this White Spirit Hound.

White Spirit Hounds were exceedingly rare—one might not appear in a hundred years. Even if spotted, they were nearly impossible to capture, and taming them was harder still.

Yet, by chance, a Tuyuhun herdsman discovered one in the wilds. The khan, overjoyed, dispatched thousands of hunters to surround and pursue it. After more than a year, they finally caught the White Spirit Hound.

A spiritual hound such as this was not to be kept for private use. The Tuyuhun khan sent it as tribute to the Great Tang, to show his allegiance.

As the tribute caravan passed through Wuan County, they camped for the night on the outskirts. So close to Chang’an, they grew careless. The White Spirit Hound seized the chance, broke free of its cage, mauled over a dozen guards, and fled into Zhongnan Mountain under cover of darkness.

The emperor’s tribute hound had escaped—an unthinkable disaster! The local authorities immediately summoned all nearby hunters into the mountains to track it down, posting a high reward: anyone who captured the White Spirit Hound alive would receive one thousand strings of cash.

It was the height of the Kaiyuan era—prosperous times, goods plentiful, money strong. In Guanzhong, a dou of fine rice cost twenty coins, a bolt of raw silk four hundred seventy, and a prime ox no more than ten strings. (One string = 1,000 coins.)

A thousand strings! Enough for a hundred oxen or a grand estate. Who would not dream of sudden wealth?

And so, the able-bodied men of Qianlong Ridge and neighboring villages all set off into the mountains, hunting dogs in tow, traps and tools at hand, to try their luck at capturing the White Spirit Hound.

“White Bun, have they caught the Spirit Hound yet?”

“Not yet. The beast is wily and fierce. The hunters have tried to ambush it many times, but every attempt has failed—it’s escaped into the deep mountains.”

Li Zhao nodded and continued his wandering. Passing a small river, he scooped up some river sand to take back with him.

And why? Naturally, he had a use for it.