Chapter 5: The Little Hunter 5

Lecai’s “home” was just on the other side of the slope, which made the professor’s expression of astonishment deepen. That so-called “home” was not only halfway up the mountain but also perched on an extremely steep incline, with almost no path at all. In fact, there truly was no path—one could only rely on a single rope to go up or down. The rope, woven from some unknown fiber, was as thick as three fingers, pitch-black as if soaked in oil smoke, with knots tied at intervals, and it hung almost vertically down the mountainside.

Standing at the base of the cliff, Lecai leapt up to grab the rope and, like a nimble little monkey, shimmied up to a cave entrance more than ten meters above in just a few moments. He then gestured for the professor to fasten the game to the rope. The professor hesitated but eventually tied a live knot around the wild dog, which was the size of a young calf.

Lecai stepped inside, and soon the sound of creaking signaled that the rope was being drawn upward, apparently by a primitive windlass mechanism. After the game was hoisted up, the professor, gritting his teeth and drenched in sweat, finally managed to climb the rope, reaching the cave above.

Lecai rolled up the rope and, seeing the professor nearly exhausted, shook his head before leading the way further inside. To the professor’s surprise, this cave, which seemed small from the outside, was actually very deep—winding down for more than fifty meters before opening into a chamber.

Lecai took out a key and unlocked the iron door in front of them.

Once the iron door opened, the scene changed completely. It was as if, after passing through a narrow bottleneck, they had entered the belly of a gourd: the space became taller and much wider, with several stalactites hanging down, glowing softly, transforming the place into a fantastical stage. Following the steps down, the two reached the bottom, and the cold from outside was thoroughly shut out by the iron door, leaving the interior as warm as spring.

“Welcome to my home,” Lecai said proudly, adopting the air of a little host. He invited the professor to sit and brought him a cup of water from a small stone chamber.

The professor, noticing the slightly discolored cup, took a sip and exclaimed in surprise, “What kind of water is this? It tastes wonderful!” The water was fragrant and sweet, far surpassing any ordinary mineral water. In this radiation-ravaged area, it was nearly unimaginable—sources of drinking water were exceedingly rare, and potable water even more so.

Lecai merely smiled and offered no explanation; the water source was his great secret—how could he reveal it so casually?

This dwelling bore many traces of human modification, though the changes were clearly practical rather than decorative, likely the handiwork of Lecai’s parents. Compared to the unpredictable weather outside, this place was indeed a paradise—it was not only warm but the air was fresh and sweet, as if filtered, intoxicating in its purity.

Lecai had little interest in entertaining the professor; he needed to deal with the game quickly. With a swift stroke of his sharp curved blade, he opened the tough hide of the wild dog. Using both hands and feet, he soon had a complete pelt. He then expertly gutted and cleaned the carcass. This series of butchering tasks, which would stump most, he performed with practiced ease—clearly, he had become highly skilled through repetition.

How many mutant beasts had this boy hunted and killed?

The professor watched in awe, his admiration for the boy growing.

“Lecai, how long have you been living alone?” he asked.

“Two years. Ever since my father went hunting and never returned, I’ve lived here on my own.” Lecai’s tone was calm, devoid of sorrow. For two years he had survived here by himself—did he not feel loneliness or isolation? The professor voiced his doubts.

“My father taught me to read,” Lecai replied. “He said that in the ocean of knowledge, we are but tiny fish—only by constantly absorbing nourishment can we earn the right to survive. So I read books; I don’t feel lonely or isolated.”

The professor smiled—a truly innocent child.

“What kind of books do you read?”

“I read all sorts—The Four Great Classics, the Five Famous Works, everything you can think of.”

The professor was a little taken aback. “Which book is your favorite?”

“Of the Four Great Classics, my favorite is ‘The Golden Lotus.’ Among the Five Famous Works, I like ‘Super Rogue Student’ best. The main character is amazing—all the girls like him, and he spends his days showing off and playing tricks, living carefree and wild…”

“Wait, what—what kind of classics are those? Something doesn’t seem right,” the professor stammered, a bead of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Lecai, could you show me these so-called classics you’ve been reading?”

“Sure, but you have to promise not to damage them. These were my father’s favorite books. If he ever comes back and finds out I’ve ruined his treasures, he’ll be mad.”

“Didn’t you say your father was dead? How could he come back?” the professor asked, puzzled.

“I only said he’s not here anymore. Nothing in life is absolute. There’s a book that says even ghosts, given the right chance, can cultivate and return to life—so who’s to say my father is truly dead?”

To distract the persistent professor, Lecai led him to a small stone chamber, evidently his so-called study. Upon seeing the tattered, brick-like volumes with lurid covers on the wooden shelves, the professor finally understood what kind of “classics” the boy had been reading. They were all online novels and erotic pulp fiction from decades past.

“Lecai, a child like you shouldn’t be reading these books. How about this—let me be your teacher. I’m a professor; I know so much,” the professor urged, hoping to steer the boy away from such questionable reading material and prevent him from growing up into a scoundrel.

Lecai looked at him in surprise. “You’re a teacher? Did you write these books?”

The professor replied, exasperated, “I am a respected professor! How could I possibly write these third-rate novels? My work consists of universe-renowned papers—cited by countless scholars, considered classics for generations.”

“Then never mind. My dad used to call people like you ‘bookish scholars’—all talk and no use.”

The professor was indignant. “How could your father mislead a child so? Let me tell you—for a professor like me, nothing is impossible! I have countless imperial martial arts manuals in my mind, and I can teach you systematically, help you grow and become stronger. Lecai, you’re still young; brute strength alone won’t suffice. I can help you become more powerful.”

Lecai’s eyes lit up. “Are you serious? My dad always said his greatest regret was never getting his hands on an imperial martial arts manual to study. If you really have one, I’ll gladly take you as my master.”

“Take me as your master—no, no, I’m just a professor, not some martial arts grandmaster. I can be your teacher, not your master, understand?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as you can teach me skills, call it whatever you like.”

“But I have one condition. If you don’t agree, I won’t accept you as a student.”

“What’s the condition? As long as you’re not one of those creepy old men in the books who harass their students, I’ll agree to anything…”

“…My condition is that from now on, you have to do as I say—especially, you are forbidden to read these morally corrupt books!”

The professor, at his wit’s end, finally blurted out his demand.