yellow weasel

Chapter 4: The Final Gamble

Time lost its meaning for Zhao Baipi. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, but he remained the same: vigorous, handsome, and utterly alone. His servants avoided him, frightened by his predatory grace and the unsettling way his eyes glowed in the dark. Even Li Fu, his loyal enforcer, had begun to sleep with a sharp kitchen knife under his pillow.

The gold had lost its luster. It was just metal now. He had lived for half a year without aging a day, and the novelty of immortality had worn off, replaced by a profound boredom and a growing, insatiable sense of superiority.

He began to think of himself not as a man, but as a god. Why should gods live in the clouds while he ruled over a mere village? He should rule the world. He should be worshipped.

He stood before the large bronze mirror in his study. He was naked from the waist up, admiring his flawless physique. But the face looking back at him was no longer that of a human landlord. His features were sharp, vulpine. His ears had definitely pointed further, resembling those of a wild canine. When he breathed, his nostrils flared, catching scents that no human nose should detect—the scent of fear from the kitchen, the scent of a mouse in the walls, and the distant, musky odor of the weasel spirit in the mountains.

He looked at the last bean. It sat on a velvet cushion, the only thing left on his messy desk. It was the smallest of the three, but it radiated a power that made the air around it shimmer and warp.

"This is it," Zhao hissed, his voice now carrying a distinct, sibilant edge. "The final step. No more hiding."

He recalled the weasel's warning: "Greed will forge your saddle." He didn't understand it, nor did he care. Saddles were for horses and donkeys—beasts of burden. He was no beast. He was Zhao the Immortal.

He picked up the bean. It was warm, almost burning to the touch. He closed his eyes and concentrated, pouring all his arrogance, all his hatred for the common folk, and all his lust for absolute power into the tiny, pulsating seed.

"I wish for dominion!" he screamed, his voice shaking the windows in their frames. "I wish to be above all men! I wish to be a god! Let all creation bow before me!"

He expected thunder. He expected the roof to open up and a golden staircase to descend from the heavens. He expected to feel his feet leaving the ground.

Instead, there was a moment of absolute, deafening silence.

Then, the pain hit.

It was not the searing heat of the second wish. This was a deep, grinding agony, as if his bones were being crushed and reshaped by a giant's merciless hand. He fell to the floor, convulsing uncontrollably.

"AAAAARGH!" he roared, but the sound that came out was not a human scream. It was a bray—a loud, discordant, and terrifying sound that echoed through the halls.

He looked down at his hands. They were shrinking, twisting. His fingernails turned black and hard, becoming hooves. His skin sprouted coarse, gray hair. His spine elongated, and his buttocks became heavy and muscular. His face was pulled forward, his nose turning into a rubbery muzzle. His beautiful new teeth fell out, replaced by large, flat molars designed for grinding.

Within seconds, the transformation was complete.

Where Zhao Baipi had stood, there now stood a donkey. A scrawny, miserable-looking gray donkey with a thin neck and a look of utter, soul-crushing terror in its eyes. It was the very donkey from his nightmares.

The donkey looked around in a blind panic. It tried to speak, to beg, to reason, but all that came out was a series of frantic, pathetic brays. It had no hands to gesture with, no words to form. It was trapped in a body that was strong yet utterly subservient, a prisoner of its own making.

Suddenly, the door burst open. It was Li Fu and two other servants, alerted by the commotion. They stopped dead in the doorway, staring at the scene.

On the floor lay the torn remains of Zhao's expensive silk robes. Standing amidst the wreckage was a donkey. And on the cushion, untouched, lay the three beans—now dull and gray, having expended their magic.

Li Fu was the first to recover. He looked at the donkey, then at the shredded clothes, and then at the terrified, all-too-human eyes of the beast. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He remembered the beatings, the humiliation, and the way Zhao had treated him like dirt.

"Well, well," Li Fu said, his voice dripping with malice. "Look what the cat—or should I say, the weasel—dragged in."

He stepped forward and grabbed the donkey's rope halter, which had mysteriously appeared around its neck. The donkey struggled, but it was weak, and Li Fu was strong, fueled by years of pent-up rage.

"Master Zhao," Li Fu sneered, yanking the rope hard. "You always said you'd grind us into dust. Looks like the tables have turned. Let's see how you like the millstone."

The servants laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that held no joy. They dragged the braying donkey out of the mansion and into the freezing night, toward the village mill.

High up in the mountains, Huang Laosan, the Yellow Immortal, watched the scene unfold through a magical scrying pool filled with swirling mist. He clicked the beads on his bone abacus, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Three wishes, three payments," he murmured. "His wealth bought him pride. His life bought him isolation. And his desire for power... bought him a saddle. The accounts are balanced."

He closed his eyes and went back to his meditation, leaving the village of Blackwater to deal with its newest, four-legged resident.