Chapter Five: The Black Bear Demon, Frightening in the Dead of Night

“Aunt, have you ever tried mixing different threads together to make clothes?” Gou Ye asked.

“What? Mixing different threads to weave? Would anyone want clothes made like that?” The mother of Yun Niang was puzzled; if you wove fabric that way, nobody would want it.

Gou Ye sighed inwardly. As expected, what this era lacked was someone daring enough to take that first step and try. There must be many skilled hands like Yun Niang’s mother, but their fabrics were simple and plain, hesitant to innovate, unable to stand out, and often hard to sell. It was much like those derivative works in later generations’ web literature—following trends but missing the essence, and without someone willing to be the first to try, failure was inevitable.

“Aunt, let me teach you a method that can produce exquisite clothes.”

“What? Ah Ye, weaving is simple, but you’ve never done it before. Maybe it’s better not to,” Yun Niang’s mother said gently. Yun Niang herself had tried learning to weave from her, but her attempts were so poor that her mother had eventually forbidden her from touching the loom. Now Gou Ye, whose weaving skills were even worse than Yun Niang’s, was proposing to weave—how could that not worry her?

“Aunt, don’t worry, you’ll be weaving; I’ll just share my idea.” Yun Niang’s mother breathed a sigh of relief, afraid that this little ancestor would insist on doing things himself, and then the clothes would only be fit for him to wear.

Without further ado, Gou Ye gathered white, black, gray, and blue threads. In this era, aside from the blue robes of scholars, these thread colors were the most popular.

“Ah Ye, do you need to use so many types of thread?” Yun Niang’s mother asked with concern.

“Trust me, Aunt, I know what I’m doing.” No one knew where Gou Ye found this mysterious confidence, but he had already pulled out all these threads, looking ready to make a grand attempt.

Yun Niang’s mother could only sigh. She couldn’t scold Gou Ye as she would Yun Niang—she’d just let him have his way.

Among plaid shirts, the most classic was the black, white, and gray style, which was Gou Ye’s favorite. He recalled his memories from his previous life and taught Yun Niang’s mother how to combine the threads.

Weaving clothes was a massive task. After an hour of work and with the night fully fallen, Yun Niang’s mother had only finished a third.

Somehow, Yun Niang had thoughtfully lit the oil lamp and sat quietly by, watching Gou Ye guide her mother in weaving.

The plaid shirt began to take shape, and Gou Ye was elated, but seeing Yun Niang’s mother’s sleepy eyes, he decided to stop for now. Glancing out the window, he realized the sky was pitch black—it was time to return to his shabby straw hut.

“Aunt, Yun Niang, it’s late, I’ll head back now. I’ll come see you both tomorrow.”

“Oh, Yun Niang, go walk Gou Ye home,” her mother said.

But Gou Ye refused, waving his hand, “No, no, Aunt, I’ll go back myself. You and Yun Niang should rest early.”

With that, Gou Ye left Yun Niang’s house without looking back.

He wasn’t about to let Yun Niang escort him. If she did, the little girl would insist on walking him all the way to his rundown straw hut. Once there, she would hardly leave easily, especially since she’d already looked after him several nights before.

If Yun Niang stayed, how could he write?

Hmph, romance is a stumbling block on the road to writing! Writing demands a heart of stone, undisturbed by the outside world!

…

The mountain village at night was tranquil, with only the occasional bark of a dog breaking the silence—otherwise, nothing stirred.

Suddenly, Gou Ye saw a lump blocking the road ahead, jolting him awake. Could he be encountering some “corpse of the mountain village”?

“Breathe, breathe, breathe.” Gou Ye quickly took deep breaths to force himself calm.

Then, the shadowy figure moved closer and closer.

Just as Gou Ye was about to scream for his mother, the shadow pounced on him!

“Aaah!” A scream tore through the night, and Gou Ye almost fainted.

He felt something wet and itchy on his face, as if something was licking him.

Opening his eyes slowly, he saw there was no “corpse of the mountain village” at all—just the little fat dog from Aunt Wang’s house, licking him with its tongue.

“Little Fat, you nearly scared me to death, do you know that?”

Gou Ye moved the little fat dog off his face and pointed at it angrily.

The dog paid him no mind, wagging its tail as if to say, “Ha! If you don’t like it, come bite me!”

Seeing this, Gou Ye was furious. He picked up the dog and marched toward Aunt Wang’s house.

“Hmph, I’ll send you home now—let’s see how you cause trouble again.”

Upon reaching her door, he noticed a not-too-small dog hole beside the door, just big enough for the little fat dog to squeeze through.

“You little black bear, I’ll put you in there right now!”

The dog struggled the whole way but couldn’t escape Gou Ye’s grasp. Seeing the impending “prison,” it cried out desperately.

But to Gou Ye, its cries sounded soft and cute, as if it were trying to win sympathy.

“Being cute won’t help you—don’t think you can do as you please just because you look adorable!”

With a smack, Gou Ye heartlessly shoved the dog through the hole into Aunt Wang’s house.

The dog tried to squeeze back through, but Gou Ye found two bricks from somewhere and sealed the hole with a quick motion.

The little fat dog was completely defeated, silently shedding helpless tears on the other side of the wall.

If it could speak, it would probably complain, “Damn Gou Ye, I may not be human, but you’re truly a scoundrel!”

…

Having dealt with the dog, Gou Ye left satisfied.

After a long walk, he finally returned to his shabby straw hut.

Thus ended his day—while his life during daylight was over, his night as a writer was just beginning.

“Sigh, I really miss the modern world—instant noodles and coffee are essentials for writing, and now I have neither,” Gou Ye lamented, shaking his head before starting to plot his story.

By the third watch of the night, Gou Ye’s eyelids were drooping. He finally rose and went to bed.

He wrote slowly today, only finishing about four thousand words. He planned to finish ten thousand tomorrow night and go into town the day after to settle accounts with the bookshop owner.