Chapter 157

Chapter 157

Qi Bai and Lang Ze walked to the riverbank and untied the grass ropes around their waists.

The ropes were unnecessary, really—the ice was still over ten centimeters thick. In human form, they could walk on it without fear of breaking through. It was only someone like Niuxin, with several tons of weight in his yak beast form, who could crack the ice beneath him.

Qi Bai had only taken a few steps when Lang Ze suddenly reached out and pinched his backside.

Qi Bai jumped in shock, glancing nervously toward the tribe’s walls not far away. This spot was barely a ten-minute walk from the settlement—anyone standing on the wall could see them. Was Lang Ze really being shameless out in public?

But this time, Qi Bai misunderstood him. Wolf Ze frowned. He’d been meaning to ask: what was wrong with Qibai’s butt? Since yesterday, his gait had been stiff and strange.

Qibai rubbed his tailbone. The bone itself seemed intact, but it was probably badly bruised. Every step pulled at it painfully, so he kept his legs tight, not daring to move too hard.

He explained the remaining stores in the warehouse and cellar, then said, “We need to think of a way to gather more food.”

Checking the ice over the Cannibal Fish River had kept them alert, but once they returned home and lit the hearth, they barely exchanged a few words before dozing off.

Neither slept deeply, burdened with worry.

When they woke, the house was dark—not because it was night, but because the windows were sealed with hides to block the cold winds, leaving no light inside.

Qibai pulled aside the hide curtain. Bright sunlight streamed in; the sun wasn’t yet westering. They had only slept three or four hours.

Even so, it was enough to restore their strength.

Wolfze put on a hide coat, got off the heated bed, scooped hot water from the clay pot, mixed it with cold water from the stone vat, and filled bamboo cups and a wooden basin.

When alone, Wolfze had no patience for such things—like using warm water to wash or brushing his teeth. In fact, most beastmen didn’t wash their faces or brush their teeth daily, especially in winter. Many went the whole season without a bath, only diving into the river come spring.

Wolfze considered himself clean by comparison—he at least rinsed off in streams after sweating. But it still didn’t compare to Qibai, who scrubbed himself meticulously, never mind the trouble.

Qibai sprinkled salt onto a toothbrush and handed it to him.

This toothbrush was an improvement he’d made after inventing pigskin glue. Before, Qibai had tied a smooth piece of hide to a twig to brush with, which was awkward.

Now, with glue, he carved two small strips of wood. He drilled holes in one, stuffed in bunches of bristles, glued it to the other strip, and once the glue set, sanded it smooth—almost like the toothbrushes from his old world.

Wolfze accepted it and, just as Qibai had taught him, crouched seriously by the bucket and brushed his teeth. He had no choice—Qibai wouldn’t kiss him otherwise.

After brushing and washing, Qibai rubbed pig fat on both their faces.

He’d realized pig fat was a marvel: good for cooking, for lamps, and—most crucially in this bitter cold—for skin.

It wasn’t vanity. The winds outside were so harsh that freshly washed skin would crack and sting within minutes. Anyone who had suffered it knew how unbearable it was.

Not far away was Yangluo and Houyan’s house. Wolfze asked, “How do you plan to punish Yangluo?”

“Huh?” Qibai blinked, confused. Leaning closer, he whispered, “What did Grandpa Priest do wrong?”

He thought back. Yangluo had behaved fine recently—hadn’t cheated anyone of food, had been fair and dutiful.

“Don’t you know?” Wolfze turned to him. “The tribe’s food shortage is his fault.”

Qibai froze. Was it really that serious?

To him, the warehouse and cellar were just where food was stored temporarily. The chief and priest kept it to ensure fair distribution through winter. Even if mistakes happened, it was still laborious, thankless work. How could that count as dereliction?

Wolfze shook his head. “Priests don’t gather or hunt. They get the best food and tools from the tribe. He can’t let the people starve.”

Qibai opened his mouth—fair point. In this world, nothing mattered more than food.

It was lucky they’d caught the problem early. If they had only discovered it after the last distribution, the tribe might not have replenished in time, and starvation wasn’t a joke.

And he couldn’t say Wolfze was wrong. As he put it: if a priest enjoyed the tribe’s privileges, he had to bear its burdens. Anything else could be forgiven—but never food.

And thinking back to Yangluo’s frantic behavior, Qibai realized the old man probably knew the gravity of it too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have rushed headlong into the cellar yesterday, or yielded so quickly when asked for sugar.

Only, Niuxin’s fall into the ice hole had distracted them until morning, or Qibai might have noticed Yangluo’s strange mood sooner.

He tugged Wolfze’s sleeve. They had to decide how to handle Yangluo before going in.

Inside, Yangluo and Houyan were sitting at a table. When Qibai and Wolfze entered and sat, Houyan sniffed. What had these two eaten? They reeked of delicious fat.

Wolfze asked bluntly, “How long can the tribe’s food last?”

Qibai quickly calculated. “If we keep distributing at the current rate, and set aside seed for next spring, we’ve got maybe ten or so days’ worth left.”

The tribe gave out food every ten days. The last distribution had been five days ago. That meant, at best, not even twenty days remained.

But everyone knew—winter would not end in twenty days. They would soon run out.

Wolfze gave Yangluo a cool glance.

The old priest sat stiffly, as if deaf and blind.

Houyan suddenly said, “The shortage isn’t Yangluo’s fault. Every time food was given out, I was the one carrying it. I should have noticed. If anyone must be punished, let it be me. Exile me from the tribe.”

He truly believed it was his mistake.

Seeing the baskets of meat in the warehouse, the stockpile of game in the snow, he’d thought them wealthy. He had forgotten—last year the tribe had fifty people. Now there were over three hundred. Even three jin of meat a day per person was over a thousand jin gone daily. And three jin didn’t even fill them.

Yangluo’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “I…I…”

Houyan raised a hand, cutting him off, and told Wolfze firmly, “The tribe needs a priest. Keep Yangluo. He matters. I’ll go instead.”

He hesitated, then softened his tone: “Yangluo is a sub-beastman. He can’t survive alone outside. When Qibai learns the rituals, let Yangluo become a normal tribesman.”

Yangluo’s lips trembled. If exiled, he’d die for sure. But would Houyan truly survive?

Houyan lowered his head. Yangluo stared at his crown, stricken.

Qibai frantically shot Wolfze looks. What was with this tribe—why did every mistake end in talk of exile?

Houyan wasn’t joking either. Qibai knew him—a blunt man, no games. He meant it.

Finally, after Qibai’s desperate winking, Wolfze gave the barest nod.

That was the plan they had agreed on: Wolfze would relent—not punish too harshly, but scare them enough to make them cautious in the future.

Qibai jumped in. “Yes, Grandpa Priest miscalculated the food, that’s a mistake. But—”

Both Yangluo and Houyan froze. They didn’t know what “praise first, scold after” meant. They thought exile was already decided.

“But,” Qibai continued, “we all see how hard Grandpa Priest works daily. And nothing terrible has happened yet. We can still fix this.”

After moving into private houses, everyone’s chores shifted constantly. Yangluo, as the tribe’s bookkeeper, kept records of all of it—more work than most priests ever did.

They listened intently for Wolfze’s verdict. He wasn’t chief, but in truth, he made nearly all the tribe’s major decisions now.

Qibai added, “I said ten days of food left only if we keep the same rations. But we can cut back. Distribute less each time. That stretches it.”

“And now that we have iron tools, I can make fishing rods. We can fish the Cannibal River. If we mix fish with meat, no one will go hungry. That’ll last us thirty more days.”

Wolfze frowned. He had never seen a “fishing rod.” Their only fishing method was bait baskets for piranhas—and the piranhas still hadn’t returned.

Still, he thought for a long moment, then said gravely:

“Black Mountain Tribe’s hunting season begins early.”