Chapter Nine: The Wolf, the Rabbit, and the Ruins

The rabbits here had mottled fur and closely resembled those on Earth, except they were over half a meter long and looked particularly plump. For carnivores, rabbits were the most sought-after prey—tender meat with barely any means to resist—so Sun Licheng's face instantly blossomed into a cheerful grin.

He drew a javelin thrower and a wooden spear from his back, aimed at the rabbit, but then put them away. At this distance, he couldn't be sure of a hit, and a failed throw would only startle the rabbit away.

After some thought, Sun Licheng decided to sneak up and launch a surprise attack. He removed his fur coverings, hid them carefully, and, naked but for a long spear, began to crawl forward with utmost caution. After several careful shifts, he found cover behind a bush.

A dozen meters ahead, a rabbit grazed with its head down. Sun Licheng held his breath, eyes locked on the animal's every movement. The rabbit was alert, frequently lifting its head to scan the surroundings. In the instant it turned away, Sun Licheng sprang, darting toward it.

The plump rabbit was startled, leaping aside with agility and escaping his attack. Unexpectedly, instead of fleeing, the rabbit tilted its head back and let out a wild howl. In that moment, Sun Licheng felt as though he was no longer facing a rabbit, but a miniature wolf.

As the rabbit howled, more and more of its kind emerged from all directions—soon there were more than twenty, and the numbers kept growing.

It was only then that Sun Licheng noticed how different these rabbits were from those on Earth. First, their claws were particularly sharp; second, their teeth were not the small incisors of typical rabbits, but jagged, carnivorous fangs; finally, though their eyes were red, they glimmered with ferocity, not a hint of gentleness to be found.

Sun Licheng instantly understood: these were not herbivores at all, but carnivores, or at least omnivores. He had run all this way, only to deliver himself as a meal.

While he hesitated, the rabbits hunched their bodies, growling menacingly, spreading out in a fan formation as they advanced—a veritable army on the charge.

In the face of danger, Sun Licheng's mind raced. Suddenly, he let out a thunderous roar—"Ah!"—startling the rabbits to a halt.

Seeing his plan succeed, Sun Licheng spun and ran. The rabbits, enraged by his ruse, howled and gave chase, their pursuit turning the grassland into a thunderous uproar.

The four-legged rabbits were slightly faster than Sun Licheng's two. In no time, they had nearly caught up.

A particularly robust rabbit sprang from behind, biting down on Sun Licheng's swinging left arm. Blood sprayed in an arc, and Sun Licheng screamed in agony, his movements slowing. Another rabbit raced forward, sinking its teeth into his right ankle. His right foot instantly lost all strength, and his body toppled off balance. He rolled to the right with a wail, his spear flying high and falling, spinning, to embed itself upright in the grass.

His fall only spurred on the pursuing rabbits. They swarmed over him, tearing into his flesh. In an instant, Sun Licheng became the base of a mountain of rabbits atop the meadow.

Pinned beneath, he experienced firsthand the agony of being flayed alive. It felt as if countless tiny blades sliced into his flesh, pain so unbearable he could only emit wrenching screams, until the torment drove him to unconsciousness.

After a while, a strange scene unfolded. The rabbits released the bloodied Sun Licheng, staggered a few steps, then collapsed, their bodies convulsing…

From Sun Licheng’s first attack to the rabbits’ demise, barely six or seven minutes had passed. Yet another animal graveyard had appeared on the grassland.

After he regained consciousness and escaped the meadow, Sun Licheng observed the area for two days from the outskirts, discovering that he seemed to have poisoned all those wolf-like rabbits—at least, he didn't see any activity in that patch of grass for days.

Once certain the area was temporarily safe, Sun Licheng returned to the woods, chopped down young trees, fashioned ropes, and assembled a large sled. It was cumbersome, had no wheels, and dragging it was exhausting, but Sun Licheng possessed great strength and moved quickly enough.

Carefully, he hauled the sled back to the battlefield. To distinguish these ferocious creatures from ordinary rabbits, he dubbed them "wolf-rabbits," meaning wild hares as fierce as wolves. He swiftly unearthed the buried wolf-rabbit corpses, tossed them onto the sled, and hurried back to his camp.

Thirty-six wolf-rabbit corpses piled atop the sled like a small mountain. Even with his current strength, dragging them was a herculean task.

The journey back to camp was uneventful. Despite the harrowing hunt, Sun Licheng was deeply satisfied with the outcome. He expertly skinned the rabbits and roasted all their meat over the campfire. In truth, the rabbits had begun to spoil after two days, but after such an ordeal, Sun Licheng considered this a minor detail—food was what mattered. As the saying goes, a full belly brings peace of mind.

The roasted rabbit meat tasted excellent. Sun Licheng had long forgotten the flavor of rabbit on Earth, but he doubted it could compare to this wolf-rabbit. Not only was it delicious, there was a faint energy contained in the meat. This puzzled him; the meat seemed to be from a low-tier magical beast, yet the rabbits showed no magical traits and he found no magic crystals.

“Maybe I never got the chance to truly fight these wolf-rabbits—poison wiped them all out first,” he mused, gnawing on a rabbit leg.

…

After two days of rest, Sun Licheng set out again. His destination was once more the great meadow—for, compared to other regions, its environment was superior. With nearly forty wolf-rabbits, each about a meter long, the demand for food must be enormous. He was convinced he could find smaller animals here to serve as his main source of meat.

After more than a day of searching, he finally discovered a type of giant field mouse. Their fur came in various colors, and they were about the same size as Earth rabbits. Through observation, he found they fed on roots and tubers. There were plenty of them, but most lived in underground burrows.

Sun Licheng was lucky to stumble upon them at all. One afternoon, after fruitless searching, he sat by the entrance of a wolf-rabbit den, frustrated after a day of effort with nothing to show for it.

Annoyed, he gnawed at some rabbit meat he’d brought along. Seeing the rabbit hole, anger surged within him.

“Damn it, I don’t believe these rabbits can conjure food out of thin air. If I can’t find anything above ground, I’ll dig up your home!”

Furiously, he shouted, then took his bone club and began digging into the den.

He hadn’t expected the rabbit burrow to be so deep. He dug for half an hour, making a pit a meter and a half deep. No rabbits, but he did unearth a nest of giant field mice.

Their eyes had clearly degenerated, and they were agitated by the sunlight. Unprepared for their home to be breached, they squealed and, driven by instinct, launched themselves at him.

Though more aggressive than Earth’s mice, they were no match for the wolf-rabbits. Less agile, their teeth less formidable.

Sun Licheng quickly dispatched them with his bone club. Only upon inspecting his haul did he break into a delighted grin—the fight had been so sudden he hadn’t looked closely, but now he saw four or five fat, hefty mice—enough to feed him for a while.

“Maybe these wolf-rabbits dig burrows to hunt these mice,” Sun Licheng speculated.

With this in mind, he dug several more pits and found over a dozen more field mice, which he quickly dispatched. Seeing the abundance of field mice on the meadow, he resolved to make them his staple meat source.

Though field mice might seem off-putting, they had long been a staple protein for humans on Earth. Plagues like the Black Death notwithstanding, people had always eaten rats—during ancient famines, they were even called “earth dragons.” Thus, Sun Licheng felt no qualms about eating them, especially now that he was a goblin with an iron stomach. Should trouble arise, he still had his radio calisthenics and tai chi—his two secret weapons.

Sun Licheng had always thought the vast meadow was a natural formation, but on the fourth day, that belief was shaken.

That day, as usual, he went to the meadow to dig for field mice. The weather was fine, and with his back to the sun, he felt comfortably warm as he worked.

But after only a few shovelfuls, his tool struck something extraordinarily hard, ringing out with a crisp sound. He frowned, thinking he’d hit a stone, and dug around in an attempt to bypass it. But everywhere he dug, he encountered hard objects. Suspicion grew—something was amiss.

Carefully, he scraped away the soil, and soon unearthed a large, seamless black slab of unknown material. Even after untold years, Sun Licheng instantly recognized this was no natural formation. Strange glyphs were clearly etched into the surface.

“A product of civilization!”

The realization exploded in Sun Licheng’s mind like thunder.

Since arriving in this world, he had seen no trace of intelligent beings, but now he had found an artifact of advanced technology.

The slabs were smooth, clearly not handmade but mass-produced.

“What is this place? Who made these slabs? What do these symbols mean?”

A barrage of questions filled his mind. With these doubts stirring, he began a careful survey of the area and quickly made new discoveries. In some places, the grass was sparse, revealing patches of the same black material he had just uncovered. He hadn’t noticed before, but now he saw—they were all made of the same stuff.

Lifting his gaze, he traced the line of slabs from his dig site into the distance, and in his mind’s eye, a straight road stretched as far as he could see. Such a project—how immense it must have been!

Ancient times? Ridiculous! He quickly dismissed the thought. Even in the 21st century, back in his homeland, this would be a national-level infrastructure project. In a world so harsh and wild, how could primitive people with only spears and clubs have built this? In a magical world, even a single suit of armor was a treasure, yet here, so many slabs of such quality and quantity—clearly the product of advanced industry. Yet why would such things appear in this desolate place, buried for countless years?

Suddenly, the world, the meadow, and everything around it brimmed with mystery.

It has been said that curiosity is the greatest driving force of human progress. While perhaps an exaggeration, it speaks to humanity’s boundless fascination with the unknown—a curiosity that often drives people to do the most foolish things. So it was that, driven by the discovery of a mysterious road, Sun Licheng, heedless of danger, followed it deep into the grasslands.

He didn’t know how far he’d traveled when, in the distance, he saw a lone gray wolf. Though still far, it was clear the wolf was gaunt.

For reasons unknown—perhaps hunger, perhaps the calm journey—the wolf had let down its guard. By the time it noticed the rabbits, it was too late.

Cautiously, the lone wolf halted. Around it, rabbit shapes flickered into view.

The wolf was surrounded. Sensing danger, it arched its back, growling warnings, preparing to fight. But the rabbits were undaunted; they attacked at once.

Wolves are fearsome carnivores, and this one was larger than any rabbit, but soon it was locked in battle.

At that moment, a bolt of lightning appeared out of thin air, striking at the wolf. Guided by an instinct honed by years on the edge of life and death, the wolf leapt aside, narrowly dodging the strike.

“Holy hell, lightning magic!”

For the first time in this world, Sun Licheng witnessed true magic, and he couldn’t help but cry out.

He saw clearly—the lightning had come from a large gray rabbit, three times the size of the others, exuding an imposing presence. Clearly, this was the leader.

The wolf, daunted by the magical attack, turned to flee. The rabbits gave chase, the big gray rabbit launching bolt after bolt of lightning. When the wolf had nearly escaped a hundred meters, a bolt finally struck home. Its fur stood on end, its body went rigid in midair, and it crashed to the ground.

Seizing the chance, the rabbits swarmed, burying the wolf beneath them. The sound of flesh being torn was followed by the wolf’s desperate, dying howls, which soon faded to silence.

The victorious rabbits threw back their heads and howled at the sky like a wolf pack, the sound echoing across the meadow.

When the cries ceased, they dragged the wolf’s corpse into the depths of the grassland, leaving behind a large patch of blood and tufts of gray fur.

After witnessing this entire hunt, Sun Licheng could only mutter, after a long silence, “This world is too dangerous—even the rabbits have started worshipping the wolf totem.”