Chapter One: My Name is Lin Thirty-Seven

I remember being driven out of my uncle’s house just thirteen days before the New Year.

He beat me seventy-six times with a stick as thick as his calf, kicked me nineteen times, slapped me twenty-three times, and called me a curse upon the family.

I did not beg for mercy, nor did I bow my head. My father had taught me from a young age: a man should be like an eagle—better to die standing than to live kneeling.

My name is Lin Thirty-Seven. I was once a hunter—an exceptionally skilled one.

My family hails from Inner Mongolia. When I was a child, my grandfather told me that our ancestors had been imperial falconers during the Yuan Dynasty, with some even attaining the third rank of officialdom.

The string of sandalwood beads I wear on my wrist, my grandfather said, was once bestowed upon our forebear by the great Mongol Khan, Möngke.

In a way, you could say we were once esteemed.

On the night of my fourteenth birthday, a torrential rain fell, punctuated by thunder. That evening, my parents received a strange letter—no name, no address.

After reading it, my father frowned and asked my mother, “What do you think?”

My mother stroked my head absentmindedly and murmured, “What must come will come.”

I didn’t understand their words. I just stared at them, bewildered.

The day after they read the letter, my parents left me at my uncle’s house in the village, handed over five thousand yuan, and set off for Xinjiang. As they left, they told me they would be back in a month.

Three months passed. My parents never returned. All that came back was that blood-stained string of sandalwood beads.

Without their support, my uncle’s attitude shifted from welcoming smiles to harsh words.

Perhaps because I’d witnessed human fickleness and cruelty so young, I understood early on:

The depravity and cunning of people often put even the coldest beasts of the forest to shame.

...

By the end of 1990, I had become an orphan, a beggar, a living omen of misfortune everyone avoided.

That day, I left the village where I’d lived for over a decade, stumbling into the unknown. I took only two things with me:

The ancestral sandalwood beads and an eagle whistle my parents had given me for my tenth birthday.

I remember stealing the blood-stained beads from my uncle’s cabinet while he slept. But really, they belonged to me—so could it truly be called theft?

Is taking back what’s yours stealing?

That winter was bitterly cold, the snow thick. I wandered aimlessly through the blizzard, eating snow when I was hungry or thirsty.

I don’t know how long I walked. Just as I was about to collapse, I stumbled upon a Dongfeng truck loaded with pigs by the roadside. Seizing the chance, I climbed aboard unseen.

Rocked by the motion, half-conscious, I had no idea where I ended up. When I heard voices nearby, I tumbled out and found myself in a plaza I’d never seen before.

Looking back, if not for that truck, I might have died in that winter.

The plaza was vast but nearly empty. Exhausted and starving, I curled up in a corner and fell into a deep sleep.

...

Later, I learned this was the sunken plaza of the capital. Here, I met the first benefactor of my life—the Mistress.

The day after I arrived, the snowstorm ceased. I was so hungry and weak that my vision danced with black spots. In my stupor, I noticed a flock of pigeons chattering in the plaza.

For no reason but mischief, I took out my eagle whistle and blew it. (An eagle whistle is a small mouthpiece used to train and call raptors.)

The pigeons scattered in a panic, flapping like a flock of lost hens. Watching their foolish antics, I actually laughed.

It was absurd—I was half-starved, yet still found amusement.

But as I laughed, a slender shadow suddenly fell over me.

Puzzled, I looked up and saw a young woman in casual clothes and sunglasses, probably in her twenties, dressed warmly in a down jacket. She looked at me with interest.

Before I could speak, she removed her glasses, crouched down, and fixed those beautiful eyes on me.

“Do you know how to use an eagle whistle?”

I was stunned, but nodded.

“What is Lin Zetian to you?”

I stared at her and replied, “He’s my father.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lin Thirty-Seven.” These were the first three questions she asked me when we met.

After I answered, her expression didn’t change. She fell silent for a while, then stood up, stretched out her hand, and spoke softly:

“Come with me. I can give you food, money, power, women—whatever you want.”

I was momentarily taken aback, then gazed at her for a long time.

Finally, I shook my head.

“Not enough?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

I didn’t reply, nor did I take her hand. Instead, I struggled to my feet and, after a moment’s wobbling, stood before her.

Looking her in the eyes, I spoke earnestly: “I want... to sleep with you.”

At the time, I said this with no sense of boasting. My father had told me: a real man should win the most beautiful woman in the world. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met.

Her gentle gaze seemed to banish all cold and darkness, leading me toward warmth and light.

Yet when she heard my words, she wasn’t angry or mocking. Instead, she nodded calmly, smiled radiantly, and said softly, “I hope you remember these words in the future!”

That was how I met the Mistress.

After that, she didn’t shower me with money or women but bought me a donkey-meat sandwich, then drove for hours, taking me to her hunting grounds.

Yes, the Mistress owned seven hunting preserves across the country.

Back then, the wealthy loved the sport of hunting. Her preserves catered to these people, stocked with animals captured by her hunters and released to simulate real hunts.

At the nearest preserve, she entrusted me to an old hunter named Old Shen.

Old Shen was about fifty, bearded and reeking of liquor.

When he first heard the Mistress wanted him to take me, he was reluctant, calling me a mere boy.

But when she told him my father was Lin Zetian, he silently accepted me.

...

Old Shen was the archetype of a seasoned hunter, often wrapped in a military coat.

A true old hunter loves only two things—liquor and women.

Why? Because a hunter might spend weeks or months alone in the wild, with only the beasts for company, and needs drink to stave off the loneliness. When he emerges, it’s time for drunken revelry.

Old Shen, even past fifty, was still obsessed with women, living it up every night.

He even tried to set me up with a girl of seventeen or eighteen, but I firmly refused.

I told him, at the very least, the woman I wanted had to be like the Mistress.

Old Shen laughed, saying I was dreaming.

I didn’t argue. I just thought to myself: how can a sparrow understand the ambition of a swan?

Time passed swiftly; I’d been in the preserve for three years.

During those years, Old Shen taught me many things—hunting skills, taboos, even the use of various firearms.

Strangely, despite all he taught me, he never let me call him “master.” He said that in this world, no one could be my master.

When I asked how he knew my parents, or if he knew how they’d died, he only said, “The grudges of one generation shouldn’t be passed to the next.”

I didn’t press him further.

But in my heart, I set myself two goals:

First, to find the one who killed my parents. Second, to sleep with the Mistress.

During my three years at the preserve, I rarely saw the Mistress. She seldom visited. When other preserves needed more animals, she sent word to Old Shen by carrier pigeon. Upon receiving the message, he’d lead a team into the Changbai Mountains or the Greater Khingan Range, sometimes for a month, sometimes six.

We knew little about her, only that she was a woman with connections in both the underworld and high society, respected by all. Her real name, none of us knew.

When I first arrived, she gave me a young hawk. Under my training, it grew strong, its eyes sharp, feathers lustrous.

I named it Major Cold, because she took me in during that season.

On my seventeenth birthday, Old Shen brought me to the conference room. There were four people inside, including myself.

Seeing me, they all smiled. One old hunter called out, “Lin boy, are you ready? After three years, is your shooting sharp? Can you set a snare?”

I was excited, for stepping into that room meant I was finally deemed worthy to join Old Shen and the other hunters on a real expedition.

Without hesitation, I snapped a salute and said, “Always ready!”

The hunters burst out laughing.

Then Old Shen raised his hand, and the room fell silent.

He looked at me, his voice hoarse. “Lin boy, I wasn’t planning on taking you this time. You’re still young, need more experience. But the Mistress insisted you come.”

“The Mistress? She’s coming too?” I exclaimed in surprise.

He nodded, his expression complicated. “This time, she’s leading the team herself.”

I was puzzled. All these years, Old Shen always led the expeditions. Why was the Mistress coming now?

As I pondered, Old Shen spoke somberly: “Lin boy, you should think carefully! Entering the forest can be like stepping onto the road to the underworld—sometimes, there’s no coming back.”

I shook my head. “I’ve made up my mind, Old Shen.”

He looked at me for a long while, then nodded gravely without another word.

There was something I never told him:

After the Mistress rescued me three winters ago, my path was already set—there was no turning back.

With my sword prepared, I set forth into the world.

Above, the piercing cry of a hawk echoed across the sky...