Chapter Thirteen: The Fox's Lament Entrusts Her Child; Beneath the Verdant Hills, the White Fox Is Laid to Rest

The fox was extremely anxious, pacing restlessly around the wooden cabin as the time for birth drew near. It only began to calm down when Liachen returned from gathering wild fruits outside. Slowly, it settled into Liachen’s arms, though its eyes still lingered on the forest beyond. Liachen gently stroked the fox’s head, carefully smoothing its fur. The fox was thin—clearly it had suffered in the hands of hunters, leaving its body weak. To give birth at such a time was truly a matter of life and death. Even as a land-bound immortal, Liachen could do little to help.

Foxes were blessed with innate spirituality, making it easier for them than other creatures to set foot on the path of cultivation, and white foxes even more so. If only they could survive the innumerable tribulations, they could become celestial foxes, their power equal to true immortals. But how many white foxes ever escaped those endless calamities? The white fox in Liachen’s arms was now in the midst of such a trial, facing the tribulation of blades and blood. On the path of cultivation, one might offer guidance, but could not intervene directly. The fox's trial was one it had to endure alone, else Heaven’s will would turn against it, making its fate even bleaker.

“Here, drink this soup. It’s meat broth I bought from a grand restaurant dozens of miles away. I added all sorts of medicinal herbs and spiritual fruits. Drink it to restore your strength,” Liachen coaxed the fox as one might coax a child.

There was both resignation and gratitude in the fox’s eyes, which quickly faded into sorrow. What Liachen did not realize was that the fox in his arms had already lived for more than a century. Seeing it caught by mere mortals, he assumed it was a young vixen, just learning to be a mother.

Liachen brought the bowl of soup to the fox, watching as it sipped the broth in small, careful mouthfuls. Only then did he feel reassured. He stepped outside to continue searching for anything that might help the fox through its labor.

The first necessity was a comfortable nest, so Liachen gathered generous bundles of soft, dry grass to build a large, cozy den for the fox. Next, he sought out medicinal herbs to nourish the body, flying all the way to the distant city to buy them—he purchased several roots of ginseng. As for a midwife—well, that wasn’t needed. Hot water? That didn’t seem necessary either.

That was all Liachen could do. The rest of the time, he simply accompanied the fox, watching the mountain scenery outside and quietly waiting for the moment of birth.

“I am a fox who has cultivated for a thousand years, a thousand years of waiting, a thousand years of solitude. In the vast, bustling world, who has seen me weep? In the dimming lantern light, who has seen me dance….” Liachen did not know why he began to sing that song from his previous life, repeating it over and over. The fox lay quietly in his arms, listening until dusk fell and the time for birth arrived.

He placed the fox in the grassy nest, then stepped outside to gaze at the stars, waiting for the outcome.

Heaven’s will is impartial; the higher a creature stands, the harder it is to reproduce. This is the balance of the world. To break it would bring calamity upon all things. Liachen knew the fox he had saved was anything but ordinary, though he did not pursue the answer. Now, he worried even more whether the fox would survive this ordeal. The path of cultivation is fraught with hardship—for himself, and for the fox as well.

The fox struggled nearly all night, its cries growing weaker and weaker. Liachen’s heart clenched with worry, though he could not say why he cared so deeply for a fox. Perhaps he was simply moved by the hardships of the path.

He had no way of knowing what was happening inside, until, with the moon high overhead, a piercing cry rang out from the cabin. A sense of foreboding washed over Liachen as he rushed inside. There, beneath the fox, was a tiny white creature, damp and squirming beneath its mother. Its eyes were still closed, but it was anything but quiet. Only then did Liachen relax, stepping closer—only for his heart to sink again. He saw the flame of the fox's life was nearly spent, burning only by sheer will. Grief overwhelmed him, tears nearly falling. Their time together had been brief, yet the fox was an unforgettable companion on his journey. Life and death, right and wrong—the cycles of existence among all living things, the rise and fall of each generation. Only the will of Heaven remains unchanged.

Liachen stroked the fox’s head once more, feeling the white fur gradually lose its luster. The fox truly could not go on. Its eyes locked on Liachen’s, filled with sorrow. He understood what the fox wished to say. Lifting the little one from beneath its mother, Liachen promised, “I will take care of him, until he succeeds in cultivation or until the end of his days.” Only then did the fox look away, focusing on the little one in Liachen’s arms, and slowly, slowly closed its eyes.

Liachen sighed, bidding the fox farewell: “Heaven’s heart is compassionate. Journey well, fox. May you have peace and joy in your next life.” With that, he placed the little one beside its mother and recited the mantra for the departed again and again.

The next day, in a small valley not far from the cabin, a tiny grave appeared. Before it stood a wooden marker, carved with the image of a white fox, lifelike and vivid. Legend has it that, late at night, the valley would echo with fox cries. In time, people named this place “Fox Cry Valley.”

Only then did Liachen truly comprehend the way of life and death. His Dao heart was now complete, ready to form the Golden Core.

In the night sky, a shooting star streaked across the heavens. No one knew it was Liachen, cradling the little fox, hurrying home.