The dynamite crates, stacked with grim purpose, loomed in the narrow mine tunnel. Zewen knelt, his fingers tracing the faint red ink on the embroidered handkerchief. "This is Shen Yulan's," he stated, his voice tight. "She used it to blot the ledger at the schoolhouse. I saw her." His gaze hardened, meeting Haiqiu’s. “The dam… it irrigates half the fields in Wushan. Sabotaging it during the drought would be an act of pure malice. Mass starvation.” Haiqiu’s eyes were cold, distant. “Then we disarm it. A dam of that size will have maintenance tunnels, drainage conduits. We need to access the detonation points without causing a collapse.” She ran a hand over the rough wood of a crate, the stencil peeling at the edge. “The detonators will be crude, but effective. Standard blasting caps, likely wired to a simple clock or trip mechanism. We need something precise, something small enough to get into tight spaces and dislodge the wiring without sparking.” “And where do you propose we find such a tool in this era?” Zewen asked, his brow furrowed. “A specialized wire cutter, perhaps?” “Better,” Haiqiu said, a ghost of a dangerous smile touching her lips. “A micro-weld tool. I’ve seen the schematics.” She tapped the side of her head. “The library.” Back in her cramped cabin, the twins, An’an and Lele, were still asleep, oblivious to the night’s grim discoveries. Chixue, the spectral hare, sat perched on the windowsill, its ethereal ears twitching, reflecting the faint starlight. Haiqiu pressed the jade pendant, a silent command, and the world blurred into the verdant embrace of her dimensional haven. The library pulsed with a soft, internal light. Shelves upon shelves of knowledge stretched into the time-dilated expanse. Haiqiu moved with practiced efficiency, her mind already assembling the components. The blueprint for a portable, battery-powered micro-weld unit shimmered into existence, lines of intricate circuitry and crystalline power cells unfolding before her mental eye. The space supplied the raw materials: purified copper filaments, a miniature arc reactor core the size of a thumb, and a precision-ground sapphire lens. Hours passed in mere minutes as her hands, guided by instinct and engineering memory, assembled the device. The air hummed with faint ozone as the final connections were fused. A sleek, pistol-grip tool, no larger than her palm, lay inert on the work surface, its tip a needle-thin electrode. It was ready. Meanwhile, in the Wushan Production area, the first rays of dawn touched the dew-laden fields. Jiang Weidong, his arm still wrapped in crudely bound splints, moved like a shadow. His face, gaunt from hunger, was contorted with a vengeful sneer. Yulan’s promise of a reward, of seeing Haiqiu dragged before the Red Committee, fueled his defiance. He clutched a small, dirt-stained burlap sack. Inside, a handful of parched maize cobs and a rusted sickle, objects he intended to plant in Haiqiu’s yard as ‘proof’ of her capitalist hoarding. He crept toward Haiqiu’s cabin, skirting the small, withered garden patch. The air was still, save for the distant crowing of a rooster. Just as he reached the wobbly wooden fence, a small, smooth pebble struck him sharply on the back of his head. Weidong yelped, spinning around. Nothing. Only the tall, dry grass rustling in a phantom breeze. “Who’s there?” he rasped, his eyes darting. “Show yourself!” Another pebble, this one harder, pinged off his shoulder, making him flinch. Blood hammered in his ears. This wasn’t right. He was alone. The sun wasn’t even fully up. Was it a trick of the light? A child playing a cruel joke? He took another tentative step, clutching the burlap sack tighter. A small, dark rock, like a polished river stone, sailed through the air and struck his knee with surprising force. Weidong gasped, nearly stumbling. His gaze flickered wildly around the empty yard. He was certain he saw a brief, shimmering distortion in the air near the cabin’s foundation, like heat haze, then nothing. Fear, cold and prickling, began to replace his hunger-driven rage. This was the work of a demon, a spirit of the land. The old stories whispered of such things, of mischievous sprites that haunted abandoned places, guarding their secrets. His teeth chattered, a dry, rattling sound. “Get out!” he whimpered, trying to sound brave, but his voice cracked. “Leave me be!” Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet shifted. Not an earthquake, but something else—a sudden, violent instability. His feet slipped on something slick and unseen. He windmilled his arms, the burlap sack flying from his grasp. His body lurched forward, and with a terrified shriek, Jiang Weidong tumbled headfirst into the putrid depths of the nearby pigpen, landing with a sickening splosh in a mound of fresh manure. The pigs, startled, squealed indignantly, jostling their new, stinking companion. From the cabin, An’an and Lele giggled, their faces pressed against the windowpane. “Chixue did it again!” Lele whispered, clapping her small hands. Chixue, hidden from mortal eyes, gave a satisfied, silent twitch of its ears. Its guardianship was absolute. Meanwhile, Song Zewen sat across from Commune Chief Deng, a man whose weathered face usually held a perpetual scowl. Today, however, a rare, almost deferential smile played on his lips. On the small, scarred table between them lay a stack of crisp, foreign banknotes, neatly bundled. Zewen had not even bothered to count them in front of the Chief. He simply pushed them forward. “The Wushan Production Brigade needs new threshing machines,” Zewen stated, his voice calm, yet firm. “And better irrigation hoses. Not just for this year, but for the future. My investment will secure these things. And perhaps, a small endowment for the Chief, to ensure the smooth, efficient operation of collective assets.” Deng stared at the stack, his pupils contracting in calculated assessment. The sum was staggering, more than he could earn in a lifetime. “Mr. Song, your generosity is… overwhelming. The good of the collective, of course, is paramount.” He cleared his throat. “There have been… minor disruptions. Misunderstandings, you might say, regarding certain individuals and their contributions to the collective good.” Zewen leaned back, a subtle, cold glint in his eyes. “Indeed. Disruptions are costly. My investment requires stability. Any individual who seeks to destabilize the work of the commune, or to undermine its most innovative and productive members, would be seen as a direct impediment to progress. And progress, Chief Deng, is what I am here to facilitate.” Deng’s smile tightened into something almost predatory. “Understood, Mr. Song. Certain… elements… will be re-educated. The Jiang family, for instance, has been a source of much contention. Their recent activities, particularly the accusations against Comrade Lin Haiqiu, are baseless. Counter-revolutionary, even. We will ensure they face the full disciplinary measures of the Red Committee for their slander.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the money. “Comrade Lin Haiqiu is a credit to the brigade. Her innovations, her dedication… invaluable.” The trap was sprung. The Jiang family, once a minor nuisance, was now utterly isolated. Their accusations would fall on deaf ears, their influence reduced to nothing more than the memory of their greed. Zewen had bought not just loyalty, but a shield, a political bulwark for Haiqiu and her children. Haiqiu, having returned from her space, meticulously packed the new micro-weld tool and a small kit of other implements. The dam was a dangerous gambit, but a necessary one. If Yulan succeeded, the resulting chaos would be unforgivable. She secured the cabin door, the twins still sleeping soundly. As she turned to leave, a shadow fell over her courtyard. “Lin Haiqiu!” a voice shrilled. Shen Yulan marched into the yard, her usually sweet face contorted with triumph, leading a contingent of grim-faced Red Committee members. In her outstretched hand, clutched like a trophy, was a crumpled, intricate schematic, clearly fallen from Haiqiu’s pocket. It was a partial blueprint, a single page detailing the arc reactor core of her micro-weld tool—futuristic, alien, and absolute proof of treason. “We have found your capitalist contraband!”

The Demon Hare