I swallowed hard, every hair on my body standing on end. The eerie atmosphere needed no explanation—this was the Liu family's ancestral tomb, yet the children called it their "home." I cursed Grandpa for not preparing me.
Wiping cold sweat from my brow, I turned slowly. The little girl was as delicate as jade, her big eyes clear and lashes fluttering like a child from a New Year painting.
In a blink, the golden-robed boy appeared beside her, stepping protectively in front. "Sister, who is he?"
"Yeah, who are you? Why are you on our roof?" the silver-robed boy echoed.
By moonlight, I studied the boys and froze: their pupils glowed faint yellow with (ferocity), and scales shimmered on their necks. I almost fled, but the thought of Grandpa's death steeled me.
The girl chirped, "Big brother, want to play? Little Gold swims fast!"
An idea struck me. "Sure." The girl seemed oblivious, only wanting to play, while the boys eyed me warily. Growing up by the Hun River, I was a strong swimmer. Noting the girl disliked water but loved to watch, I played along: "Little Gold, show us!"
Reluctantly, he entered the water—and transformed into a meter-long gold krait. Clutching my phoenix wood sword wrapped in red cloth, I said, "Little Gold swam too far. I'll fetch him."
Before they could respond, I dived in. I'd noticed one boy always stayed near the girl; Little Gold only swam within a hundred meters. As he raced toward me, I sprinkled tobacco oil—snakes' (bane)—from Grandpa's pipe into the water. The krait thrashed wildly, water slapping like a child drowning. I lunged and decapitated it.
After the snake died, the lake stilled. Little Silver's wails pierced the night. I scrambled ashore and chased him to the tomb pit—he vanished inside, and the girl was gone too. The silence was deafening, as if it had all been a dream.
My Qing Nang pouch was waterproof. By red candlelight, I peered into the pit: two snakes and a rabbit. The gold snake lay in pieces; the silver coiled tightly. The rabbit looked near death. I knew the karma—these snakes had gained spirit, but I had no choice.
"Sorry, I didn't want this. Blame Mr. Liu." I slew the silver snake, lifted the rabbit, and met its gaze: red eyes as pure as agate, streaming tears. Thinking of the girl, I wept too. All things have spirit—humans are both the wisest and cruelest. I closed my eyes, gouged out the rabbit's eyes, and wrapped the agate-like orbs in red cloth.
To my shock, no blood spilled. I released the rabbit, which vanished into the bushes, crying "woo woo." I bowed as it left—destroying the feng shui would sever the land's qi, causing disasters. Grandpa said the Jade Rabbit and Toad Palace would yield no talent for 20 years, with major troubles within a decade.
Indeed, in 2013, Tuanjie Reservoir saw tens of thousands of fish die overnight, their bodies floating as the water level dropped—proof of disrupted feng shui.
Back to the story: I took the red orbs to the reeds. At 2 AM, a toad croaked. Parting the reeds, I saw a meter-long golden toad floating, swallowing fish nonstop. Colorful fish swam into its mouth as if drawn by magic. After the night's horrors, I'd grown numb to the supernatural.