Drawing my bow, I opted against igniting the arrow this time, intent on remaining undetected. My single eye locked onto the most hideous of the giant rats, and a sudden, visceral feeling washed over me—a return to the ancient battlefield.

Here I was, a scout in some long-dead army, poised in the shadows with my longbow aimed at the foe. Drawing the string back fully required considerable effort, so I focused on a quick, rough aim, loosed the tension, and the arrow hissed away.

“Got it!” For a first-timer with a bow, I watched with elation as the shaft flew true, aimed squarely for the rat's eye. Such a perfect first shot thrilled me, and I nearly leaped right off the ground in excitement.

But just as the arrow neared the rat's head, I distinctly saw its whiskers twitch, as if sensing a slight change in the air. Then, with a powerful kick of its hind legs, it sprang forward.

This sudden displacement meant my arrow would miss its mark. In that desperate moment, a single, frantic thought flashed through my mind: If only this arrow could curve.

As soon as the strange thought formed, I watched in stunned silence as the speeding arrow became enveloped in a shroud of green nian, its trajectory visibly bending to follow the rat's leap. However, the green nian manifested too late; the arrow grazed the rat’s hindquarters, narrowly missing a solid hit.

Though the shot failed, I was genuinely staggered. I glanced down at the longbow in my hands, finding it inexplicably sheathed in a layer of the same green nian, lending it an air of profound mystery.

Even my entire right arm, the one gripping the bow, was now covered in this strange energy. This bizarre phenomenon immediately brought to mind the cultivation techniques I had been practicing.

Could it be that, somehow, a fraction of that power was now manifesting for my use? With this realization, I nocked another arrow.

This time, drawing the bowstring to its full extent felt effortless. But when I looked again for the rat, it had vanished.

The rat and the ugly dog were gone, yet all around me, the air was filled with a constant, nervous rustling. A bad feeling began to brew.

I relit a fire arrow and shot it toward the source of the sound. The flaming shaft carved an arc against the dark, illuminating a small corner beneath the watchtower.

The sight that met my eyes made the blood freeze in my veins. In the area lit by the fire, a horde of giant rats, each two to three meters long, were rapidly swarming toward the tower.

Most of them were slick and fleshy; only a few sported patchy black fur. Some recoiled slightly, intimidated by the flame, pausing their advance when the arrow struck near them.

But the sheer press of rats behind them shoved the hesitant ones forward again. Soon, the blazing arrow embedded in the ground was extinguished beneath the crushing weight of the mass.

Seeing this, a spike of panic shot through me. Rats are relentlessly resourceful creatures; no matter how sheer the tower walls, they would find a way up, especially with the external stairs still accessible.

I frantically scanned my surroundings and spotted a heavy stone door covering the entrance to the watch platform, a flicker of hope igniting within me. The door was hinged to swing down from above.

Discarding any thought of a retreat path, I drew the ancient blade gifted to me by Little Brother and severed the thick chain securing the stone door with a single, clean strike. The door slammed down with a resounding boom, sealing the platform entrance shut.

I allowed myself a brief breath, only to be met by a heavy thump from behind the stone door—the rats had evidently reached the top. Before I could worry about them breaching the door, a chorus of high-pitched, grating squeaks—the sound of razor-sharp claws dragging against stone—erupted from all sides of the tower.

I rushed to the edge of the platform and peered down. A suffocating, black tide of rats was already halfway up the walls.

I loosed an arrow, dropping one, but sweat was already beading on my forehead. Their numbers were overwhelming; even sacrificing myself in a human wave defense would only leave me a skeleton in minutes.

Fortunately, I was no stranger to crisis. With perhaps ten seconds before they reached the top, I forced myself to calm down and a solution crystallized quickly.

I unhooked the bamboo casing filled with lamp oil, twisted off the cap, and began pouring it over the edge, letting it stream down the outer walls. Many of the climbing rats slipped instantly upon hitting the oil, tumbling down the wall.

Watching the tide recede on one side, I moved to the next wall and poured evenly, repeating the process for all four sides until the entire cylinder of oil was depleted. Returning to the front wall, I looked down and let out a string of curses.

These vermin were too intelligent. Seeing their comrades slip, they stopped their reckless ascent.

Instead, they extended their tongues, lapping up the spilled oil from the stone. I had heard stories of rats stealing lamp oil, but in modern times, with no open lamps, I’d dismissed it as myth.

Now, I saw it was true. The rats licked the oil greedily, each displaying an expression of profound contentment.

I spat out a vile curse and sneered, “Eat up, you disgusting things. I’ll give you all a celestial lighting.” With that, I pulled out my lighter and ignited the oil coating the walls.

With a deafening whoosh, the watchtower was instantly engulfed in flames, becoming a towering column of fire. The surge of heat singed my eyebrows; I heard a sharp hiss as my fringe began to smell distinctly of burning hair.

I quickly retracted my head, dropping onto the platform floor. However, the high-pitched screams of agony from the rats on the walls brought a wave of intoxicating satisfaction.

I couldn't help but laugh out loud, shouting, “Burn! Burn these ugly things to ash!” Perhaps I hadn't spoken to anyone in too long; this outburst offered immense relief.

Moments later, a thick, foul smell of scorched flesh drifted up, and the intensity of the flames began to subside. Looking down, I saw the rats had fallen from the walls, some writhing on the ground, others already reduced to lumps of black charcoal.

These rats wouldn't normally have burned so severely, but with the fire fueled by the oil in their stomachs, the flames were drawn inward, cooking them thoroughly, inside and out. Staring at the giant rodents, now resembling roasted suckling pigs, I perversely swallowed.

Stifling the strange urge, I noticed the remaining ground forces were slowly retreating. But there were still thousands of them.

Once the fire died down, they would charge back for vengeance. If they returned, I was finished; the oil was gone, and I had no defense left.

A wave of worry crashed over me. Was this truly where my end lay?

After agonizing for a long time with no solution, I muttered in frustration, “Unless I were a bird with wings, able to fly away.” “Wait! Fly away!” A thought struck me, only to immediately slip away before I could grasp it.

I slapped my forehead, forcing my mind to retrace that spark of inspiration. Just then, a peculiar sound arose from the ground below.

It was a rasping cough, the dry, heartbreaking sound one might associate with a person in their nineties. I rushed back to the platform edge and looked down.

The rats, previously terrified of the fire, were now slowly advancing again. The innate fear in their eyes was replaced by a savage, feverish excitement.

Moreover, the main body of rats had split into two flanking groups, clearly clearing a path for someone. In such scenarios, a powerful figure usually emerges, and judging by the rats’ behavior, this was likely a leader of immense mental authority.

My mind raced: Was it a sage rat entirely covered in white fur, or perhaps a King Rat with a golden mane? At that moment, the heart-wrenching cough echoed again from the distance.

I frowned slightly, trying to dissect the strangeness of that specific sound. Quickly, a memory surfaced—a story my mother used to tell me when I was very young.

She recounted how, as a child, she often slept with her maternal grandmother in a remote, isolated village surrounded by fields and woods, a place inherently terrifying at night. But my mother was strong-willed and always insisted her grandmother—my great-grandmother—tell her spooky stories before sleep.

Among these tales was one about an old smoker, which my great-grandmother insisted was a true, personal experience, not a mere story. The setting was the old house where my great-grandparents lived.

When they were young, stories circulated in the village about items vanishing—sacks of corn or rice stolen from homes. It wasn't the work of typical rats; they couldn't possibly move entire sacks.

Initially, people paid it little mind, but the thefts escalated from grain to small livestock like rabbits and ducks, and even jewelry like bracelets and necklaces disappeared. The villagers suspected a thief had entered the area and gathered to discuss forming a search party with the village chief.

When the chief began taking specific accounts, one villager recounted how one night he heard a great commotion outside. He grabbed a long stick by his bed, preparing to investigate.

As he reached the doorway to the main hall, he heard his father's distinct, raspy cough coming from within the room. Assuming his father had simply gotten up to use the privy, he didn't dwell on it.

However, the next morning, a sack of rice was gone, and when questioned, his father swore he hadn't gotten up at all that night. The villager couldn't reconcile the events.

Hearing this, the chief sighed heavily. “It seems we have a serious problem.

The Old Smoker has come out to play.” The chief explained, “Rats are exceptionally clever. When they live near humans for a long time, they become sharper.

Some older rats can perfectly mimic human coughs, and even simple phrases, to lull people into a false sense of security while they steal.”