Chapter Three: The Golden Leopard Frog

All I could hear was the howling river wind in my ears, the sharp crack of a splintering post, and then I was plummeting into the river. My back hit the water with such force that pain exploded through me; water surged into my ears, mouth, and nose. I struggled, flailing twice, then the world went black and I lost consciousness.

When I came to, I was soaked to the skin. My uncle lay nearby, and I found myself sprawled in a clump of grass. A familiar figure stood with his back to me.

Uncle Mingda!

Uncle Mingda, the husband of Ping's wife, was crouched low in a dense thicket of reeds, peering furtively across the riverbank. My stirring startled him. He turned, pressing a finger to his lips for silence and whispered, "Xiao Pi, if you want to live, not a sound."

Was it Uncle Mingda who had saved us?

Earlier that day, after Ping’s wife hurled their child to death in the Yellow River, he’d been so crazed with grief he’d wanted to kill her, and she in turn was out for my life. How was it that he had rescued me now?

After everything that had happened, I felt as if I’d suddenly grown up. Stifling the urge to cry, I crept over to Uncle Mingda, parted the reeds, and glanced in the direction he was watching.

He was watching the Wax Path Crossing.

The villagers had left, but the snapped post and the ashen remains of burnt incense still marked the spot.

It was already the early hours before dawn. Moonlight, though hazy, was enough to see by. Through this misty glow, a figure crept stealthily from the village entrance—it was the man in the felt cap, who called himself Yellow-Eyed Rake.

How had Yellow-Eyed Rake come to the Wax Path Crossing again?

Uncle Mingda’s jaw set as he watched the man approach. He gritted his teeth and muttered under his breath, "Old Master, so you truly have no conscience!"

Yellow-Eyed Rake was Uncle Mingda’s master?

I watched as Yellow-Eyed Rake set down his bamboo basket and drew out a stick, about the length of a child's arm. He began to manipulate both ends, and, as if by magic, the stick lengthened and became a long fishing rod. He fitted a strange object, something like an animal’s liver, onto one end, and with a flick of his wrist, he cast it into the air—the rod, gleaming under the moonlight, shot like an arrow into the Yellow River.

The water here at the Wax Path Crossing churned furiously, so deep that the villagers usually avoided fishing in this spot. I expected the rod to vanish beneath the surface instantly, but, to my astonishment, it stood upright in the water. At its base, a black whirlpool formed; the river seemed to swirl around the rod, unable to touch it at all.

The scene was just like the legendary Water-Averting Pearl my grandfather once told me about in his stories.

Even from this distance, I could sense Yellow-Eyed Rake’s excitement.

He pulled a strange whistle from his basket and blew into it. At once, a series of sharp, trilling notes pierced my ears, and as he played, he danced a bizarre step along the bank.

The music shifted from frantic to languid, then back to a feverish tempo. The fishing rod seemed almost to obey his command, wobbling drunkenly above the river, swaying from side to side. As it moved, the waters of the Yellow River grew ever more turbulent, swirling faster and faster, until a great whirlpool formed around the rod.

The whistle’s call grew shriller, the vortex angrier. Suddenly, the rod stood rigid.

From the depths of the Yellow River, a monstrous creature crawled forth.

To call it a monster was not quite right—it was a bullfrog, but it was enormous, as big as a large round farmhouse table.

I’d never seen a bullfrog so huge. The largest I’d ever caught with my friends was about the size of a bowl. This thing, shooting out from the river’s depths, chilled me to my core—I almost screamed, but Uncle Mingda shot me a fierce glare, and I swallowed my voice.

Its skin was dark green and slick, its belly pale, eyes bulging, limbs thick and powerful. It puffed up its chest and let out a deep, guttural croak.

Yellow-Eyed Rake was ecstatic. He drew a red rope from nowhere, his hands trembling with excitement, the whistle never leaving his lips.

Under the whistle’s spell, the bullfrog seemed paralyzed, clutching the rod and frozen. The rod, as if alive, began to paddle toward the shore.

The whistle grew ever more urgent, its sound drilling into my eardrums until I had to clap my hands over my ears.

With the frog at the water’s edge, Yellow-Eyed Rake’s eyes gleamed with a strange light. He stopped playing, rope in hand, and leapt towards the frog.

But the bullfrog suddenly snapped to life, puffing out its belly with a thunderous croak. It dropped the rod, opened its vast maw, and lunged at Yellow-Eyed Rake. He tried to dodge, but too late—the frog bit off his leg in a single gulp.

Yellow-Eyed Rake screamed in agony as blood spurted from his stump.

I couldn’t help but cry out, but Uncle Mingda clamped his hand over my mouth before I could make a sound.

Even so, Yellow-Eyed Rake proved himself a tough man—in his pain, he produced a metal tube like a bamboo shoot, and stabbed it into the frog’s belly. Blood spurted from the wound and the creature thrashed.

Yellow-Eyed Rake crawled desperately, trying to escape.

But the bullfrog leapt, pouncing on him, its mouth as wide as a pot lid. In an instant, it swallowed Yellow-Eyed Rake whole.

After devouring him, the bullfrog staggered drunkenly toward the riverbank, leaving a trail of blood. But after two steps, it seemed to lose all strength and collapsed.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed and sobbed, heedless of Uncle Mingda’s restraining grip.

He, on the other hand, was overjoyed. Releasing me, he cried excitedly, "The Golden Leopard Frog! It’s mine!"

He leapt up, grabbing me like a puppet, and strode toward the Wax Path Crossing.

So that frog was called the Golden Leopard Frog?

Uncle Mingda carried me to the riverbank, almost dancing with excitement. He rummaged through Yellow-Eyed Rake’s abandoned basket and pulled out a black powder—that same foul-smelling stuff Yellow-Eyed Rake had smeared on my face before, which he’d called "fly speck."

The stench hit me like a punch, almost making me faint.

Uncle Mingda ignored my struggles and smeared the powder on my face again, nearly choking me with the stench.

To my horror, the Golden Leopard Frog, which had seemed at death’s door, suddenly opened its enormous eyes. It stared at me greedily, as if I were a delicacy it could devour at any moment.

Uncle Mingda tossed me before the frog, clutching the red rope, sweat pouring down his temples, muttering, "Good, the Golden Leopard Frog isn’t dead—not dead! Quick, eat this brat, eat him, and you’ll spit out gold coins!"

I scrambled to my feet and tried to run, but Uncle Mingda kicked me back toward the frog, leaving me helpless.

The Golden Leopard Frog let out a ragged croak, its forelegs trembling, the muscles in its hind legs tensed.

Seeing this, I thought it was over. Frogs use their back legs to jump—there was no doubt it was about to leap and swallow me.

And leap it did.

The frog lunged, jaws wide. But at that very moment, a scream rang out behind me. A shadow flashed—Uncle Mingda, clutching his head, rolled between me and the frog, the fly speck powder spraying like scattered blossoms all over his head.

I turned to see Tong Tianwang, pale and panting, standing behind us with a wooden stick in his hands.

He had ambushed Uncle Mingda!

The frog, poised to devour me, caught a stronger whiff of the fly speck from Uncle Mingda and, changing its mind, bit down on his neck instead. Uncle Mingda’s head was severed clean from his body.

Tong Tianwang rushed over, seized the metal tube still lodged in the frog’s side, and drove it into the creature once more.

The frog, writhing in pain, shook off the tube and lashed out with its massive hind leg, striking Tong Tianwang hard. He spat blood and collapsed.

The Golden Leopard Frog, its body contorted and lurching, gave a final leap and plunged into the Yellow River with a great splash.

It vanished without a trace.

Tong Tianwang clutched his chest, cursing and groaning as he struggled to his feet, reaching for the iron tube.

Before I could react, the clang of gongs and cymbals burst in my ears; torchlight flared in the village, and hurried footsteps thundered toward us.

Tong Tianwang’s face changed in an instant. Cursing under his breath, he tucked me under his arm like a sack, grabbed the iron tube, and bolted headlong into the night.