The Black-Faced Queen’s Tale

That winter bit harder than any before.

I curled up in my cave, counting the snowflakes drifting down outside, feeling the cold creep straight into my bones.

We beasts fear nothing—not Heaven, not earth—but we fear the cold. And for a fox like me, born without skin, the cold is death itself.

A few years ago, I had the luck to find a bear’s hide. Wrapped in it, I could just barely keep the chill away. The hide was marvelous—warm in winter, cool in summer—but the smell was atrocious, and worse, hunters often mistook me for a real bear. Once, an arrow struck me right in the rear. I stormed out to confront the fool, only to scare him so badly he fled, screaming “Monster! Monster!” as he tripped over his own legs.

This winter, though, was colder still. The mountains were blanketed in white, the winds howled like ghosts, and even wrapped in bear fur, my teeth clattered uncontrollably.

If I’d known it would be this bad, I would’ve stolen more clothes the last time I robbed someone.

But alas, the heavy snow sealed the mountain passes. No caravans would dare cross this way now.

By my count, I’d been living on this mountain for twenty-five years. And in those twenty-five years, I’d fallen hopelessly in love—with robbery.

To be fair, it hadn’t started that way.

My first robbery was an accident.

Back then, I had been living peacefully in a small village—until a group of jealous women decided to burn down my fox den. They screamed that I was a mountain demon who seduced men and drank their souls. They even hired a half-trained monk to exorcise me. He chanted a few sloppy incantations and threw some talisman papers into my home.

The fire lit up the whole hillside.

After that, I left the village and wandered aimlessly until I finally took refuge deep in the Mershan Forest. One thing led to another, and somehow I became… a bandit.

My first attempt was laughable.

I didn’t even have the proper tools—no black clothes, no mask, not even a decent knife.

So there I stood, boldly at the mountain pass, gripping a thin wooden stick, and stammered out the line I’d memorized from the storybooks:

“This mountain is mine, this tree I’ve planted—if you want to pass, pay the toll—”

Before I could even finish, a man in shining silver robes ran straight toward me, threw himself at my feet, and declared with tears in his eyes that he wanted to become my husband.

Wait, what? That wasn’t how the story was supposed to go!

No matter how I tried to chase him away, he refused to leave. He camped outside my den night after night, reciting love poems so sweet they made my stomach churn.

“In Heaven, may we be birds of one wing; on Earth, may we be branches of one tree…”

“If we never meet again, I’ll be the spring soil that guards your flower…”

I nearly vomited.

Still, his nightly serenades eventually stopped. Only then did I realize he was gone.

Months later, a letter appeared at my doorstep.

He’d been found by his father, knocked out cold with a club, and dragged home. He’d gone on hunger strike, crying that he’d never marry anyone but me. His parents, weary of his tantrums, slipped him two packets of aphrodisiac and pushed him into another girl’s bed.

At the end of the letter, he confessed he felt guilty for “betraying” me but insisted that “a true man shouldn’t be bound by trifles.” He delicately asked if I’d be willing to become his concubine.

I burned the letter in silence.

And for the first time, I reflected seriously on my life. From the day they burned my den to the day I met this lunatic—perhaps, I thought, I was the problem.

But no. I was perfectly fine. The problem was my face.

So I smeared mud all over it until not a trace remained.

It worked beautifully.

From then on, no one ever called me “sweetheart” again.

The Mershan Forest lies between the Eastern Yi and Western Han kingdoms, a place where caravans often pass through—but there are no women among them.

My first serious robbery was eighteen years ago.

This time, I came prepared: black clothes, black pants, and a massive cleaver.

With one swing, I chopped down a tree as thick as a bowl. The caravan guards froze. In an instant, they dropped their weapons and handed over their valuables.

I wasn’t interested in gold or silver. But among the spoils, I found something curious—several books filled with paintings.

Men and women entwined, tangled in bizarre poses.

“What’s this?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.

The scholar I’d robbed turned bright red from neck to ear.

He didn’t answer, so I kept searching. From his satchel, his sleeves, even the soles of his shoes—I found more of the same. Some showed men and women, others… men and men.

Fascinating!

I pored over them with great enthusiasm. The poor scholar nearly fainted.

In the end, I ignored the gold and left with only the books. The merchant thanked me profusely for sparing his life, though he kept giving the scholar a very strange look.

Only much later did I learn that those drawings were called spring scrolls—the human art of desire. Apparently, such things were “private” and “shameful,” never to be seen in public.

Well, I found them delightful.

I read them all until the pages fell apart. Then, during later robberies, I made it a habit to steal more. The newest editions, the rarest prints, even illustrated novels. The creativity of humankind in such matters was truly boundless!

Ah, how cultured I’d become.

Over time, my reputation spread far and wide.

Whenever I ventured down the mountain, I would overhear whispers about myself.

“Tsk, tsk, have you heard of the Black-Faced King? They say he robbed another caravan—snatched a fair-skinned maiden and carried her off as his bride!”

“Nonsense! I heard the Black-Faced King is a woman.”

“A woman? Don’t be absurd—no woman could look like that!”

“But my uncle swore he met her face to face. Said she’s terrifying, yes—but her voice was soft, definitely a woman’s.”

“Still, what kind of woman chases people just to read spring scrolls with them?”

“That’s why we call her the King!”

And thus, a legend was born.

The mighty Black-Faced Queen of Mershan Forest—nine feet tall, round as a boulder, wielding a blade that could split stone. A monster who spared lives and gold but adored erotic paintings and enjoyed “discussing” them with her victims.

When they discovered that I was, in fact, a woman, the stories became even more elaborate.

They said I was hideous, rejected by every fiancé, and in my rage, I fled to the mountains, living off the men I kidnapped.

“The Black-Faced Queen,” they whispered, “adores fair young men. Her greatest pleasure is stealing their virtue.”

…

I could only sigh.

Humans, it seems, never tire of inventing stories—especially the ones that make no sense at all.